The estuary of the Vamanapuram River at the Muthalapuzhi Harbor, where it opens to the sea, is now a site of frequent hazards, causing deaths, injuries, and widespread fear among the fisherfolk
Nisar Kannangara
Trivandrum, the capital city of Kerala, situated on the southern part of the Malabar coast of the Arabian Sea, in India, is experiencing significant impacts of climate change. Sea level rise, coastal erosion, increasing temperatures, and frequent cyclone hits present major challenges for the city, particularly for the fisherfolk residing along the 78-kilometre coastline. Recent observations in coastal settlements within the city and surrounding areas indicate that coastal erosion is already affecting local beaches. The fisherfolk population faces both physical and psychological challenges due to the combined effects of climate change, leading to substantial physical and economic losses.
Muthalapozhi is one of the harbor in the satellite area of Trivandrum, located between the Perumathura and Anjuthengu fisherfolk settlements. It sits on the estuary of the Vamanapuram River in Trivandrum. In the past five years, it has become a site of multiple hazards. The submerged sand and strong waves make sailing from Muthalapozhi harbor extremely difficult in both summer and monsoon. The local coastal police office report that, in the past five years, more than 100 boats capsized in the Muthalapozhi estuary, causing death and severe injuries. The fishermen now call the harbour Maranapozhi—death sand bar—instead of Muthalapozhi, reflecting the frequent deaths in the harbor. As I began writing this, on the night of August 11th, a message appeared in Kadalporalikal (Sea Warriors), a WhatsApp group of the fisherfolk in the Malabar coast. I have been following this WhatsApp group for two months. The message reported the death of two more people in Muthalapozhi.
Transitioning from the broader dangers of the harbor, I met Ameer (name changed) on August 5th in Perumathura. Ameer had opened my eyes to the spread of fear and trauma among fisherfolk who had been shaken by repeated boat accidents. Ameer is a 26-year-old fisherman who has been setting out from Muthalapozhi since childhood. For him, the sea was a source of life and tradition, not fear. He joined the boat unit at the age of 15 and has 11 years of experience in commercial fishing at sea. Yet even this could not protect him when a strong wave hit at the start of this year’s monsoon. Following another boat out, he misjudged the force of a wave, and his boat tipped. He fell into the water and was unable to swim. The rescue team found him barely conscious, his body thrown against the sea wall rocks with serious injuries.
Ameer showing the black Charadu- thread tied on right hand
Ameer was taken to a hospital in Chirayinkeezhu, a nearby town from his settlement, and then taken to Trivandrum Medical College. He had major injuries on his shoulder and lower back, which completely healed after a month—only the scar of the wound remains. The doctor who treated him advised two weeks of bed rest at home following his discharge. After the hospitalisation and the rest period, his physical injuries were fully healed. What remained, however, was fear—he was scared to go fishing again. As a man who knows only fishing, his fear of returning to the sea pushed him and his family into a severe crisis. The medical system had done its part successfully; he had no complaints; it gave him back his life. He could ride his bike and roam around and meet his friends and other fisherfolk, but he didn’t have the courage to get into the boat again. To help Ameer overcome his fear, his family sought the local usthad’s help. The Usthad, the priest in the local mosque, gave him a black thread to wear on his right hand and performed a ritual- Uzhinjittu. Ameer explained the process. The usthad came to his home one day, he took some sand in his hand, from the courtyard of his house, held it in his right hand, stood very close in front of Ameer, made circular motions over his head, face, and body, and then gave him the sand, asking him to throw it into the sea. When I saw Ameer on 5th August, the thread was still on his right hand, continuing to give him confidence.
Ameer had begun fishing again a couple of weeks ago. On the morning of the 7th, when I called Ameer, he was busy with his work at the Muthalapozhi harbour. Fortunately, this year, he didn’t miss the monsoon, the main fishing season on the Malabar coast in India
Amina (name changed), who lives in the Perumathura fisherfolk settlement, faces a different kind of struggle. She works at a garment firm in the KINFRA Industrial Park, Menamkulam, which is nearly ten kilometres away from her home. She lives with her two children and her aged parents in an informal asbestos-roofed house. Both her parents have severe health issues. Her husband left the family four years ago. Her elder son, 22, works as a fisherman and has been suffering from psoriasis since the eighth grade. Her younger son, 16, is still in school. Six years ago, she had lost a son due to meningitis.
Amina herself has serious health concerns—ones she cannot fully name—but she told me about the chronic knee and stomach pain that troubles her. For the past three years, stomach pain has become a frequent, disturbing presence. When I asked her about treatment, she said she visits the local public health centre regularly for her knee, and the medication provides temporary relief. For her stomach pain, she once consulted a doctor at a private hospital in Chirayinkeezhu, but the pain persists. When I asked what the doctor said, she replied softly: he recommended surgery to remove her uterus. She cannot afford it. A silence followed.
Later, after a long conversation about her family and the mounting health crises they face, she mentioned that she prays regularly and visits the dargah of Ashaik Fakeeran Ali, a saint whose tomb lies close to the Perumathura masjid. The life and karamaths—the miracles—of Ashaik Fakeeran Ali are widely known among the local fisherfolk. A few days earlier, another respondent had told me that the presence of his tomb is the reason Perumathura was spared during the 2004 tsunami and the 2017 Ockhi cyclone—disasters that devastated coastal settlements across Trivandrum and Kollam districts, while Perumathura remained untouched.
A year ago, as her stomach pain worsened, a Christian colleague suggested Amina visit Vettukad Palli-Madre De Deus Church in Vettukadu, 15 km away from Perumathura, for the Padapooja prayer held on Fridays. Her colleague said attending for three days promises relief, but Amina could only go once due to constraints. Vettukadu Palli was not the only place Amina visited for healing. She also often visits Beemapally Dargah Shareef, one of the important Dargahs in South India, located in the coastal area of Trivandrum city. It’s believed by many people in the coastal and other areas of the city, primarily the traditional Muslim sects and individuals from other religions, that the Karamaths – Miracles of Sayyidathunissa Beema Beevi, whose grave
Vettukad Palli- Madre De Deus Church, a Latin Catholic Church, Trivandrum
is located in Dargah, possess healing powers. She also crossed the Kerala border and traveled to Thuckalay Palli in Kanyakumari district of Tamil Nadu, where Peer Muhammed Appa’s grave is located, and Ervadi Dargah in Ramanathapuram, Tamil Nadu, where Hazrat Sultan Sayed Ibrahim Badusha’s grave is worshiped. As her sister joined our conversation, she emphasized, “Medical treatments alone can’t heal our crisis. We need both.” So, they follow doctors’ advice and also seek spiritual support.
Bheema Palli in Trivandrum
Moved by Amina’s experiences, I decided the next morning to travel to the places she had described—from Madre De Deus Church in Vettukadu, to Bheema Palli in Trivandrum, to Thuckalay in Kanyakumari. I saw people, mostly families, in all these places. People are lighting candles, praying to the loving Mother Mary at Vettukadu. People with their illness and stress, waiting for the holy water, walking with Chandakudam at Bheemapalli.
People sitting for hours in deep solitude in front of the grave of Peer Muhammed Appa in Thuckalay. What struck me across all these places was the faces—quiet, shadowed, tired. People seemed to carry something unspoken within them. And among them, no doubt, were many like Amina and Ameer seeking not just relief from pain and fear, but some measure of healing, some way forward.
Peer Muhammed Appa Dargah in Thuckalay in Kanyakumari in Tamil Nadu
