My Life in Failures

 

My Life in Failures

“We are kept from our goals not by obstacles but by clear paths to lesser goals!”

 

I was invited, some months ago, to submit a biopic to my alma mater – apparently I had been selected as a distinguished alumnus of the institution. I was surprised – while I was aware that the alumni association had low standards (it tried to cheat the caterer at an alumni dinner on one occasion by asking groups of us to eat from the same plates), there were depths to which I had always assumed that even they would hesitate to plunge. It was therefore reassuring to subsequently be informed that the invitation was merely a ruse to drive up participation at some CEO/COO conference they were organizing, withdrawn the moment I declined the opportunity to occupy a seat, clap at the right moments, and reassure a bunch of middle-aged men (yes, all men!) about the size of their you-know-what’s. Ah, I remember thinking, my reputation as a horrible warning rather than a good example remains intact, and I can continue looking into a mirror with admiration and delight rather than awe.

But it did get me thinking – what would a biopic on Ajit Chaudhuri read like? And I decided – my professional journey is best described through my failures.

My first was during the placement season at my management course, back in 1989. All I wanted was to go to a place as far away as possible, and work with communities as difficult as possible. However, the NGOs who worked in such places did not consider me worthy (too English-speaking, too urbane, blah, blah, blah!), and I ended up at a packaging plant outside Baroda. I would like to think that they (i.e., the NGOs) were stupid and had made a mistake – but the people they did recruit (my batchmates Narendra, Rupa, Damu, Mathew, Balu, Som, et al) are all development sector doyens today, so maybe they saw something that I lacked.

In 1991 I decided, ‘NGO or nothing’, and travelled to western Rajasthan to meet a local NGO boss, mentally prepared to sell myself, fall at his feet, and do whatever else necessary to get a job.  Sanjoy Ghose hired me within a minute of meeting me (at Phalodi bus station, district Jodhpur) and sent me off to the Urmul Trust’s most remote location, Bajju (district Bikaner), to work with its most difficult community, refugees from Tharparkar district of Sind (Pakistan). And I spent the next year hanging around in villages such as Sheruvala Basti, Bandhli, Bijeri, Dandkala, et al, most of them more than 10 km from a road, in the middle of the Thar Desert, oblivious to the fact that I was in my late twenties and in the bottom percentile of my batch earnings-wise.

This year was the most important year of my life professionally, and I still live off it. It distinguishes me from those who speak ‘empowerment’[1] and ‘participation’[2] without ever having faced a community; I know, from personal experience and mistakes made, that the community is not one homogenous mass, that poor women-headed households have a different set of interests to those of thakur saheb, and that the location of a water outlet or community centre will decide how it will be used; and I can separate substance from fluff in the long-winded jargon-spewing monologues that I am subjected to. I recommend that those looking for a career in development do not by-pass this phase – one of the greatest learning and also the most fun.

I stayed on with Sanjoy Ghose in different ways – through a move to Delhi and work with a funding agency as its representative for western Rajasthan, and then work involving extensive travel in the Northeast – until his murder in 1997. I subsequently led a research team in the Changthang area of Ladakh[3], did a long consulting assignment in Tripura[4] – always broke, always hungry, always moving, until 1999 when I got two part-time but regular jobs – as a representative in India for the UK charity Paul Hamlyn Foundation (PHF), and as the Director of Care Today Fund, set up by the India Today group to administer support to battle casualties from the Kargil war. The former slowly grew from a small operation to a significant all-India set-up, and the scope of work at the latter expanded to disaster response with the Odisha super-cyclone, the Kutch earthquake and the tsunami hitting India one after the other. Importantly, for the first time, I was successfully straddling the contrasts and contradictions of my professional objectives of being financially stable, of reaching the most excluded communities, and of having fun.

The responsibilities gradually became unmanageable for one person, and I moved to PHF full-time as Director – India in 2008. And after three more good years there, I faced the typical male menopause problem – I was in my mid-40s and had reached where I was going to reach, did I want to do the same thing for another 15 or so years, or did I want to challenge myself? And that’s how I ended up, in 2011, bag and guitar in hand, trying to acquire doctoral education in the field of public policy.

Needless to add, there were several ‘what the hell am I doing?’ moments in the process. One was while filling the admission form, at the question ‘Name and contact details of Guardian’, with no option to answer, ‘I’m 47 years old, what’s a guardian?’ (I ducked that one by nominating my wife). Another was at the beginning of every quarter, when the children’s school fees came up for payment, when I realized that a full-time mid-career PhD is a race between completing and going broke.

