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BREAKING
THE CYCLE
OF BONDED
LABOR IN
SOUTH
INDIA
By: Hester Betlem
Alamelu Bannan in January, 2016.
In the mid 1960’s, almost two decades after India’s independence, Alamelu Bannan’s
impoverished grandfather was offered a 200-rupee advance in return for his labor on a
dominant caste landlord’s farm. He signed no contract, worked up 12-16 hours per day and
received no regular payments for his years of service other than an annual quota of millet. This
traditional form of agricultural bondage, referred to in Tamil as Pannaiyaal, was usually multi-
generational. In the mid 1980’s, Alamelu, aged 10 and her brother, aged 9, inherited their
grandfather’s “bond” from their own parents after they fell ill with smallpox and returned to
their native village to recover. The children worked on the farm for two years until, finally, a
concerned local teacher paid the landowner two months of his own salary to have them
released.
Alamelu and her brother were lucky. The teacher who secured the children’s release took an
active interest in their future. With his emotional and economic support, both children were
given an opportunity to attend school and later, to complete a college degree. However, for
most members of Alamelu’s Arunthathiyar community, one of the most marginalized among
India’s Dalit or “untouchable” population, there is little or no reprieve from the conditions that
make them vulnerable to bonded labor. Arunthathiyars in Alamelu's native Tamil Nadu are
largely landless and have little or no education; they are socially and culturally stigmatized and
politically under-represented. An offer of an immediate inflow of cash in the form of an
advance can often mean the difference between living and dying. In modern Tamil Nadu – a
rapidly industrializing state in South India - hundreds of Arunthathiyar men, women, and
children are lured into bonded labor, or more accurately, “debt bondage”, annually. These
workers end up “paying back their debt” by working long hours in brick-kilns, silver ornament
factories, construction sites and host of other industries, often without access to basic safety

2. 2
precautions, leave, or further remuneration. As in most situations marked by extreme
economic exploitation, it is the women and children who suffer most acutely.
To combat these injustices, Alamelu founded the Rural Women’s Development Trust (RWDT) in
2005.
The Rural Women’s Development Trust (RWDT) is an organization dedicated to the rescue and
rehabilitation of female bonded laborers and their children in her native Salem District. The
organization’s primary mission is to empower Arunthathiyar women economically, socially and
politically to end the cycle of bonded labor both for themselves and for future generations. In
January 2016, I had an opportunity to visit the organization, to learn more about the nature of
contemporary debt bondage, and to meet some of the organization’s beneficiaries currently
participating in an economic empowerment project funded by VGIF.
BONDED LABOR THEN AND NOW
The term “bonded labor” tends to elicit a sense of times past; something that even if it exists in
the modern world is nevertheless an incongruous remnant of a pre-modern, pre-capitalist era.
In India, contemporary forms of labor bondage are undoubtedly informed by customary labor
transactions and historical patterns of social inequality and hierarchy. However, despite
overlaps, contemporary forms of bondage are not only distinctive, but are also entirely
compatible with the demands of modern capitalism and more oppressive than any of their
historical precursors.
Historically, bonded labor in India was confined to the agricultural sector. Until well into the
20th
century it was customary in many parts of India for low caste laborers to be “bound” to a
local landlord. In Tamil, the local language in the South Indian state of Tamil Nadu where RWDT
is based, these laborers were referred to as Pannaiyaal. Traditionally, Pannaiyaal were offered
an in-kind or cash advance, in exchange for their loyalty and labor as permanent, often multi-
generational farm-hands on a
landlord’s farm. These exchanges were
deeply entrenched in local caste
hierarchies. Landlords belonged to
socially, economically, and ritually
dominant castes, while Pannaiyaal
primarily belonged to the regions’ Dalit
communities, considered to be socially
and ritually inferior to their high-caste
counterparts. Treatment of Pannaiyaal
relied on the whims of the landlord. Despite the obvious scope for physical and psychological
abuse in these customary forms of bondage, however, experts agree that the nature of these
informal contracts, nevertheless prevented Dalit laborers from slipping into destitution. The
Pannaiyaal-landlord relationship was underwritten by a number of informal rights and duties.
Until well into the 20th
century it
was customary in many parts of
India for low caste laborers to be
“bound” to a local landlord.

