A reporter’s account of the perils of investigating illegal beach sand mining in Tamil Nadu
Chennai: Journalism 101 drills a particular ethic into our heads – the journalist can never become the story. The use of the word ‘I’ is generally abhorred. ‘Attribute, attribute, attribute’ is the mantra. The journalist is the fly on the wall – watching, mirroring and making sense of the world around her.
Drastic situations though, call for drastic measures. A temporary break of the rigid code of journalism, perhaps. All in the interest of the truth – to help the reader make up her mind about whether this journalist’s work is to be trusted or binned. Investigating the rich and mighty, the politically connected, is never an easy job and many Indian journalists have paid the price for daring to do so. Some have even paid for it with their lives. Luckily I have not yet come to that pass.
Since the publication of my series in The Wire on illegal beach sand mining, a number of anonymous online Twitter and Facebook accounts have cropped up to harass and target me personally. Blog posts have been written alleging that I have written stories on behalf of the rivals of S. Vaikundarajan, India’s largest beach sand miner, for an unspecified remuneration. One Twitter handle, after a series of tweets referring to me as “paid journalist” went on to tweet my mobile number along with a message stating that I was against jallikattu and asking people not to call me and abuse me.
Since then, as expected, there have been a series of phone calls, some threatening, some abusive; many of these callers simply fall silent when the phone is answered. By way of abundant caution, I was compelled to file a complaint with the cyber crime division of the Chennai city police. Police commissioner S. George has responded promptly, beefing up patrolling and providing support to myself and my family.
This is the fourth year I have been on the story and the fourth year I have faced harassment and intimidation. What began as a regular news story on the mining of rare earth minerals found in the beach sands of Tamil Nadu turned out, to my astonishment, to be one about large scale illegal mining. One estimate of the loot pegs the amount at least Rs 1 lakh crore – the details of which I have provided in my series of reports. Rare earth minerals include an atomic mineral called monazite – when processed, this mineral yields thorium, a nuclear fuel, which can be used in nuclear weapons (if used to breed uranium-233). My investigations pointed in the direction of massive looting, not just of rare earth minerals but also monazite – a potential threat to national security.
Investigating the companies that mine beach sand also meant investigating mainly one family based in Tirunelveli – S. Vaikundarajan and his brothers – who has a virtual monopoly over the country’s beach sand mining and export industry. Tamil Nadu’s southern coastline is in danger – rampant illegal mining has destroyed the natural ecology of our shores. While a large number of residents of the area benefit from the mining jobs created by the family’s business, a larger number of villagers and fishermen live in fear of this family and their associates. As is usually the case with the rich, they are also powerful – politically connected and protected by the powers that be, no matter who is in the seat of authority in the state and at the Centre.
I knew this was a story that would have enormous and wide ranging ramifications. It would also serve public interest in varied ways. And so my investigation was on.
A raid and a transfer
This story begins in August 2013. It was a lethargic week at the Times Now bureau in Chennai (where I was then employed) as the top story on the channel was that of a young IAS officer, Durga Shakti Nagpal, in Uttar Pradesh, suspended for raiding the sand mining mafia in her state. No connection to the southernmost part of the country – Tamil Nadu – which remains largely and blissfully oblivious to the furore up north. On the morning of August 7, I received a message from an IAS officer whom I was in regular contact with. “Ashish Kumar is raiding illegal sand miners in Tuticorin. Speak to him. Some developments may occur,” I was informed. I called Kumar, then the district collector of Tuticorin, who confirmed that he had indeed raided a few mines and that he would be submitting a report to the state government. I alerted my boss, a senior editor at Times Now, Mumbai, adding that this might turn out to be similar to the Durga Shakti Nagpal case. My boss asked me to wait and watch – and alert him in case any action was taken against the collector.
By around 9 pm the same day, I received another message from my IAS contact in Chennai. “He has been transferred,” it said. I called Kumar once again, who reluctantly confirmed that transfer orders had arrived, dated the same day. “How did you know?” he repeatedly asked me, a question that went unanswered. I alerted my boss in Mumbai – the headline would be ‘Another Durga Shakti Nagpal? Tuticorin district collector transferred eight hours after raiding sand mafia’. But the channel’s editor, Arnab Goswami, had to be alerted first, as the news was sensitive. The Chennai team was primed – they had to move to Tuticorin at any moment, along with the OB (outdoor broadcast) van. Goswami was in the studio, anchoring ‘The NewsHour’ and he came on the line around midnight. “Why aren’t you in Tuticorin yet, Sandhya?” he asked. “Get there now.” A six-member team left for Tuticorin in the early hours of August 8. Our big story had finally arrived. We had broken it hours before anyone else had it.
From Tuticorin and Tirunelveli to Kanyakumari
Excitement built as we neared Tuticorin. First on the agenda was an interview with a reluctant Kumar, following which we shot the mines he had raided. Interviews with villagers pointed us in the direction of Tirunelveli – the epicentre, we were told, of large scale beach sand mining in the state. “Be careful madam,” I was warned repeatedly by villagers and local activists who had been protesting against indiscriminate mining. “Those guys are ruthless.” We conducted a sting operation on the then Tuticorin superintendent of police, M. Durai, who admitted that no FIR had or would be filed against the powerful miners despite the district collector’s orders. We realised that Kumar had only scratched the surface of a large and powerful mafia.