So, another failure, in my case ‘going broke’ won and, after 3 wonderful years shuttling between classroom, library and football ground, with many new friends from a generation that has never heard Dylan sing or seen Maradona play, it was back to the salt mines. I was lucky that Tata Sons, the holding company of a reputable Indian conglomerate, were looking for someone with a combination of qualities not abundantly available and were (therefore) willing to overlook attributes that did not portend well for a natural fit including that I did not understand how companies run (I must confess that I did not make the same mistake for the many recruitments into Tata that I subsequently oversaw, and made sure that significant time working in a company was a prerequisite). And so, I began my corporate career at age 51.

The corporate sector is different, and I had to adjust. The first was to the sheer intelligence of those around me; in the development sector I was one of the bright bulbs but here, I was just average, and realizing this was a humbling experience. At the same time, managers here have a linear approach to problems and solutions, and don’t appreciate the ‘wicked problem’ nature of issues in the public domain. Hierarchies too took time to appreciate – I may have been a world expert in my field but, ultimately, had to do what the boss decided. Also, I was used to systems in which, if something needed to be done, one just did them – here, one set up forums and processes so that someone else did them. It also has to be said that some things were the same, the meetings just as long, boring and inefficient as in NGOs and my survival skill of being able to snooze with my eyes open just as relevant.

My adjustment was aided by two factors. The first was my initial boss, who knew me from before (and was behind my recruitment), and who ensured a supportive and cooperative work environment. And the second was that on day one I was bunged off to Kashmir to manage the Tata group’s response to floods in the valley – I had managed Care Today’s response to the 2005 earthquake here, was familiar with the place, and all the old relationships developed from that time took off from where they had left off. I spent about two months in Kashmir and when I returned to Mumbai I had accumulated the necessary street cred within the system to survive.

I thrived, took on more responsibility, got promoted, the works – and then, another failure – I decided that life was too comfortable, that I could do my work in my sleep and still exceed expectations, and that I had less than 2 years left of my career that would be wasted if I didn’t challenge myself. Again, I was lucky – Tata Steel said, join us, shift to our HQ in Jamshedpur, and work on how we can inform stakeholders of the efficacy of our social responsibility programmes. And so, here I am, facing communities once again, familiarizing myself with a new place (the eastern ghats of Jharkhand and Odisha), learning a new language (Santhali), and acquiring new skills (I have just met the requirements for a grassroots football coaching license).

What does the future hold? Retirement in 2023, and then, hopefully, a move back to Delhi where my wife is (she refused to join me in Jamshedpur) and a life living off her. I will combine being a ‘kept man’ with indulging in yet another failure, as a novelist – two books and a collection of short stories already out (with sales struggling to reach double figures), another book and some short stories brewing in my head, I think I have enough masala to keep myself occupied.

Should a life be judged by its failures, as I have attempted? And here, I am not referring to the Silicon Valley type of failure, where the concept is co-opted into some happy tale of ultimate progress along with exhortations to fail better, blah, blah, blah. I am referring to the real thing, when you face up to the fact that you cannot go further along a chosen path, and when you realize that you are a loser, a person who is unable to measure up to the standards of the world. There is some support for this viewpoint in the musings of the philosopher Costica Bradatan who suggests that, by obsessing over achievement and striving to succeed, we avoid reckoning with mortality and hence are kept from living a more meaningful life (see the book ‘In Praise of Failure - Four Lessons in Humility’). Or, to quote Bob Dylan, ‘there’s no success like failure, and failure’s no success at all’.

 

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[1] My thoughts on this are written in a paper entitled ‘Understanding Empowerment’, see https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.1177/2455133315612298.

[2] My thoughts on this are written in a paper entitled ‘A Treatise on Participation’, see https://www.epw.in/journal/2013/40/perspectives/treatise-participation.html

[3] An output is the paper ‘Change in the Changthang: To Stay or To Leave’ published in the Economic and Political Weekly of Jan 8-14, 2000, available at https://www.jstor.org/stable/4408800. Another is the 2018 novel “Pax Feminica”, available at https://www.amazon.in/Pax-Feminica-Ajit-Chaudhuri/dp/1543702937.

[4] An output from that time is the 2022 novel “A Walk Through the Wild Side”, available at https://www.amazon.in/Walk-Through-Wild-Side/dp/1543708560.