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Though Pannaiyaal generally did not receive a regular income, it was customary for landlords to
ensure that Pannaiyaal had a place to live, to provide a portion of the harvest to feed their
families, and to contribute to the payment of important life-cycle events like marriage and
puberty rituals.
By the late 20th
century, landlords increasingly regarded customary agricultural bondage
systems as inefficient and costly. Daily wage labor, employed according to the demands of the
agricultural calendar rather than on a long-term basis, became the dominant framework
embraced by landlords to fulfill their labor needs. Agricultural laborers were now forced to
compete for wages that, by and large, were far below the poverty level and lacked the “fringe
benefits” associated with long-term bondage. In Tamil Nadu, the transition to a wage labor
system was matched by the entry of local agriculturalists and landowners into more profitable
businesses and industries (agribusiness, power-loom textiles, mining, silverworks, construction,
etc.) that emerged in the wake of India’s economic liberalization in the late 1980’s and early
1990’s. Rural Dalits, largely dependent on agriculture for their subsistence, increasingly faced
destitution as local employment opportunities declined and as their former employers (high-
caste landlords) made their fortunes elsewhere. The result was the emergence of a large,
underemployed and disenfranchised rural labor force that provided fertile ground for the
development of new, more pernicious, forms of labor exploitation and bondage.
Labor bondage in contemporary India is based on the accumulation of insurmountable debt,
rather than on a customary exchange of labor and loyalty for basic subsistence. Industrialists,
deeply invested in keeping their labor expenditures low, hire middle-men to recruit labor from
sections of the population – inevitably Dalits – that are economically desperate and lack
awareness about their basic economic and social rights. Tamil Nadu’s Arunthathiyars, whom
Alamelu refers to as the “Dalits among the Dalits”, tend to be uneducated, landless, and
compared to other Dalit communities have achieved little or no benefit from the rights and
protections extended to “former” untouchables by the Indian state. They are, to sum up
somewhat cynically, a favored community among middle men seeking a cheap, malleable labor
force. Arunthathiyars approached by such middleman are generally offered a sizeable cash
advance that provides a temporary way out of high interest loans and other financial
obligations. However, despite this immediate benefit, laborers are considered “bound” to their
employers as long as the new debt incurred by the advance and unspecified interest rates
remains unpaid.
Once laborers arrive at their work sites, often long distances away from their native villages and
social networks, they are offered wages that barely cover room and board, much less the cash
advances they received in return for their agreement to accept employment. Despite the
official prohibition of bonded labor in 1976, government intervention into bonded labor has
been largely ineffective. Weak labor regulations, combined with regular collusion between
government officials and the top brass of local industries, inevitably leads to a situation where a
bonded laborer is denied the right to contest his or her work conditions, refused leave for
holidays or special occasions, and prevented – often through the threat of violence – from
breaking their relationship with their employer. In other words, debt and social and political

