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Territories and Frontiers: Exclusionary inclusion of women in grassroots governance in Arunachal Pradesh, India

Deepak K. Mishra and Aparimita Mishra¹

The participation of women in grassroots governance through the special reservation of seats in local body elections was expected to be a major step towards gender empowerment in India (Nassbaum et al. 2003). The outcomes of this intervention have been found to be regionally uneven and contingent on a variety of enabling factors (Kudva 2003; Jayal 2006). Despite the significant challenges elected women representatives faced initially, in many instances, they tried to reduce corruption, pursued an independent vision and felt empowered (Kudva 2003). Many studies also documented the limitations of empowerment through participation in grassroots governance and, while highlighting the diversity of experiences of women from different socioeconomic backgrounds, called for supportive changes in governance and wider sociopolitical structures (Mohanty 1995; Devika and Thampi 2012). Caste and class differences among women limited the scope of gender solidarity (Vyasulu and Vyasulu 1999) and women from marginalised social groups faced additional constraints (Chatterjee 2010). The ‘frequent derailing of local democracy by social inequality’ (Drèze and Sen 2002: 17) meant that the context of the marginalised group’s interactions with the local power structures is critical. This chapter presents the case of Arunachal Pradesh, where participation in grassroots governance has created a ‘new political space’ for women from tribal communities. While the state is well known for its long-enduring community institutions at the village level, women were marginalised in both the ‘traditional’ and ‘modern’ institutional spaces.

First, the chapter examines how women’s economic and political rights are being reconfigured against the backdrop of rapid and complex institutional transformation involving state, market and community institutions. The specificities of a borderland are key constitutive elements in this uneven and layered transition. Second, by analysing the day-to-day negotiations of women Panchayat (municipality and village council) representatives through multiple rounds of field surveys, we argue that in the context of an ethnicised political economy that has entrenched a framework of ethnic political patronage, and inadequate devolution of financial powers to the Panchayati Raj institutions (PRIs),² women’s participation through legislative change can be seen as a form of ‘exclusionary inclusion’.³ Finally, the chapter argues that the multipronged struggles of women representatives in Arunachal Pradesh provide a useful starting point to reconceptualise grassroots political space as a contested domain in which structural inequalities of various kinds are challenged, even when the overwhelming dominance of ethnic politics is rarely questioned. The chapter attempts to demonstrate the blurred boundaries between the state, market and community institutions in understanding the processes that empower and disempower women.

This study is based on multiple rounds of field surveys in West Kameng District, Arunachal Pradesh, conducted in 2010, 2015–16 and 2019. The selection of the PRI representatives was made to represent the well-connected and remote areas of the district. In the initial round of the field survey, 20 Panchayati Raj (PR) representatives (14 women and six men) and 15 bureaucrats and government officials were interviewed. Among the women PRI members, one Zilla Parishad (‘district council’) member, four Anchal Samiti (‘zonal committee’) members and nine Gram Panchayat (‘village council’) members (GPM) were interviewed.⁴ An additional 105 individuals from the three selected villages were interviewed to learn about their perceptions of Panchayati Raj institutions and representatives. Three villages in the West Kameng District were selected. One was a newly settled, multi-ethnic village; the second was an old village where most of the inhabitants were Monpa, the numerically dominant tribe of the district; while in the third village, the Bugun tribe dominated. During the study, the three-tier system was changed to a two-tier PR system. In subsequent rounds, an attempt was made to contact the same PRI members (irrespective of their current position), and it was supplemented by informal discussions with new PRI members. During 2022–23, we continued these interactions through telephone interviews.⁵

With our early training as economists, both authors have investigated multiple dimensions of economic development in Arunachal Pradesh from a broad political economy perspective. In the previous rounds of our field research, we focused on agrarian change and livelihood diversification (for the first author) and the impact of deforestation on women’s work burden (for the second author). One of the insights from this work was that compared with other dimensions of social and economic life, the gender gap in political participation is relatively high in the state, which prompted us to undertake this current research. We moved from our quantitative, structured, questionnaire-based field research to a qualitative approach. Having spent nearly nine years in the state during the late 1990s and early 2000s, four of which were spent in West Kameng, the district under study, we had developed a network of friends and acquaintances in the area. Through these, we made initial contact with the respondents, which helped establish a level of trust. In the multi-ethnic social context of Arunachal Pradesh, the distinction between ethnic communities Indigenous to the state (officially known as Arunachal Pradesh Scheduled Tribes) and outsiders (those who have come from other states of India) is stark. Still, such differences do not normally lead to hostile attitudes. Thus, our identities as outsiders were known to our respondents. The other identity of the authors, as the ‘educated folk’ who know of official processes and rules and who have ‘come all the way from Delhi’, the national capital, was also mentioned and commented upon a few times during our interactions. While there is a possibility that these distinctions influenced some of the responses, we believe that the impact on the key findings of our research was minimal.

The political economy of ethnicised development

Arunachal Pradesh, in north-eastern India, borders Bhutan, China, Myanmar and the Indian states of Assam and Nagaland. Known as the North-Eastern Frontier Agency (NEFA) until 1972, the state has been the site of a border dispute between China and India. Recent studies on  the political economy of development in the state refer to its many specificities that have had a decisive influence on its polity and economy. The first set of such specificities includes the mountain ecology of this large Himalayan state, which is often expressed through its ecological diversity and fragility; the limited scope and high cost of much industrialisation and economic diversification because of its topography; and its perceived and actual ‘remoteness’, leading to its political and economic marginalisation (Jodha 1992).