25 Years

 I wrote this in July 2007 

Sanjoy Ghose - 10 Years After 

By Ajit Chaudhuri

 

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I’m not there. I do not sleep.

 

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunshine on ripened grain.

I am the gentle August rain.

 

And when you awaken to that morning hush

I am that swift, enlightening rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

 

Do not stand at my grave and cry.

I’m not there. I did not die.[1]

 

It was a long time ago! Memories have faded, and many reading this would be too young to know him as more than just one of the ‘names’ the IRMA community throw around to motivate people towards a certain career path. So let me begin with a short biography.

 

A Short Biography: Sanjoy came from a privileged background – the Cathedral School and then Sydenham College in Mumbai, a family full of judges and civil servants, the works. He joined IRMA as part of its first batch (deciding against IIM-A to come here, I read later, though he never spoke about that), and then took up a job with the Tribhuvandas Foundation in Anand. The URMUL Dairy wanted to replicate TF in Bikaner district in Rajasthan and recruited Sanjoy to set up the URMUL Trust in 1986. I joined the URMUL Trust in 1991, by which time it was headquartered in Lunkaransar, with fledgling operations in Phalodi and Bajju, and was financially independent of the Dairy. Along the way, Sanjoy married his classmate from Sydenham, Sumita, they had two children (Joyita – now a final year sociology student at LSR in Delhi, and Anindo – studying in Mumbai and a budding investment banker, his mother tells me), and he had stints of further education in Oxford in the UK and John Hopkins in the USA.

 

Sanjoy began to make noises about ‘going somewhere his work was really needed’ in the early nineties. He worked on this with his typical rigour and single-mindedness; ensuring that URMUL Trust would continue without him (which it has), identifying a place (finally the North-East, with a base in Jorhat in Assam, field operations in Majuli Island, and networking and advocacy across the region), a mode of operation (he joined AVARD as its General Secretary and set up a branch, AVARD-NE, to work through) and preparing his family and colleagues for the move. He moved to Jorhat in 1996. He was picked up by ULFA in July 1997 and murdered. No body has been found till date.

 

Why is he a ‘name’? Sanjoy was not like you and me. He was brilliant, extremely hardworking, and ruthless – the alpha plus combination that gets you to the top in whichever field you choose. He combined this with deep commitment, a love for the nitty-gritty, genuine charm and a sense of humour, a magnetic personality, and fearlessness. In the six years that we worked together, I have seen all these facets of his personality (and have been at the receiving end, not always in a nice way, of them as well) and can confidently say that he was a one-off. He was as comfortable in plush multi-lateral offices in Delhi discussing policy with the wonks as he was on the floor of a poor household in a remote village discussing basic health. The other ‘names’ don’t compare – Sanjoy would never have allowed himself to get comfortable, would never have lived off past achievements, would always have put the needs of the worst-off as central to what he did.

 

What if? In that one year in the North-East, he had a dormant NGO sector churning across the seven states. There was a genuine non-governmental space being developed between the religious charities and the insurgents that would have been a force to reckon with today had it not died a premature death with him. There would have been a genuine role model for individuals within the Indian development sector, critical today when the sector is competing for talent in a playing field that is not level. And there would have been a role model for NGOs as well, and a better quality of debate on the space for peaceful non-governmental action in a polarising economic environment.

 

To conclude: I am now going to indulge in a little sentimentality! For some years after his death, I would be sort of expecting him to burst into the room any time and fill it up with his presence – it is only recently that this feeling has abated. I still try to avoid getting into discussions about him, unless it is with close colleagues from those days like Madhavan and Sunil Kaul. What stays on with me along with his commitment and his passion is his sense of fun and his habit of eating only once a day. He livened up what would have been a boring few days in Aizawl by discovering the ‘Mizo Flick’ – an adjustment Mizo women did to their clothes while walking that provided a fleeting glimpse of undergarments. He could ferret out food from the unlikeliest of places at the unlikeliest of times – I remember us arriving in Pasighat some late evening, hungry and tired and with everything closed, and he managed to charm some shopkeeper into preparing hot food by speaking Marwari and enquiring into his lineage.

 

Today, ten years later, one feels a certain sense of déjà vu with the news from Assam of Mr. Ram of the FCI, the is-he-dead-is-he-not, the playing with the sentiments of a family in deep distress. I quote Sumita Ghose in a recent article in The Telegraph – that ULFA are ‘a bunch of ageing dickheads (this word is mine – she uses ‘men’, but being a member of the tribe I revolt at the association) who still believe that lies, guns, extortion, force, and other such cowardly means will bring about a positive and lasting change.’ She exhorts Mr. Ram’s family against believing a word ULFA says. I second that!

