“YÔNTĨ An ngam Yöng Tēv, aṅ el halīöngö,
Hëtö finötnyi, Yöng töm Töhet Rēlö;
Ngam Yöng tö-örheūheu-aṅ, Anga-aṅ Yöng,
Haròh el chūökkuö nuā, el kantēra Mā;
Tā-a, töi ha-öiny ngam hanāngenlōn Ò,
Tön yônti An nö hayööken tökööl hī.”
The hymn echoed through the Nicobarese settlement of Rajiv Nagar, weaving its way through structures that its residents now call home, illuminated by strings of bright, festive lights. Yet, amidst the celebration of Christmas, a deep sense of longing permeated the air — nostalgia for a way of life that the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami had all but erased.
“Christmas back then meant traveling for days between villages to celebrate with everyone. We carried heavy loads but were happy. Now, we are cramped in one place. This doesn’t feel like the Christmas we knew before the waves came,” said Robert*, leading the carolers past tin shelters that still don’t feel like home, even 20 years later.
For 20 Christmases, Nicobarese displaced by the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami celebrate the holiday away from their ancestral lands. Photo by Leesha K Nair.
The Devouring Sea
On that fateful day, December 26, 2004, the sea rose as an unholy leviathan. Nine carolers, journeying to their villages along western Great Nicobar Island were the sole survivors along that coast. What awaited them was ruin beyond comprehension. The western shores of Great Nicobar — once alive with the vibrancy of life, songs, and sacred rituals — had been devoured in a single, merciless moment. Entire villages had vanished beneath the waves, leaving behind no trace of their forms. For the nine survivors, there was no solace, only an aching void where their kin, their homes, and their way of life had once thrived.
The 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami was no mere calamity; it was a reckoning. An estimated 228,000 lives were lost across 15 countries, with Indonesia, Sri Lanka, India, the Maldives, and Thailand bearing the brunt of the destruction. Great Nicobar Island, lying perilously close to the epicenter, Indonesia’s Banda Aceh, suffered immensely. Across the Nicobar Islands, 7,330 were counted among the dead — with another 5,900 still missing to this day.
The aftermath was a tragedy of another kind — one crafted by human hands. By mid-2005, the Nicobarese survivors, still reeling from the devastation, were uprooted from their ancestral villages on the western coasts of Great Nicobar Island (GNI), and cast across the island’s eastern side into hastily constructed tin shelters in Rajiv Nagar and New Chingenh. The discomfort stretched on, and by the 2010s, “permanent shelters” appeared — towering structures of iron girders and wooden planks, some perched precariously on stilts.
“The government’s involvement with the Nicobarese was very minimal. They never interfered, but were rather facilitators. The Nicobarese conducted themselves on their own terms. Post-tsunami, the government made decisions for them. The housing options provided to the community were not in cognizance of how the Nicobarese organized themselves; they were for nuclear families rather than joint families, ” a senior social anthropologist who has worked with the Nicobarese for two decades told The Diplomat on the condition of anonymity.
Now, 20 years have passed, and the Nicobarese continue to plead for the return to their ancestral lands; lands that hold not just their memories, but their very identity and way of life. Today, around 500 Great Nicobarese, the smallest community of Nicobarese in the world, live crammed into these settlements which continue to be alien to them.
The Nicobarese continue to plead for a return to their ancestral lands; in the meantime, they live in hastily constructed tin structures. Photo by Leesha K Nair.
Life at Higher Ground
“I really don’t know how to maintain this place,” said Joseph*. “The room becomes unbearably hot during summers, and during the rains, the roofs leak. When cyclonic weather strikes, we men are up all night, draining water from the lower floors. There have been nights I haven’t slept, endlessly scooping out water. If these homes were made of wood, we would know how to repair or maintain them. But if we have to repair these metal structures, it would cost us extensively. We can’t afford it.”
Before the waves reshaped their world, Nicobari villages thrived on a deeply rooted system of kinship and communal harmony. Resources weren’t individually owned but collectively shared within these close-knit groups. Elders were revered as reservoirs of traditional knowledge. The division of labor, though flexible, followed a natural rhythm. Men ventured into the forests, plantations, and the sea, bringing back food from the land and water. Women, on the other hand, wielded power as decision-makers, overseeing every stage of resource management, from sourcing to processing. Now, stripped of their traditional responsibilities, they’ve been thrust into roles that were never theirs to shoulder.
“I don’t like to see my daughters working as manual laborers for someone else,” said Cynthia*, a mother of three. “It is something we have never done. But what can I do? We have to survive. We women have extra expenses compared to men. If we go back to our old villages, we won’t have to worry about feeding the family. Here, that is the main worry. That’s why we also have to work.”