The second set of specificities emerges from the encounters of the region with the colonial and postcolonial states. Present-day Arunachal Pradesh was ‘unadministered’ during the colonial period; it was treated as a buffer zone between an external and inner line demarcating borders. The colonial state restricted movements beyond the inner line—a practice that has continued with minor alterations. An important implication of this colonial legacy was that unlike in other parts of the country, here, the postcolonial Indian state had to build the administrative and political infrastructure from scratch. The Indian state followed a gradualist approach towards developing its bureaucratic infrastructure in this sensitive border area, partly under the influence of anthropologist Verrier Elwin, who was appointed by Jawaharlal Nehru, India’s first prime minister, as an advisor on the NEFA. The ‘Nehru–Elwin’ policy guarded against sudden and massive changes imposed from above and advocated the integration of the Indigenous community institutions into the formal governance structures (Elwin 1988). This helped the state to gain legitimacy among the Indigenous population, but the policy was criticised as ‘isolationist’, particularly after the Sino-Indian War in 1962 (Haokip 2010). Yet, the recognition of village-level community institutions, oral community laws and community rights over land, even though done in an ad hoc and ambiguous manner, was a significant development, particularly when compared with the tribal-dominated areas of central and eastern India.

The Indigenous community institutions of Arunachal Pradesh were diverse, ranging from chieftainship to loosely republican structures. Though termed ‘traditional’, many of these institutions carried the legacy of colonial interventions. These administrative innovations meant incorporating tribal elites into the ‘new’ governance structures and reconfiguring the roles of community institutions under the new, postcolonial dispensation. The diverse and uncodified community laws, customs and norms significantly impacted the gendered transformation of the economy and society.⁶ In political economy terms, it meant that the state emerged as the prime mover of economic transformation, virtually establishing ‘markets’ for goods, services and labour, both in the physical and the economic senses, in a remote region. The resultant institutional political economy resulted in the co-evolution of state, market and community institutions—something that continues to shape the development trajectory and capitalist transition in the state (Harriss-White et al. 2009, 2022), with profound implications for gender disparities and other forms of inequality.

The third set of specificities are those of a borderland. In a profound sense, the redrawing of boundaries by the ‘modern’ postcolonial state changed the spatial economy of the region, where the movements of people, goods, domesticated animals, crafts and cultures had a much longer and more vibrant history than that suggested by relatively recent narratives of isolation and remoteness from the (new) centres of power (Misra 2013; Cederlöf 2013: 3–6). The new administrative, political and economic architecture of present-day Arunachal Pradesh, with international borders with three different countries, was anchored to security concerns (Mishra 2013). At a general level, the political and economic governance of the region often invoke the logic of exceptionalism, which is premised on the uniqueness of being and governing a borderland.

Partly because of these developments, a durable structure of ethnicised governance has emerged in the state (Harriss-White et al. 2009), in which competition, concessions and collaborations among tribal communities replace the principles of civic governance (Baruah 2003b). Outsiders cannot own land, immovable property and business establishments in the state. Labour from other states of India cannot move into Arunachal without securing an Inner Line Permit (Harriss-White et al. 2017). However, migration of outside labour has continued, and this has been a cause of concern for the state’s Indigenous communities.

Despite the low productive base of the economy, capitalism has made inroads into the region, leading to a limited and uneven differentiation of the peasantry, a massive inflow of consumer goods and rising economic inequality. The emergence of a new class of elites from among the educated professionals, government officers, politicians and businessperson/‘contractors’ class has sharpened ethnic competition. Rental income is extracted from agricultural land, residential and commercial buildings by renting business licences to others and through private extraction from state and common properties (Harriss-White et al. 2009, 2017, 2022). The state remains the most important sector of the economy.⁷ Hence, access to the state’s resources is central to the accumulation strategies of the elites. Political patronage through personalised ethnic networks is the primary process through which ethnic politics is articulated. A significant aspect of ethnicised governance is competition and collaboration among the elites claiming to represent their communities to access state power and its resources, which, in turn, has established ethnic patronage networks. To the extent that women were absent or marginalised in these structures of accumulation and patronage, they remain marginal in this new economic and political order.

In the neoliberal phase (since the early 1990s), emphasis on big-ticket development projects, including transport and communications infrastructure, mining and hydropower projects and public–private partnerships, has increased substantially.⁸ Grassroots politics and the entry of women into political governance at the lowest level, discussed in the subsequent sections, must be viewed in the broader context described in this section.

The rapid transformation of the economy has been a gendered process. The informal but pervasive process of transition from collective to private property has often meant that women peasants, who were active participants in the traditional jhum (‘shifting’) cultivation, are being turned into a class of ‘disinherited peasants’ (Krishna 2005). As forest products are being commercialised, women, despite spending much time collecting forest products, for both domestic and commercial use, are being pushed out of the marketing process. The occupational structure of the state has changed with greater significance placed on the services sector. Still, women with relatively lower levels of educational attainment tend to be concentrated in agriculture and allied activities, as well as the lower rungs of government jobs (Planning Commission 2009). Given the context of ethnic competition and intratribal conflicts and contestations, the issue of gender rights is often pushed onto the backburner. Against the backdrop of land acquisition for neoliberal development projects, the government has enacted new laws partially recognising private property rights over land, but the rights of women over land have not yet been recognised.