 

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[1] A poem by Mary Frye that has me thinking of Sanjoy.

A Life in Libraries

 

A Life in Libraries

Ajit Chaudhuri – May 2022

“It’s only words, and words are all I have, to take your heart away!”

 

I love libraries!! They are great places to mis-spend life in; offering solitude and quiet in a world in which these are increasingly becoming luxuries, and enabling the possibility of whiling away significant swathes of time in peace without the threat of eviction if you haven’t bought coffee or whatever. And (and this is a closely held secret), a fair sprinkling of the women you find within can be classified as glamorous (often in an understated way), and most of this number are intelligent, and that’s a heady combination even though, it has to be said, such women by definition have better things to do than reciprocate the interests of the likes of me.

The first library I remember was at my boarding school – a refuge in the otherwise cold and miserable place with a culture of bullying into which a small and meek kid could lose himself in a world of books. We had two library classes a week and could also borrow books and read them after dinner, and I devoured as many as I could in the 5 years I was there, coming away with one of two things that I am grateful to the school for – a need to have something to read with me, irrespective of genre, title, author and others’ opinions. Many journeys into unremarkable places in a life spent wandering around were survived thanks to the bag full of books I always carried.

College life was different – the action would migrate from the canteen to the library around end-January every year (exams were in April), with all us lechers and loafers following suit. It was the first time in the academic year that we would notice the studious girls, referred to as behanjis, and assess their potential. On one occasion, a girl got up from her table to drink water or whatever and we put a note in the next page of the open book that she was studying that read ‘if you want to you-know-what, raise your left hand; if you don’t, raise your right hand’. She came back, studied the page she was on, turned the page, read the note, and then did a glaring 360-degree look-around. None of us had the guts to raise our eyes from our books for the next ten minutes. On another, a friend of mine (now a respectably retired banker) procured truck-wallah-type kachha underpants for himself and someone bet him five bucks to do a tour of the library in them. Such was the value of money at the time that we both went to see a film on the proceeds, to-and-fro bus fares included.

I don’t remember my management institute’s library very well as a Masters’ student in the late 1980s, except for a basement that housed a computer (a VAX-VMS, for the pros among you, which was state of the art at the time) that I was among the few who could program. When I returned to the institute in 2011 for doctoral studies, I used the library extensively for hanging around, research and writing, and several academic papers emanate from that time. I also dealt with knowing that I would not complete my PhD – I was stone broke, and a forced return to the salt mines was imminent – by putting my research into a fictional setting; three months of writing sans distraction for ten hours a day, resulting in my first novel, “Pax Feminica”.

Another library that I remember well was the one at the LSE, where I underwent a mid-career course in leadership in 2001 – a large, glitzy place with a humongous collection of reading material; you just went to the librarian with what you wanted, and you were pointed towards it (and if it wasn’t available, the library was committed to obtaining it for you within 3 days). It even had a copy of the cult classic “Nomads and the Outside World”, Khazanov’s ethnographic description of pastoral nomadism in Soviet central Asia, that I had been looking for for years. It was only later, during a visit to the Bodleian Library in Oxford, that I questioned the value of such an approach – the Bodleian, believing that ‘what you want is likely to be somewhere near what you are looking for’, encouraged you to hang around and browse.

The last library on my list did not belong to a fancy institution, was not housed in a gigantic building, and did not have library staff – it was discovered while visiting a friend’s ancestral home in a village in coastal Karnataka (specifically Kukkila, South Canara district, near the town of Vittla) in 1991. The red-tiled bungalow in the middle of a mid-sized cashew plantation had a set of stairs leading somewhere, and I was informed upon enquiry that there was an attic upstairs that housed a library. Wow! I spent the remainder of my stay ensconced within, emerging only at mealtimes to sample his mother’s wonderful Canarese cooking when its whiff drifted upwards. ‘That’s what I want in life,’ I remember thinking at the time, ‘in addition to owning a football club that plays in the Champions League and to be an object of desire for an entire Miss World competition’s contingent – to have a dedicated space in my house for books, which I could retreat into for a little peace and quiet when I required it.’