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marginalization are the source of an Arunthathiyar’s vulnerability to becoming a bonded
laborer, as well as the source of his or her indefinite entrapment within the bonded labor
system.
THE GENDER OF DEBT BONDAGE
Though debt bondage adversely affects Arunthathiyar men, women and children alike, women
and girls’ recruitment and treatment as bonded laborers is deeply informed by patriarchal
norms and values. Put simply, a woman’s low-caste status is compounded by her status as a
woman: as a bonded laborer she is subject to both caste and economic exploitation and
gender-based exploitation.
The most obvious site of gender-based
inequality exists within the recruitment
process itself. Though middleman
recruit both men and women and in
many cases whole families, women are
never approached directly. A decision to
take an advance is made by the head of
the household – inevitably a man – even
in cases where the person being
recruited is a wife or a daughter. Madhammal, one of RWDT’s beneficiaries in rural Salem
District with whom I spoke in some detail, for example, explained that she did not even know
the amount of the advance her husband received in return for her labor at a silver works
factory. “I don’t know how much they gave to take me. It was negotiated between my husband
and the owner.” In other words, whereas men are coerced by debt to accept unfair labor
conditions and bondage, women are often “sold” into bondage by their own husbands, and are
generally completely absent from decisions about how a cash advance is spent.
Though there are plenty of men that spend an advance carefully, and even manage to save a
portion of an advance for emergencies, it is also not uncommon for an advance to be
squandered. Not surprisingly, alcoholism is widespread among Arunthathiyar men who, by and
large, feel helpless and emasculated in the face of their social and economic predicament. Both
cash advances and the meager salary received on a worksite are often invested in the purchase
in alcohol, thereby heightening an already unsurmountable debt for a family as a whole; a debt
that even if it was not accumulated by a woman, often becomes a woman’s responsibility to
pay back.
The recruitment of families is often another source of gender-based exploitation by both
employers and husbands alike. In many instances men recruited to work in stone quarries and
on construction sites are invited to bring their families along with them. Middleman, Alamelu
explained, will entice husbands by promising schooling for his children, and suggesting that his
“I don’t know how much they
gave to take me. It was
negotiated between my husband
and the owner.”

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wife can choose to help a husband on the job or stay at home to take care of children and
domestic chores. Once a husband arrives on a worksite, where he is to be paid based on a daily
quota, it usually becomes clear that he will not be able to complete the work unless his wife
and children help him. It is common place in these instances, that a man – unable to face the
pressure of the work – deserts his bond, knowing full-well that the burden of repaying his
advance will be transferred to his wife. Women that find themselves in these positions are not
only prone to accidents in jobs incompatible with their physical strength, but are also
commonly subject to physical and sexual abuse from male overseers at their worksites.
Release from bondage – through the work of bonded labor activists and in some cases
government agents – does not alleviate the debt or the social and political and marginalization
that makes Arunthathiyars vulnerable to bonded labor in the first place. It also does not
alleviate the unequal nature of an Arunthathiyar woman’s low status as a wife, community
member or economic agent. It is with this entanglement of caste and gender in mind that
RWDT proposes to end the cycle of bonded labor by focusing on the most vulnerable sections
of the Arunthathiyar community: women and children.
THE CATCH-22 OF RELEASE FROM BONDED LABOR
Since the late 1990s, a combination of activism, media attention and a more aggressive
government stance against bonded labor has led to frequent bonded labor “release and
rehabilitation” operations throughout India. Tamil Nadu is at the forefront of these operations
and one often comes across news articles and TV segments announcing the “rescue” of
hundreds of bonded laborers from a range of industries, including brick-kilns, stone quarries,
silverworks factories, rice-mills and textile mills. These rescue operations are touted as victories
in the fight against bonded labor. The truth, as is so often the case, is more complicated.
While “release” from bonded labor is becoming more commonplace, “rehabilitation” has been
less forthcoming. Technically the government sets aside 20,000 rupees (about $300) for every
person released from bonded labor. However, access to this government rehabilitation
program is riddled with loopholes that, for many, means they will never receive any money at
all. For example, when I visited the RWDT office, I was introduced to a woman, Sandi, who was
released from bonded labor in 2014 after a local TV station brought attention to the use of
bonded labor at the stone quarry where she worked. Once the story hit, the construction
company voluntarily released the laborers before official action could be taken. This means
that, technically, there is no evidence that Sandi or any of the other of the laborers at the site
were ever bonded. Consequently, for women like Sandi, it is near impossible to apply for a
government issued bonded labor “release certificate” on which their access to rehabilitation
program depends.
Since the early 2000’s Alamelu has been involved in several legal battles, and tireless advocacy
to have the perpetrators of bonded labor abuses (primarily local industry heads and owners)