Women in grassroots governance

In Arunachal Pradesh, the experimentation with grassroots democracy had a different and unique trajectory compared with other states of India. Self-governed community institutions for natural resource management and conflict resolution had a long history in Arunachal Pradesh (Elwin 1965). In line with the Nehru–Elwin policy towards tribal development, the Indigenous institutions of the tribes, called village councils, were treated as legitimate structures of grassroots governance in the early post-independence period. Panchayati Raj, or decentralised governance structures, were formalised through the implementation of the Panchayati Raj Regulations in 1967 (Luthra 1971). When a need for local representation in governance was felt, an agency council was created by nominating members from the village councils to the apex body. Only at a later stage were members of the legislative assembly elected. A new phase of decentralisation was introduced through the Arunachal Pradesh Panchayat Raj Act 1997.

The seventy-third and seventy-fourth amendments to the Indian Constitution in 1992 paved the way for establishing a three-tier Panchayati Raj system in India. These amendments had provisions for the reservation of 33 per cent of seats for women, along with similar reservations for marginalised social groups, constitutionally identified as Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes.⁹ After some delay, the Panchayati Raj system based on the universal adult franchise was introduced in the state, providing 33 per cent reservations for women candidates. The new system, however, did not completely replace ‘traditional’ community institutions.¹⁰ Separation of functions among the two kinds of institutions was envisaged—that is, community institutions for conflict resolution and Panchayats for developmental activities. However, in practice, this distinction was fuzzy. The reservation for women candidates was a genuine watershed in the state’s politics, as it was in the rest of India. However, the devolution of financial and administrative power to the grassroots was not as significant as desired. A report on decentralisation in Indian states in 2015–16 placed Arunachal Pradesh as one of the worst performers (Government of India 2016). There has been some devolution of functions to the Panchayats but, without adequate devolution of financial power, it has resulted in little scope for decision-making at the grassroots level.

While looking for possible outcomes of the selective inclusion of women in the structures of grassroots governance, it is important to note the overall context of decentralisation. Democratic decentralisation is supposed to work through a process of greater autonomy for the lower rungs of the governance mechanisms and their democratic functioning. The reality of the devolution of power to the Panchayats in Arunachal Pradesh and many other parts of India is better described as a process of institutional decentralisation without effective autonomy, financial devolution or decision-making power. From the point of view of the Panchayat representatives, their main task is to implement programs. These programs are designed at the top, with stringent guidelines, and are often executed under the supervision of the district-level administration. A special discretionary grant called Local Area Development (LAD) funds, earmarked for MPs¹¹ and Members of the Legislative Assembly (MLAs), was the other source of funding available to the Panchayats. Insofar as the Panchayats depend on the goodwill of the MPs or MLAs of the area for fund mobilisation, decentralisation strengthened politicians’ hold on local governance. The elected representatives, particularly the MLAs, represent not just their constituencies but also their tribes. Therefore, grassroots politics remains embedded in the ethnic politics we have already outlined. We do not, however, imply that Panchayat politics is simply a derivative of politics at the upper levels.

Panchayat elections are fought with great enthusiasm in the state. Given the small size of the electorate and the low population density of the state (16 people per square kilometre in 2011), Panchayat elections are personalised affairs. Candidates from different national and regional political parties contest elections with their respective party symbols. Yet, a noticeable tendency is the share of posts that go uncontested (Mishra and Mishra 2016), most of which go to candidates aligning with the ruling party in the state. The phenomenon of winning without contests generally results from the ruling parties’ overwhelming political and economic dominance. However, the culture of consensus-building found in the community institutions and bargaining among the prospective candidates also play a role. Ethnic considerations are more important for local body elections than for the assembly or the parliament. Panchayat elections are seen as contests between clans and not between individual candidates (Bath 2021: 201). These elections are ‘costly’ from the candidates’ perspective.

The hilly, tribal-dominated states of north-eastern India have consistently performed better than the more populous states on indicators of women’s empowerment and gender equality (Kishor and Gupta 2004; Singh et al. 2021). In comparison with the region’s neighbouring states, which also have a high share of the tribal population, Arunachal Pradesh has an unimpressive performance. Women do not have inheritance rights over land and other immovable property among any of the tribes (Mishra and Upadhyay 2012). They were excluded from ‘traditional’ community institutions. Women’s political marginalisation has continued. At the state level, the share of women members in the legislative assembly has never exceeded 6 per cent. As far as the state’s representation in the national parliament is concerned, none of the elected members has been a woman. Against this backdrop, the emergence of women leaders at the bottom, through the reservation system, was a watershed.

Most female PRI members are from ‘political’ families—that is, those with a history of other, typically male, members holding public office or being active in political parties. In multi-ethnic areas, these families are most likely from the numerically dominant tribes. They are the relatives of gaon burahs¹² (‘village chiefs’), former members of the PRIs, local politicians or government officials, and are viewed as ‘proxy’ candidates representing their male relatives.