My thinking on the professed ambitions has changed a bit in the thirty plus years that have passed, well, at least on the last one. I now want it to be something for myself and for local children from disadvantaged backgrounds – a safe and quiet space with lots of books, magazines and periodicals for them to read, where they can also do their homework and generally pass time. It was therefore with some distress that I gave away a significant proportion of my book collection while shifting home earlier this year, a collection dedicatedly developed via purchases, gifts and, last but not least, a policy of borrowing and not returning. Despite this, my library continues to be the only one of my professed ambitions with a realistic chance of being realized.

 

What is 'Tata-ness'?

 

What is ‘Tata-ness’?

By Ajit Chaudhuri – 1^st July 2021

 

Some years ago, I was in a discussion with a senior leader at Tata on the subject of ‘social capital’ when he described a phenomenon that had no obvious explanation – that most Tata companies are among the top three players in any business, industry or sector they are in despite pay being at the 60 to 70 percentile within that business, industry or sector. He used the word ‘Tata-ness’ as a possible cause, along with the observation that good people prefer a professional environment that does not grate with their value systems.

I have since come across this term occasionally, usually as an explanation for phenomena such as the above, and also as a slur (the worst pejorative within the group is an observation that a particular person or company lacks Tata-ness) and as a powerful argument to or not to follow a particular course of action.

Coming into the Tata group from academia, my curiosity was piqued. Here was a term that obviously had deep meaning to most of the group’s employees, and yet was not subject to definition or description to any degree of consistency. I remember asking my boss’s boss, a Tata insider who had spent many years as an EA to a longstanding Tata Chairman and who could expound with detail and enlightened insight on a multitude of subjects, on what ‘Tata-ness’ actually meant, and he hemmed and hawed before changing the subject on to supposedly more pressing matters.

Two factors helped sharpen my understanding. The first was the fact that I have since spent more time within the group (and, ahem, moved up the food chain), and the second was changes in the group’s senior leadership with some personnel being drafted in from outside the group and requiring articulation of reasons for following particular courses of action that had earlier been obvious to all (and therefore left unsaid).

So, what is ‘Tata-ness’? To me, it is the combination of three sets of things: behavioral norms, values, and guiding principles.

 

Behavioral Norms:

·         One doesn’t talk, and if one must talk one does so only after the work being talked about has been completed.

·         One plays oneself, and one’s organization down. Others should find out about you from your work and what others say about you.

·         One encourages realistic assessments from peers and subordinates and is not susceptible to flattery and/or the echo chamber syndrome.

·         One does not look to thrive in loopholes.

 

 

Values:

·         Hard work

·         Honesty

·         Punctuality

·         Order (as in the opposite of ‘chaos’)

·         Fulfillment of obligations

 

Guiding Principles:

·         Adherence to the Tata Code of Conduct in letter and spirit

·         ‘The Right Thing to Do’

 

A little more about this last – in Tata, an important factor in decisions regarding possible courses of action is that ‘this is the right thing to do’. Like ‘Tata-ness’, this means something to most Tata employees and, as a principle, is deeply ingrained within our DNA. But what does it actually mean?

There is light on this in Kant’s expositions on moral philosophy and his concept of a ‘categorical imperative’ or a rule of conduct that is unconditional and not dependent upon any desire or end (in Kant’s ‘Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals’, 1785).

The Right Thing to Do meets three conditions –

·         The reasons for doing it are unconnected to benefits for the do-er (and the doing company) or the decision maker – if anything, the course of action creates greater responsibilities, burdens, and tribulations for them.

·         It benefits people who do not have the ability to influence the do-er.

·         The world would be a better place if more (all?) people/companies took this path or adopted this method.

The Case for Retreat as DRR

 

THE CASE FOR RETREAT AS A FORM OF DISASTER RISK REDUCTION

Ajit Chaudhuri – 9^th October 2019

“Retreat, Hell! We just got here!”[1]

The term ‘retreat’ originates from military strategy and has negative connotations (as can be discerned from the quote above) – it is usually a prelude to defeat and a likely subsequent massacre. However, when undertaken in a strategic or planned manner, retreat can be used to serve positive objectives as well. Records suggest that retreat was first used as an offensive strategy by the Mongol armies of the 13^th century (who were masters at feigning disarray and inviting cavalry charges that drew enemies into locations of their, i.e. the Mongols’, choice), and most famously by the Tsarist army during the Napoleonic invasion of Russia in 1812 (letting the French reach the outskirts of Moscow before pouncing – of the 500,000 strong invading force that crossed into Russia in June, only 27,000 crossed back in December).