6. 6
prosecuted and to promote stronger, more accessible bonded labor laws and schemes. She has
also been at the forefront of bonded labor
rescue missions. In fact, many of RWDTs
beneficiaries explained that they were released
from bonded through Alamelu’s personal
efforts. Yet Alamelu is the first to admit that
effective laws and rescue missions are not in
and of themselves enough to stop the cycle of
bonded labor. For most Arunthathiyars, even
the rare few that have been issued release
certificates, returning to one’s native village
means the start of a new struggle against
poverty that often results in a return to bonded
labor. Alamelu explained, “Bonded laborers
don’t have any skills suitable for employment within the village. Because of lack of skills, many
of them end up going back to doing bonded labor again, even after they have been released and
returned to their villages.” Among Arunthathiyar women, a lack of skills is inevitably
compounded by a lack of confidence in one’s own abilities and a ready submission to
patriarchal authority. Consequently, RWDTs mission is informed by a deep awareness that
ending the cycle of bonded labor ultimately relies on a combination of strong bonded labor
laws and legal awareness training and sustainable social and economic empowerment
programs for women that have been released from bonded labor.
BREAKING THE CYCLE THROUGH COIR ROPE PRODUCTION
In June 2015 RWDT started a new, VGIF funded, social empowerment and skills training project
in four Arunthathiyar hamlets near RWDT’s office in Tharamangalam town. The project’s 120
female beneficiaries are all former bonded laborers.
The majority of the women involved in RWDT’s coir rope making training were released from
Salem District’s silver works factories, which produce the intricate silver anklets traditionally
worn by Indian girls and women. Conditions at silverworks factories, which primarily employ
women, are particularly harsh. Madhammal, who earlier reported that the advance that led to
her bondage was negotiated by her husband, described the conditions at the factory as follows:
“I got 150 rupees ($3.00) for up to 12 hours of work. I didn’t have any mobility. I had no leave.
I could not attend marriage functions. I fell ill in the middle with stomach pain. I had an ulcer,
which was probably a reaction to the chemicals. There were no safety precautions, no mask or
anything.” The other women I spoke to reported similar experiences. Many showed me hands
riddled with scars and missing fingers inflicted by cuts from power-tools and burns from
soldering machines used without gloves or other protection.
“Because of lack of skills,
many of them end up going
back to doing bonded labor
again, even after they have
been released and returned
to their villages.”

7. 7
Despite the initial relief of being released, the women I spoke to reported feeling increasingly
hopeless when they returned to their villages. Priya, a youngish woman with an easy smile
explained, “We were released about 5 years ago with the intervention of RWDT, and returned to
the village. It was very difficult to find work when we returned. The landowners rejected us,
saying they were fine giving us work, but only by giving us an advance. So we rejected that
employment, and no other employment was available. Even when it was available, nobody was
willing to give it to us.” In response to the frequent complaints from women about their
economic predicament following their release, Alamelu and her staff began considering various
ideas for economic empowerment projects. After several discussions with the target
community, RWDT decided on coir rope making as the most viable option.
Coir rope produced by RWDT beneficiaries.
“Coir” refers to the hairy fibers of the coconut. In South India, where coconuts grow in
abundance, coir is used to make a host of products, including doormats, mattress stuffing,
fishing nets and, most commonly, rope. There is an endless demand for coir rope. It is used in
construction, as ties for cattle, and to secure goods and supplies in ship-containers and trucks.
The manufacture of coir rope is also relatively simple, and can be easily learned at an expert
level within a few month’s time. The only investment required to produce coir rope, besides
coir fiber, is a lightweight machine powered by electricity.
The 3-month coir rope making training takes place in the hamlets where the women reside. At
the end of the training, RWDT awards a team of three grantees a machine and a free bundle of
raw material to start their own coir making business. Alamelu also negotiated a fair business
relationship with a local coir wholesaler on behalf the project beneficiaries prior to the first