As one of our respondents confided, it was her family who took the decision to register her as a candidate when they found out that the seat had been reserved for women. She was elected unopposed. During the entire period, she was in Bhutan for her business selling craft products. Many women said they were hesitant to nominate, primarily because of their unfamiliarity with bureaucratic procedures. ‘I did not want to contest, as I had no experience’ was the initial reaction of many women Panchayat representatives. The only exceptions were the relatively young and educated women from established political families, who were happy to join public life as PRI members. This pattern of ‘proxy’ candidates has been noticed in the early phase in most Indian states. However, studies also note the increasing assertiveness of women members once their participation becomes the norm (Mohanty and Das 2022).

Politics in Arunachal Pradesh has a distinctly regional character. Politicians depend more on personalised patronage, informal transactions and contacts through family, clan and community networks than on impersonal mobilisations such as large rallies, although the latter are organised during elections for the assembly and the parliament. Patronage networks that operate through ethnic and clan connections are a noticeable feature of politics. National and regional political parties are, consequently, less significant than political leaders and their networks. Women representatives understand this and opt for strategies to be part of a network of patronage rather than challenging the structure. Given that they are new entrants trying to negotiate the established but fluid institutional matrix of local ethnic patronage, it is hardly surprising that women PRI members also depend on the resources of their family and relatives.

Inclusion does not necessarily imply equality of opportunities. Inclusive policies are often portrayed as a solution to social exclusion but may better be conceived as the first step towards social inclusion. Exclusionary inclusion is a process whereby inclusion in one dimension or of one kind coexists with exclusion of a different type. Women’s formal inclusion in decision-making, for example, does not result in their effective participation when patriarchal social norms restrict their ability to play leadership roles in the public sphere. At times, inclusion is premised on such grounds that it simultaneously results in exclusion. For example, women’s participation in the Panchayats is embedded within the overall framework of ethnicised patronage, limiting their control over the outcomes. In a more substantive sense, inclusion might mean entry without the preconditions or opportunity for effective participation or the power to set the agenda or alter the outcomes. Scholars of inclusive policies typically point to the limitations that arise from structural constraints that differentiate the conditions of participation among those included (Raju 2005; Jayal 2006; Chatterjee 2010). The specific intersections of caste, class, religion and gender might lead to quite differentiated outcomes. Exclusion might result from systematic biases that mere inclusion cannot address. In other words, exclusionary practices could be higher-order determinants external to the practices of inclusion. Often, exclusion from state or governance structures is seen as a form of powerlessness that may be the cause of many other types of exclusion.

Women’s participation in grassroots democracy could address several deficiencies—some because of the advantages of decentralised governance itself and others because of the participation of women, a previously marginalised group, in decision-making. There are interconnections between these two processes as well; precisely because grassroots governance is more personalised, localised and informal, it allows women to draw on their social and familial connections, their intimate knowledge of the local environment and the economic conditions of different households and individuals to participate in the decision-making process. During our focus group discussions with women voters, repeated references were made to the perceived ‘personal characteristics’ of the women representatives, such as their being friendly, accessible, fun-loving or otherwise. One of our respondents, when asked whether she could communicate her grievances to the woman representative from her village, said: ‘I don’t know about meetings. I don’t go there. But I know her [the PRI representative] well. We meet at her home. We talk a lot about all sorts of things. She knows all about my problems.’

Gram sabha, the village-level meetings that are supposed to be held regularly, rarely occur. Even when they do, few women participate or raise questions. Villagers, particularly women voters, referred to informal meetings and casual chats during social and religious functions as occasions when they share their concerns with women representatives. Thus, the ordinary women (and men) of the village do not necessarily see their absence or exclusion from formal meetings as a serious hindrance. This can also be seen as an alternative, less visible sphere of politics, where women build informal support networks through everyday interactions and transactions. Such engagements transcend the binaries of public and private spheres and those of formal and informal institutional rules.

The ‘informality’, however, may be part of a shared notion of hierarchy that structures the interactions. Descriptions such as ‘fixers’ (Berenschot 2010), intermediaries in transactional politics, malkins (‘landladies’) aggressively creating their support networks (Bedi 2016) or ‘servants/naukaranis of the ward’ (Jakimow 2019) can not be used unproblematically to describe the position of the women representatives whom we interviewed. The selection of beneficiaries for different government schemes is made informally in meetings in which gaon burahs, other influential male elders or local politicians are present. Informality, of course, is premised on notions of a shared community space, with its own circles of exclusion and inclusion. Such an approach sometimes is a practical necessity.

Although the selection of beneficiaries, as per the official procedures, is the responsibility of the elected PRI representative, consultations with the village elders and the gaon burahs help minimise conflicts. In a context in which property rights are not well defined, any alterations to land use, such as the construction of a community hall or boundary wall, can potentially lead to conflict. Another source of conflict arises when the community owns the resource (such as land), but the schemes (such as horticulture development) can be implemented only through individual beneficiaries. For example, if the scheme involves allocation or modification of land, or even construction of a boundary wall or concrete steps, as per community norms, it requires the consent of the gaon burah.