Our next stop was Tirunelveli. We drove along the beautiful southern coast, interviewing villagers, fishermen and priests from tiny churches in the area. One local activist took us to a village called Uvari. Fishermen there eagerly took us to the place where red beach sand was being mined using diggers (JCBs). Our local reporter, Paramasivam, too had accompanied us to this village. “Don’t worry madam, we will come with you and protect you,” said the fishermen of Uvari. “Many people who have seen this mining have gone missing – they are abducted, killed and thrown into the sea by these fellows. They are ruthless. But as long as we are with you, they will not dare try anything,” they said. A large group followed us to the mining site – around 20 fishermen, residents of Uvari, shielded us as my colleague, Manish Dhanani, filmed the mining activity.
When the workers realised that they were being filmed, the JCBs, equipment and trucks disappeared from view very quickly and soon enough we heard one fisherman mutter – “Adho varaanga paarunga” (See, there they come). An angry group of five workers had arrived in a jeep, asking us who we were and why we were filming private land. “We are journalists from Chennai,” we said repeatedly, as a couple of them stuck mobile phones in our faces, clicking our pictures and filming videos. “Why is he taking my pictures without my permission?” I asked one of them angrily. The fishermen quickly jumped in with soothing words, before a fight ensued. “Please leave now,” ordered the workers. One fisherman spoke on our behalf – “We are leaving, sir, they just wanted to see,” he said rather vaguely with an equally vague smile. Manish and I were quickly ushered back into the village by the fishermen. “We don’t want the mining to take place but we are afraid of him,” said one fisherman as we walked back to the car. “Who is he?” I asked. “Annachi (generic term for brother),” he said. “Who is Annachi?” I asked again. “Vaikundarajan.”
Also read: The Countdown Begins For Tamil Nadu’s Beach Sand Mining Cartel
The name Vaikundarajan was first uttered in Tuticorin and by the time our team reached Tirunelveli, I’d gained a fair amount of knowledge about the man and his business activities by calling up other journalists and IAS officers. He was said to be all powerful in the three southernmost districts of the state – Tuticorin, Tirunelveli and Kanyakumari. He mined beach sand minerals, also known as rare earth minerals – garnet, ilmenite, rutile, leucoxene and sillimanite. Don’t mess with Vaikundarajan, I was warned repeatedly by well-wishers and friends. He is only trouble and politically well connected.
Journalism demands that all sides of a story are given a voice – the alleged illegal miners had to be interviewed too. We headed next to Thisaiyanvilai, the village which serves as the headquarters and base for Vaikundarajan’s mining operations. We parked the car outside a house which we were told belonged to Vaikundarajan and went in without cameras to ask if he would grant us an interview. Vaikundarajan was not there but his brother Jegatheesan, a partner in the company, was. He agreed to talk to us. Manish ran to the car to grab his camera and microphone. “He complained about us, so we were forced to complain about him to higher authorities,” said Jegatheesan when asked about Kumar. “That is why he got transferred.” Once the camera stopped rolling, Jegatheesan asked us to sit down and began questioning me specifically. Was I married, where was I from, how many children did I have and so on. We took our leave on a cordial note, thanking the miner for the interview. “You must be living in a flat in Chennai?” asked Jegatheesan suddenly as we were readying to leave. I nodded slightly, not knowing where this was going. “Hmmm… stay safe. Chennai is a dangerous place,” he said. Nodding dumbly, Manish and I left.
“He was threatening us in a very subtle way,” said Manish, currently a senior video journalist with Times Now. “He was basically telling us to back off or else… that was quite a scary episode!”
Back in the car, we met a very rattled Jayaseelan, the young man who had been driving us around since we left Chennai. “A group of four-five men came and looked all around the car and under it,” he informed us. “They asked me who we were. I told him the reporter is inside Ayya’s house. They noted down my vehicle number. Please, let us leave right away,” he said.
As we left Thisaiyanvilai, our hearts beating rather wildly, we noticed two burly men clad in white shirts and white veshtis (dhoti), thick gold chains around their necks, on motorbikes – one on each side of our car. They would speed up, glare at Jayaseelan and me, and then drop behind. A few minutes later, in tandem, they would speed up and glare menacingly at us again. This continued for 10 kilometres. Once we were sure they had finally stopped following us, we stopped the OB and the car and almost cried in relief.
By this time the entire crew was rattled, so we decided to head to Kudankulam, where we knew some people who were protesting the nuclear power plant. “That is the only safe place I can think of now and it is getting dark,” I said. The team concurred. We had never driven that fast to any other destination before – and haven’t since.
Daylight brought with it renewed courage. We headed onward to Kanyakumari and found a derelict, abandoned beach mineral processing plant. As Manish and I walked around it, filming, we heard a shout. “Run, Sandhya,” said Manish who saw the man before I did. A man in a lungi (kind of dhoti) was running towards us with a sickle. “Wait Anna (elder brother), we are not doing anything,” I shouted out to the man. He lowered his sickle as he neared us. “What are you doing? You cannot take any photographs here. Get out right now,” he warned. Manish and I left quickly.
Times Now played our stories repeatedly on the channel, along with the hot issue of the UP IAS officer Nagpal. Tamil Nadu was in the headlines and ours was the top story for a week. (Two of the stories are appended below, others have been archived here, here and here.