The rehabilitation efforts, while well-intentioned, were blind to the nuances of Nicobarese life. Relocating them from the coasts severed their connection to the land and disrupted their cultural backbone. The tsunami took with it a significant portion of the elder population, and with them went the deep-rooted knowledge of their traditions. Now, an entire generation is growing up oblivious to the ways of their ancestors, leaving the surviving elders concerned about their vanishing heritage.
Take, for instance, the role of pigs in their culture. These animals were integral to their festivities, a symbol of community and celebration. In their old villages, the pigs thrived, foraging freely across the land. But the cramped, sterile settlements in Rajiv Nagar have no space for such animals to roam. The pig population has dwindled, reducing the number of festivals the tribe can celebrate. What was once a cornerstone of their culture has now become a rarity. What is the equivalent to gold among the Nicobarese is often seen as a menace by the non-tribal communities nearby.
In their old villages, the pigs thrived, foraging freely across the land. The pig population has dwindled, with the non-tribal communities nearby often seeing the pigs as a menace. Photo by Leesha K Nair.
Conflict with Non-Tribals
The relocated Nicobarese, once nestled in the isolation of their ancestral villages, now find themselves in unavoidable proximity to non-tribals, primarily Telugu settlers whose tsunami rehabilitation settlement lies just a stone’s throw away. With this forced mingling has come an unrelenting erosion of their privacy.
Recently, a bold message appeared on a signboard erected by the Nicobarese at the entrance of a road connecting the two settlements: “24×7 Non-Tribals, Not Allowed.” The sign stands like a silent sentinel, a desperate attempt to reclaim boundaries that are repeatedly trespassed. Yet, despite this assertion of autonomy, their spaces remain intruded upon.
“If they want something from us, they can call us outside,” said Suman*, a Nicobarese teenager, her frustration barely contained. “But they always want to enter using some excuse.”
Campbell Bay, a microcosm of India’s diversity, is home to settlers from Punjab, Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh, Kerala, and many other states. In the 1970s, families of retired military personnel were resettled here by the government, followed by other mainlanders in search of better livelihoods. Adding to the mosaic are defense personnel stationed on the islands, creating a mixed but uneasy cohabitation.
In the early days after their relocation, the Nicobarese were acutely made aware of their “otherness.” Despite being the original inhabitants of the islands, they were made to feel inferior to their settler counterparts. Their distinct Mongoloid features became an easy target for ridicule. They struggled to speak Hindi fluently, a fact that was not only mocked but wielded as a weapon to belittle them. Their children, too, bore the brunt, criticized in schools for being “slower” than settler kids.
“Our kids now give it back to them. They don’t hold back anymore,” said Cleo*, a Nicobarese woman, as she meticulously stitched a new blouse in preparation for Christmas. “We used to hesitate to talk to the settlers back then because we didn’t know Hindi. And that’s what they’d always ask us — ‘Why don’t you know Hindi?’ Why would I speak Hindi to my people? They wouldn’t understand much! Even now, many of us don’t speak the language. My Hindi is still weak,” she laughed.
The tension extends beyond language and schools into the physical spaces of their lives. The Nicobarese ancestral plantations, rich with areca nuts and coconuts, are regularly exploited by the settlers, harvesting its bounty without consent or consideration.
“When we go back, we see our old plantations without much produce,” said Robert, his tone a mix of resignation and anger. “If they want to take, they can take — but leave something for us. They don’t just take; they ruin the plantations by excessive chopping, leaving the waste scattered everywhere. By the time we go back to harvest, there is nothing left for us.”
Recently, a bold message appeared on a signboard erected by the Nicobarese at the entrance of a road connecting the two settlements: “24×7 Non-Tribals, Not Allowed.” Photo by Leesha K Nair.
The Knock of a New Catastrophe
As the Nicobarese continue to grapple with coexisting alongside non-tribals, a storm of greater magnitude brews on the horizon. The Indian government’s ambitious plans to develop the islands have brought with them the specter of displacement, ecological destruction, and cultural obliteration.
The Great Nicobar Project, a 720 billion rupee (around $9 billion) venture has drawn global attention for all the wrong reasons. Dismissed by many as an ecological catastrophe in the making, the project has been branded as a death sentence for the Shompens, one of the last Indigenous tribes of the islands. For the government, however, it is a jewel in India’s strategic crown: a plan to dominate the Malacca Strait, the world’s busiest sea route.
To achieve this vision, the government intends to divert 130 square kilometers of pristine rainforest — an expanse larger than many small towns. Of this, 84 square kilometers lie within tribal reserves, sacred lands that have sustained Indigenous communities for generations. The feasibility study for this colossal undertaking, conducted by the American consulting firm AECOM for NITI Aayog in March 2021, suggests constructing an international port, an airport, a power plant, a township, and tourism infrastructure — all on what the report claims is “uninhabited” land.