Most representatives, however, see this as ‘an exercise in consensus-building’ so that the traditional village institutions and the Panchayati Raj can work together. ‘Sab ko saath leke chalna hai’ (‘we need to take everybody along’) was a common refrain among representatives. Describing her role in the selection of beneficiaries, a woman Panchayat member said:

In the village, there are all kinds of people. If I select any one person for the scheme, others will object. I cannot satisfy everyone. It is a headache for me. So, I talk to the gaon burah, and other people. I try to take everyone along. That helps.

At times, this has meant that the female representatives also follow the traditional hierarchies built into the community institutions. Newly settled households, households belonging to neighbouring tribal groups, women married outside the community and migrants often receive less priority in a graded and differentiated manner. In this way, the hierarchical membership structure of the community is extended to the domain of welfare governance. This does not, however, mean that such people are excluded from the general welfare schemes (such as primary education and health care), though they might face differential treatment in those that involve selection of a limited number of beneficiaries (Mishra 2018).

The ‘non-tribal population’, most of whom are daily wage labourers, tenants and shopkeepers, are not seen as part of the ‘local’ population or ‘villagers’. They are rarely selected as beneficiaries of the schemes implemented by the Panchayats. Most of the representatives whom we interviewed did not realise or accept that this was a form of exclusion. Rather, they saw it as an acceptable part of the ‘boundary rules’ that define the ‘community’. ‘The schemes are not for the outsiders,’ one of our respondents stated. The inclusion of a section of the marginalised, of course, does not automatically lead to the inclusion of other marginalised sections. But the systematic exclusion of the poor and disadvantaged among the non-tribal population is a characteristic of the broader ethnicised politics of the state rather than an exclusive feature of grassroots politics.

Several initiatives over the past decades to train women PRI members have been launched by government agencies such as the State Institute of Rural Development and Panchayati Raj and various NGOs. In parallel, self-help groups have been formed and entrepreneurship among women has been promoted.¹³ Independent women’s organisations, such as the Arunachal Pradesh Women’s Welfare Society (APWWS 2016), have pointed out that the ‘customary practices … related to women and children are in conflict with modern laws’ and, hence, codification of customary laws is necessary, with suitable modifications wherever these are in conflict with the welfare of women and children. Apart from that, there are demands for reservation of seats for women in the legislative assembly and parliamentary elections, repeal of the Armed Forces Special Power Act, which has been in force in parts of the state, and the establishment of a state human rights commission (APWWS n.d.). In the past, the APWWS has successfully campaigned against a bill that sought to legalise customary laws that were perceived to be against women’s interests (Ete 1996). Despite their marginalisation in the state’s politics, women’s organisations are trying hard to create a space within civil society. However, insights from our field survey suggest that the connection between Panchayati Raj institutions and the wider political mobilisation of women remains weak. Also, the space that has been created for women Panchayat representatives, on the one hand, allows them to enter a hitherto inaccessible space and includes them in the governance process, but the terms of engagement, shaped through the mutually reinforcing interactions of the state, market and community institutions, leave them very little room to challenge the entrenched patriarchal bias.

Redefining territories, negotiating boundaries

Women representatives experience borders as they cross frontiers to move into public life. ‘Public life’ and the rules of engagement that shape their interactions with others are defined through institutional frameworks, bureaucratic procedures, rules and guidelines and the local cultures of public engagement. They are sometimes treated as ‘special invitees’—participants who have come through a special provision—as a deviation of some kind. It is important to note here that reservations in jobs, government supply orders and business licences for the Arunachal Pradesh Scheduled Tribes are widely seen as a legitimate administrative mechanism to safeguard the interests of the local population. Even when reservation as a mechanism for social inclusion is accepted in principle, doubts are expressed about the efficacy of reservation for women in the PRIs. A senior district-level officer articulated his disapproval in clear terms: ‘Reservation is good for women. But actual participation is low because of the low literacy rate of women. The reservation policy is rather spoiling the situation.’

Women’s ability to perform their duties is questioned by officers, co-workers and occasionally by the female PRIs themselves. At times they are treated kindly but in a patronising way. ‘My two fellow female GPMs are illiterate. I work on their behalf. They remain present, but their presence hardly matters,’ said a male Gram Panchayat chairperson (emphasis added). He was convinced that women representatives do not have the agency to make a difference of any kind. Such negative perceptions about the ability of the women representatives—shared by the officials in the local administration, political activists, villagers and even by some elected male representatives—have the potential to become self-fulfilling prophecies. The biased attitude against women representatives creates significant barriers for them, which ultimately result in their being less effective (Mishra and Mishra 2016).

In our conversations with women representatives, the unwelcoming attitudes of the offices and officers and discomfort around meetings and interactions were often mentioned. They are made deeply aware that while moving from the private to the public spheres, they are moving into a different territory—not entirely unfamiliar and hostile, but potentially challenging.

The educational attainment of the women representatives makes a huge difference in the way they negotiate such ‘border-crossing’. Educated Panchayat representatives felt that others respected them. Women in Arunachal Pradesh, as in many other states of the north-eastern region, are visible in the marketplaces as entrepreneurs, particularly engaged in petty trading. Increasingly, they are also present in government offices, mostly at the bottom of the job hierarchy. A familiar face from the village, an officer from one’s own tribe speaking their language or the presence of male relatives could be significant markers of reassurance in these difficult transactions. When asked about her difficulties in negotiating the official procedures, a female Panchayat Samiti member said:

I was a little scared when I visited the DC office at Bomdila. Then I met Pema. She works in that office. She took me to the bara babu [head clerk] and asked him to help me. It was difficult initially. It was easy for me after some years when Sangey was posted as an officer in the same office. I have known him and his family for a long time. He also helped. Later, even others would approach me to get their files moved.