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training. The wholesaler provides the raw material at a discounted rate, and buys back the
finished product at a profit to the women.
When I met the project beneficiaries in January – half-way through the one-year project cycle –
women from two out of the four communities participating in the project had completed their
training. Graduates work in three member teams to run their own coir-rope making businesses,
which they operate out of their own homes. The women make approximately 1000 rupees per
week after deducing the fees for raw material. They are not rich. But, the money is sufficient
to feed their families, to pay for school uniforms and books for their children and even to save a
little for emergencies. Most crucially, these newly minted entrepreneurs control their own
labor, and make decisions about how their money should be spent and invested.
Despite the success of the project thus far, Alamelu admitted that the project’s implementation
was not without obstacles. As is often the case with women’s economic empowerment
projects, women’s husbands initially objected to their wives’ participation in the training. When
Alamelu approached them they would ask her sarcastically, “Are you going to feed my children
and look after them? Are you going to bring them to school?” Alamelu and her staff spent a lot
of time working with the husbands to convince them of the benefits to their families that will
result from the trainings. Most of the men eventually relented, and let their wives participate
in the training. However, to sustain the support of husbands and other male community
members, these conversations will have to be ongoing. Alamelu is not worried though. “The
men know about RWDT and their previous activities”, she explained. “Now the men will
generally keep silent and say ‘ok, let them do the training’.”
Beneficiaries participating in a training session.

9. 9
Priya, talking to my translator.
Male opposition was initially compounded by a minimal awareness of women’s rights and a
deep-seated lack of confidence among female beneficiaries. To address this, Alamelu and her
staff integrated informal empowerment sessions into the skills training program. During these
sessions the women are encouraged to talk about their experiences as bonded laborers and as
women together. They are also given information about their rights, and encouraged to
approach RWDT staff for advice and guidance whenever they face problems in or outside the
home. When I asked Alamelu what, in her opinion, are the major changes she has seen in the
program beneficiaries since the start of the program, she answered, “Previously, at the time of
their release and even when we were discussing the project, the women used to keep silent.
Now they speak easily in their teams, with the staff and with me. They are talking about their
children’s education. They have come to realize what was wrong with their previous situations.
They used to perceive things as routine. Now they perceive these things as an injustice!”
When I sat with beneficiaries in January and spoke with them about the project, Alamelu’s
words rang true. The women eagerly told me how much they earn, how they are spending their
earnings and their plans for expanding their businesses in the future. Most striking was their
insistence that the cycle of bonded labor should end with them. In Priya’s words, “I will be able
to support my children’s education. We don’t want our children to be bonded laborers. I don’t
want to pass that experience on to them. Their life will be ok.”

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THE ROAD AHEAD
RWDT’s coir rope making project is measurably changing the status of former bonded laborers
in the communities where RWDT works. RWDTs integrated approach – relying on a
combination of social and individual empowerment, political and legal activism, and sustainable
economic development projects – promises an end to the cycle of bonded labor, at least for the
women that participate in RWDT programs. Yet, the road ahead for woman like Priya and
Madhammal remains difficult. Years, sometimes decades of work at factories, construction
sites and quarries, have left many of RWDTs beneficiaries with health problems and temporary
disabilities. In addition, some of the women are still paying back debts to former employers, in
fear of reprisal if they discontinue these payments. RWDT is involved in court cases on behalf
of effected families to address these issues, but they will likely take years to resolve.
Despite these remaining problems, Alamelu is optimistic for the future and has several plans to
further improve the lives of the women children RWDT works with. For example, at the end of
the project, when all 120 women have completed the coir rope making training, Alamelu plans
to federate them into a single cooperative. Cooperative members will be encouraged to accrue
small savings, and to establish an internal lending system. She hopes that ultimately, the
interest that accrues from these loans will be invested in the education of the women’s
children, many of whom were previously bonded with their families, and are currently
participating in RWDT programs. RWDT is also currently planning several new projects with
Arunthathiyar women and children, including a project seeking to improve women’s access to
nutrition and healthcare. Though RWDT can only reach a relatively small percentage of the
total population of Arunthathiyar women that have lived or continue to live in bondage,
RWDT’s efforts prove that systematic change is possible by working in one village at a time.