In 2022, during discussions for environmental clearance, an Expert Appraisal Committee (EAC) asserted that the project would not disturb the Nicobarese or the Shompens. To keep these Indigenous peoples away from the thousands of workers and settlers who will flood the island, the draft Environmental Impact Assessment (EIA) proposed erecting barbed wire fences.
Yet, the promises that the Great Nicobar Project will proceed with sensitivity are already unraveling. To “compensate” for the environmental destruction, the government announced the creation of three sanctuaries for displaced Leatherback turtles, corals, and Nicobar Megapodes on Little Nicobar, Meroe, and Menchal Islands. These islands, however, are ancestral lands of the Nicobarese. Shockingly, no consultation with the tribal communities took place.
Barnabas Manju, the chairman of the Tribal Council for Great Nicobar and Little Nicobar, stumbled upon the notification of these sanctuaries during a routine visit to the Assistant Commissioner’s office. “I saw the notice about the sanctuaries on the board when I went to the AC office. We were not consulted about it, nor were we given a copy of the notice,” he said, disbelief evident in his voice.
In August 2022, the Tribal Council took the first steps to resist this forced decision. They penned a letter to the deputy commissioner of Nicobar District, with copies sent to the chief secretary, lieutenant governor, and forest officials. Yet their plea was met with silence — an overwhelming, deafening refusal to engage. Instead, the administration’s final blow to their concerns was issuing official notifications (here, here and here) to create the three wildlife sanctuaries just two months later—the decision, again devoid of dialogue or consent.
The tipping point came in November 2022 when the Tribal Council formally withdrew their consent for the diversion of their reserved lands for the Great Nicobar Project. The letter revealed a disturbing truth: they had not been informed that parts of their pre-tsunami villages along the southeast and southwest coasts would also be denotified. This critical information had been deliberately concealed during public hearings, where assurances were given that their lands would remain untouched.
Residents of Campbell Bay gather at the community hall around Christmas. Photo by Leesha K Nair.
Old Fears, New Fears
“The tsunami took everything from us in one go, but this new project will take what remains with us bit by bit,” said Robert, his voice heavy with both frustration and resignation. “I also fear the tsunami returning, especially during Christmas. The Shompens fear it even more than we do. What if it comes back again? My son is studying outside the islands. What if it happens when he’s not here? I was his age — just 17 — when the tsunami happened. I lost everything. I don’t want him to have the same fate.”
For the Nicobarese, the solution to their plight is clear: They want to return to their ancestral villages. But they are pragmatic, too, understanding that an abrupt relocation would push them further into instability. What they seek is a gradual shift, one where their devastated villages, overtaken by debris and overgrowth, are cleared with the administration’s help. Instead, they are met with vague assurances and bureaucratic indifference.
“They told us we’ll go back when the road is constructed,” another Nicobarese resident, John* explained. “The administration thinks tribals can live anywhere, but that’s not how it works. If I can live anywhere, can I just go and live in their houses? No, right? We have our own way with forests and land, and we want to live that way.”
“We also fear that after moving our kids won’t be able to attend schools. The officials said we won’t be able to access hospitals if we go back. I have diabetes, a disease that I didn’t even know about before coming here. What to do, our diet has changed,” said Janice*, a Nicobari elder.
The government’s neglect of the Nicobarese stands in stark contrast to its repeated proclamations of championing tribal rights. “The welfare of tribal communities has been at the forefront of our policies. We launched the [240 billion Indian rupee] JanMan Yojana for the most backward tribal groups. Today, houses are being built for them, and roads are being constructed to connect them to the broader society,” declared Prime Minister Narendra Modi in November, while unveiling development projects worth over 66.4 billion rupees aimed at uplifting tribal communities in Bihar. The Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) has often emphasized its dedication to tribal welfare, proudly citing the election of Droupadi Murmu as India’s first tribal president. And yet, the “Ghar Wapasi” — the long-awaited homecoming of the Nicobarese — seems to have been forgotten amidst the fanfare.
“The best approach right now is to consult and participate with them, rather than dictating terms. All the administrators that have come after the tsunami have been dictators. In the past, there was engagement with the tribes, even though a minimal one. They don’t need to be told what to do and what not to do, they’ll figure that out themselves. They just need to be facilitated, that’s all,” added the senior social anthropologist.
What began as a promise of refuge has now turned into a prolonged exile, leaving the Nicobarese stranded between a past they mourn and a present they cannot accept. Every Christmas, they celebrate with what little they have, but the joy is fleeting. As the night of celebration fades, they wake the next morning haunted by what was lost the day after Christmas in 2004 — the people, the home, a way of life, and the sense of belonging to the land they once called their own.
Today, around 500 Great Nicobarese, the smallest community of Nicobarese in the world, live crammed into these settlements which continue to be alien to them. Photo by Leesha K Nair.
*names have been changed to protect the identity of the individuals