Thinking on disaster risk reduction (DRR), too, has a negative lens on retreat (or the resettlement of communities to pre-identified locations); it is seen as a last resort, as a one-time emergency action, and/or as a failure to adapt – often undertaken in an abrupt, ad hoc and inequitable manner that involves some level of human rights abuse and is unfair to renters and low-income house owners. DRR prefers to focus upon building resilience of vulnerable communities where they already are, so that they have the ability to withstand the hazards that come their way.

And yet, retreat has always been an adaptation option – there is little point in building resilience of communities in areas that are prone to avalanches or landslides, for example, because no amount of resilience is sufficient protection in the face of certain hazards. And people in hazard prone areas usually look to move themselves and their assets out of harm’s way, more so nowadays with global warming, rising sea levels, and climate related extremes. Those with fewer resources have fewer options to address such risks; they are unable to return, or to rebuild more resiliently; some may feel forced into retreating; conversely, some may be unable to afford to move, and feel therefore trapped in a hazardous location. People staying in contexts of informal settings or insecure land tenures can be particularly affected.

Due to some of these reasons, retreat is often undertaken after an unfortunate event, and usually in some distress. The author happened to pass Malpa in 2014 (a Himalayan village along the Kailash Mansarovar Yatra that lost 221 people and its entire housing stock in a landslide in 1998), an eerie ghost village whose surviving residents had resettled in safer locations. While hindsight is always 20/20, the case for retreat was blindingly obvious given the steep, almost vertical, slopes of rock above the location, the proximity of the rock mass to major (and unstable) tectonic plates, and the heavy rainfall that ensured water seepage into the porous rock.

 

Retreat as a form of adaptation has attracted little research, and there is therefore limited guidance for administrators and DRR practitioners on using it for more than the physical removal of people and infrastructure. There is also limited focus on the social, cultural, psychological and long-term economic consequences for those retreating, those remaining, and those receiving the retreating communities.

It is therefore refreshing to find a recent academic paper[2] that reconceptualizes retreat as a positive DRR option enabling achievement of societal goals and letting communities choose actions most likely to help them thrive. It recognizes that retreat is hard to do (and even harder to do well) due to issues such as place attachment, a preference for status quo, imperfect risk perceptions, inter alia, and suggests that a strategic, managed retreat could be an efficient and equitable adaptation option.

On the strategic front, the paper suggests that a retreat should not be a goal but a means of contributing to a societal goal (such as economic development, environmental conservation, etc.), and should be larger than a group of individual households relocating for their own benefit in that it is coordinated across jurisdictions, involves multiple stakeholders, addresses multiple hazards and risks at both origin and destination sites, and integrates into planning for economic, social and environmental goals. It should also be forward looking and responsive to economic opportunities, market forces and demographic changes. Policy makers need to identify why a retreat should occur and influence the ‘when’ and ‘where’ of it.

Management of a retreat addresses how it is executed. To enable it to be equitable and efficient, there is a need to a) understand and address barriers – especially those in the form of institutional silos within government agencies and financial constraints, b) develop tools to identify residents who want to retreat and require assistance, and c) have communication strategies that engage reluctant residents.

There are several issues that complicate retreat and incentivize living in risky locales – fishing communities on India’s eastern coast, for example, are constantly battered by cyclones, but any attempt to move them to safer locales inland has to counter the suspicion that the administration is acting at the behest of the tourism and prawn cultivation lobbies that are always looking to occupy sea front areas. There is therefore a need to develop and disseminate high quality hazard maps that enable market prices to capture risk and help communities make informed choices.

There is much to be done before retreat is repositioned as a positive DRR option, despite the limitations of ‘build back better’ and other strategies that look to win against nature[3]. Evaluation of retreat outcomes, and recommendations for suitable and context specific policies and practices, are scarce. Key research gaps need to be addressed, and deployments in practice require testing and refinement. But first steps have been taken, and there is growing recognition that sometimes retreating from nature instead of fighting it can open new opportunities for communities.

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[1] Exclaimed by a US Marine during World War I when advised to withdraw from his position.

[2] Siders AR, Hino M and Mach KJ; ‘The Case of Strategic and Managed Climate Retreat’; Science Vol. 365 Issue 6455 pp 761-763; 23 August 2019

[3] Pierre-Louis, K; “How to Rebound After a Disaster: Move, Don’t Rebuild, Research Suggests”; NYT issue of 22 August 2019; accessed on 23 August 2019.