The institutional context of these interactions demands adherence to certain rituals, hierarchies and segregated roles and functions, performative obligations and temporality of certain kinds (namely, at group or one-to-one meetings or training sessions at specific hours). These mark the office setting as a different territory from life at home or in the village. These repeated meetings with the concerned line departments, officers at various levels in the administrative hierarchy, ritualised adherence to bureaucratic norms (seating arrangements, the order and manner in which one is to speak and the numbers and other information that are exchanged) and the primacy of the written word (annual operating plans, sanction letters, lists, reports, forms) over conversations act as the insignia of this new territory. We do not wish to imply that informality, laughter and intimacy are entirely absent from this space. Still, the underlying power relations of the office are too explicit and important to miss. It is here that women representatives face their gravest challenge. In sharp contrast to the opinions of those around them, women representatives do not see themselves as incompetent. They complain of unfamiliarity with the procedures as the reason behind their difficulties. Many of them, while articulating the problems that they face in dealing with the procedures, also talked about their learning, progress and strategies to negotiate this (partially) unfamiliar territory. A middle-aged Gram Panchayat member said:

It is not an easy job. They [the officers] tell us about many rules. ‘You cannot do this.’ ‘This is not allowed.’ ‘[The] Bill will not be passed if you do this.’ I had no previous experience of all these things. I take help from others. My husband and other Gram Panchayat members help me with the paperwork. I even went to a training program.

While acknowledging the help of the male Anchal Samiti member in visiting the subdivisional headquarters, a female member added: ‘But in the village, I do not work under anybody’s pressure. I perform my duties on my own.’ A young, educated PR representative, who claimed she helped other women representatives complete paperwork, said ‘they are gradually learning’. A female Anchal Samiti member described how she overcame the difficulties of having money sanctioned for a project:

My village had no steps to reach the Gompa [monastery], situated at the hilltop. Villagers were facing difficulties in reaching the Gompa. They were demanding funds to construct concrete steps. The Panchayat finally got the funds to construct the steps, but it was used for personal expenses by the leaders at that time. So, when we approached the block officer, he refused to sanction any money for the same purpose. We kept on trying. After repeated attempts, finally, money was sanctioned under another scheme. All the members of the Gram Panchayat agreed, and we could build the steps and a boundary wall for the school.

She described as an accomplishment the fact that she could bend the rules by diverting funds from another program to build the steps.

The formal bureaucratic space may be unfamiliar to the women representatives, but they were not alone. Their male relatives and friends were there with them to guide and supervise them and to speak on their behalf. In our observations during such interactions, we did notice that officers and superiors also recognised these informal practices, such as the presence of relatives and others in formal meetings, as part of routine office culture.

The spatial context of these interactions is an important dimension, particularly in a sparsely populated mountain context with unreliable public transport:

I cannot manage to reach the meetings at Bomdila [district headquarters] or Dirang [subdivisional headquarters] without someone’s help. If I have to visit more than one office, I need someone with a car or a two-wheeler to be with me. Mostly it is my husband who takes me to the meetings.

The people accompanying them also become part of the conversations, transactions and negotiations. ‘In winter, finishing the work and returning home is challenging. If I cannot finish the work, I stay with my sister-in-law. At times, I bring my kids with me.’ Those members who stayed near the administrative centres did not face such problems, but for others, time and transport posed significant challenges.

The notion of spaces and boundaries entered our conversations in other contexts as well. The moral economy of the villages and communities does not correspond to the administrative divisions of space and its moral and ethical underpinnings. This is a difficult negotiation for the PRI representatives, both male and female. To perform their duties and obligations, as representatives of a formalised institutional structure as well as people’s political leaders at the grassroots, PRI representatives must be mindful of any transgressions on their part pertaining to two very different moral constructs.

The gaon burah and the community institutions do not represent just an alternative form of authority; they are also seen as custodians of tradition, customs and social norms. Such ‘traditional’ community norms are, of course, at times subject to negotiation. There is an inbuilt flexibility to the structures of the traditional institutions that opens scope for women to ‘manoeuvre, re-invent and transform received forms of power and prestige’ (Taylor 2009: 316). Women representatives are both part of these social norms as members of the community and outsiders in the sense of their unconventional role as leaders and representatives of an external, more powerful authority. Not many women representatives see this conflict as a critical one, perhaps because they come from the families who control the village-level community institutions. But almost all representatives emphasised the need to ‘take everybody along’ for ‘getting the work done’. We found that in a few cases, the village elders are the ones who make the decisions even in the absence of women representatives. By and large, women representatives consult with gaon burahs and others, and they try to build a consensus that is mindful of the borders that divide the ‘community’ and the ‘others’. They respect the hierarchical order within the community. They must also be mindful of the official rules, selection criteria for projects and beneficiaries, budget limits and other similar stipulations.

Criss-crossing both these spaces are the supporters of the political leaders and those who represent local MLAs and others. This is, generally, a transactional space in which patronage is distributed through open and concealed transfers, and loyalty is expected and displayed. The larger framework may be one of ethnic politics discussed before, but in day-to-day negotiations, many other factors count, such as the social prestige, political connections and economic position of the individuals and households concerned. The implication for grassroots politics is that supporters of the MLAs and politicians who control the flow of funds interfere in the activities of the Panchayats. Sometimes women representatives welcome such ‘interference’, which provides scope for them to negotiate with and be members of the local political elite. As one of the representatives said: ‘I now know all the leaders, even the honourable MLA personally. I am invited to meetings. I go there and ask for more funds. If I face any problems, I call them.’ At times, they feel that they are not being allowed to perform their duties because of such ‘pressures’. Both male and female Panchayat members mentioned one of their challenges was balancing the demands of the villagers with those of the leaders who are close to the MLA.

Another significant aspect was the boundary between the domestic and the public spheres. Most women representatives talked about the challenge of managing their domestic responsibilities as well as the demands of their public life. All women representatives who have young children raised the issue of their domestic work burden. Regular meetings, visits to offices and supervision of projects mean extra demands on top of their domestic care burden. Support from husbands and in-laws is considered crucial.¹⁴ In particular, the support of other women (relatives, occasionally paid domestic help) in the household was a critical element of support.

Does this opportunity to step into the ‘public’ sphere create the scope to change the life trajectories of women representatives by preparing them for a larger role in public life? Almost all women representatives saw their selection as a significant step, but the possibility of continuing with their career as politicians, according to the representatives, depended on many other factors. The young, educated women from politically well-connected families were clearly hoping to be in public life for longer periods. After interviewing one such woman seven years ago, we contacted her again recently and she said she is now active in a local NGO. Although her chances of gaining a party ticket in the legislative assembly elections are negligible, she thinks she has a ‘future in politics/social service’. However, others were not equally enthusiastic about their political careers. Sonam, a 48-year-old woman who was once elected unopposed as a Panchayat member, is currently busy with her shop selling handicrafts to tourists. The rotation of reserved seats meant that the same seat was not reserved for women in subsequent rounds. Thus, she was no longer involved in politics of any kind: ‘It [politics] is demanding and very time-consuming. I am happy with my business.’ Yet others have continued with their public engagements. ‘I am no longer a member. Still, I am called to the meetings by the honourable MLA. I go to these meetings. Sometimes, people come to me for help, and I try to help them as much as I can,’ said another woman. While entry to politics through the reservation system has opened political space for some women, their continuation and rise within the political structures are contingent on a range of factors.

Concluding observations

The participation of women in the PRIs was a watershed in the politics of Arunachal Pradesh. Undoubtedly, it was an intervention from above and it did create a rupture in the traditional norms of the communities. Notwithstanding the initial reservations about the participation of women in grassroots politics, the reservation system has created a new space hitherto unavailable for women. However, women representatives who have been formally included in the Panchayati Raj institutions face several constraints on effectively performing their role as PRI functionaries. We have termed this ‘exclusionary inclusion’ because the terms of inclusion, structured through everyday bureaucratic and formal practices and gendered norms of the community, limit their effective participation and control over decision-making.

In this chapter, we have documented the strategic choices of women representatives in different spaces through their reliance on family and community networks to facilitate their role as representatives, the choice of consensus-building and alliance through informal arrangements with the existing power structures of the community, through maintaining informal communication channels with the electorate and through building and utilising informal networks in the formal spaces of governance. As elsewhere, the women representatives, while trying to gain a toehold in a male-dominated space, are making the strategic choice to align with the existing ethnic political order, which in turn is limiting the scope for socially inclusive, transformative politics for gender justice. Yet, their day-to-day and microlevel negotiations with the political and bureaucratic establishment are rooted in the politics of a practical agenda (Jayal 2006). The grammar and articulation of that micropolitics follow the dominant narratives of ethnicity and difference.

At the same time, through protests against violence against women, corruption in recruitment and new hydropower dams, a new pan-tribal civic space is gradually taking shape.¹⁵ Taylor describes the process with much optimism: ‘At their best, emerging Arunachali civic life is articulating civic practices that arise from, and are embedded in, tribal identities, with pan-tribal, national, and transnational forms of imagination and action’ (2009: 311; emphasis in original). This process has been described as ‘tranversalizing of particular into collective identity rather than the universalizing of collective identities that are so basic to liberal Western political traditions’ (Reid and Taylor 2009, cited in Taylor 2009: 311; emphasis in original). The politics of difference that often accompanies an ethnic political order constantly reproduces and reimagines boundaries between ‘us’ and ‘them’, even while arguing for the collective rights of the community.

The evidence presented here suggests that formal political institutions are embedded in the informal landscape of societal norms. While the distinction between formal and informal is important to an extent, the interpenetrating nature of these spheres holds the key to understanding ethnopolitics. As the state and the economy remain embedded in society, access to the state by citizens is mediated through social networks, the ‘political (and also often financial) success’ of which ‘depends on their capacity to manipulate the implementation of the state’s policies and legislation’ (Berenschot 2010: 885). In Arunachal Pradesh, patronage and manipulation of access to the state operate through ethnic networks. Women representatives in Panchayats, while relying on such networks, attempt to overcome the barriers set by exclusionary processes embedded in state, community and market institutions.

Decentralisation may not be enough for democratisation. Similarly, inclusion may be accompanied by effective ‘exclusion’ in such a way that the formal inclusion of women in governance does not challenge the discriminatory foundations of governance. The informal politics of the community, friends and family plays a crucial role as spaces of familiarity and solidarity for the marginalised—more so because, even when formal structures are modified to include the excluded, exclusionary inclusion persists.

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1. 1 The authors would like to thank Dr Tashi Phuntso, Dr M.A. Salam and Prem Droima for their help and support during the field survey.

2. 2 Panchayati Raj is the system of local self-government for villages in rural India.

3. 3 The term ‘exclusionary inclusion’ has been used in diverse contexts in the literature to signify the differential treatment and exclusion of some individuals and groups in seemingly inclusive contexts, or unfavourable inclusion. For example, see Gubrium et al. (2017); Kneebone (2005).

4. 4 We were accompanied by local interpreters, generally not from the same villages, during the interviews. Most of the conversations were in Hindi, the language spoken by people from Arunachal Pradesh, while communicating with people from other tribes and states.

5. 5 All names have been changed to protect the identity of the respondents.

6. 6 Recognition of uncodified community law had several implications for women as access to resources and opportunities was mediated through community norms. The community laws marginalised women in several ways. In 2021, the state government attempted to pass a law, the Arunachal Pradesh Marriage and Inheritance of Property Bill, to regulate divorce, alimony payments and marriage registration. Apart from making polygamy illegal, it has provisions for securing women’s right to inherit immovable assets. The Bill was criticised as ‘anti-tribal’ because it had a provision that said: ‘An APST [Arunachal Pradesh Scheduled Tribes] woman married to a non-APST man shall enjoy the legal right over any immovable properties acquired or inherited from her family in her lifetime.’ Considering the significant opposition to the Bill, the government decided not to table it (for a discussion, see Kundu 2022).

7. 7 In a framework of asymmetric federalism, Arunachal Pradesh has been granted the status of a ‘special category state’. Contributions from the central government, in the form of grants and aid, rather than the state government’s revenue, have been the primary source of funds for the government (Roy 2020). It has resulted in perpetual dependence on the central government, en masse switching of loyalty by the state-level political representatives to join the party in power at the centre and a disproportionately high degree of control by the central government, which has been described as ‘cosmetic federalism’ (Baruah 2003a).

8. 8 The overall implications of this ‘neoliberal’ development model in Arunachal Pradesh are hard to gauge based on the scant information available. Such restructuring is known to have uneven impacts across communities, gender and classes (Harriss-White et al. 2022).

9. 9 The Constitution of India has enabling provisions, such as reservations in parliament and assemblies (state-level legislature), higher educational institutions, government jobs and municipal and village councils (Panchayats) for disadvantaged social groups who are economically backward and historically subjected to discrimination. Articles 341 and 342 of the Constitution list the castes and tribes entitled to such benefits. Scheduled Castes include formerly untouchable castes and Scheduled Tribes include tribal communities.

10. 10 Arunachal Pradesh is home to nearly 26 major and 100 minor tribes. Most tribes have their distinctive community institutions for conflict resolution. These ‘traditional’ community institutions in Arunachal Pradesh varied from plebian village councils to chieftainships. Some of these structures and their chiefs were recognised during colonial rule and subsequently by the Government of India. Though they were termed ‘traditional’ village councils, the process of recognition and interactions with the colonial (and postcolonial) orders and subsequent socioeconomic changes have altered these institutions. Although Elwin (1965) emphasised the democratic nature of the councils, women, by and large, were not part of the decision-making process of these institutions.

11. 11 Under this scheme, each MP has the choice to suggest to the district collector works worth up to INR5 crores (10 million) per annum (nearly A$909,000) to be undertaken in his/her constituency. Similarly, MLAs can also suggest development works, subject to some guidelines.

12. 12 Gaon burahs or village chiefs (literally, ‘the village old man’) were ‘selected’ by the villagers and were recognised by the colonial government—a practice that continues. The mechanism for selection varies across tribes. In the study region, selection is largely through consensus. The post is not hereditary. Conflicts over nomination of gaon burahs were reported in few villages. In a few cases, women have been appointed as village chiefs or gaon burhis.

13. 13 Self-help groups (SHGs) in Changlang District, a government blog reports, have started floriculture as an income-generating activity. During the Covid-19 pandemic, SHGs were actively involved in producing gloves, masks and hand sanitisers. A supermarket has been constructed in Seppa, a district headquarters, for facilitating the sale of craft and other items by the SHGs. See Arunachal Pradesh MyGov (2022).

14. 14 In most cases, married women representatives described their husbands as very supportive. In one case, where the husband was described as unsupportive, the father-in-law’s support was crucial. In another case, the elected member described her husband as ‘indifferent’, ‘someone who doesn’t interfere in my work’. She, however, described the support from her women relatives.

15. 15 Since the early 2000s, popular protests against hydro-power development projects have created solidarity networks across student and activist groups within and beyond Arunachal Pradesh. Similarly, a protest against alleged corruption in recruitment for government jobs has brought together people from diverse backgrounds. For a discussion of the protests and politics of dam construction, see Mishra (2019).