Here is the full transcript of social entrepreneur Vivek Maru’s Talk: How to Put the Power of Law in People’s Hands at TED conference.
I want to tell you about someone I’m going to call him Ravi Nanda. I’m changing his name to protect his safety. Ravi’s from a community of herdspeople in Gujarat on the western coast of India, same place my own family comes from. When he was 10 years old, his entire community was forced to move because a multinational corporation constructed a manufacturing facility on the land where they lived.
Then, 20 years later, the same company built a cement factory 100 meters from where they live now. India has got strong environmental regulations on paper, but this company has violated many of them.
Dust from that factory covers Ravi’s mustache and everything he wears. I spent just two days in his place, and I coughed for a week. Ravi says that if people or animals eat anything that grows in his village or drink the water, they get sick. He says children now walk long distances with cattle and buffalo to find uncontaminated grazing land. He says many of those kids have dropped out of school, including three of his own.
Ravi has appealed to the company for years. He said, “I’ve written so many letters my family could cremate me with them. They wouldn’t need to buy any wood.” He said the company ignored every one of those letters, and so in 2013, Ravi Nanda decided to use the last means of protest he thought he had left. He walked to the gates of that factory with a bucket of petrol in his hands, intending to set himself on fire.
Ravi is not alone in his desperation. The UN estimates that worldwide, four billion people live without basic access to justice. These people face grave threats to their safety, their livelihoods, their dignity. There are almost always laws on the books that would protect these people, but they’ve often never heard of those laws, and the systems that are supposed to enforce those laws are corrupt or broken or both. We are living with a global epidemic of injustice, but we’ve been choosing to ignore it.
Right now, in Sierra Leone, in Cambodia, in Ethiopia, farmers are being cajoled into putting their thumbprints on 50-year lease agreements, signing away all the land they’ve ever known for a pittance without anybody even explaining the terms. Governments seem to think that’s OK.
Right now, in the United States, in India, in Slovenia, people like Ravi are raising their children in the shadow of factories or mines that are poisoning their air and their water. There are environmental laws that would protect these people, but many have never seen those laws, let alone having a shot at enforcing them. And the world seems to have decided that’s OK.
What would it take to change that? Law is supposed to be the language we use to translate our dreams about justice into living institutions that hold us together. Law is supposed to be the difference between a society ruled by the most powerful and one that honors the dignity of everyone, strong or weak. That’s why I told my grandmother 20 years ago that I wanted to go to law school. Grandma didn’t pause. She didn’t skip a beat. She said to me, “Lawyer is liar.” That was discouraging.
But grandma’s right, in a way. Something about law and lawyers has gone wrong. We lawyers are usually expensive, first of all, and we tend to focus on formal court channels that are impractical for many of the problems people face.
Worse, our profession has shrouded law in a cloak of complexity. Law is like riot gear on a police officer. It’s intimidating and impenetrable, and it’s hard to tell there’s something human underneath. If we’re going to make justice a reality for everyone, we need to turn law from an abstraction or a threat into something that every single person can understand, use and shape. Lawyers are crucial in that fight, no doubt, but we can’t leave it to lawyers alone.
In health care, for example, we don’t just rely on doctors to serve patients. We have nurses and midwives and community health workers. The same should be true of justice. Community legal workers, sometimes we call them community paralegals, or barefoot lawyers, can be a bridge. These paralegals are from the communities they serve.
They demystify law, break it down into simple terms, and then they help people look for a solution. They don’t focus on the courts alone. They look everywhere: ministry departments, local government, an ombudsman’s office. Lawyers sometimes say to their clients, “I’ll handle it for you. I’ve got you.”
Paralegals have a different message, not “I’m going to solve it for you,” but “We’re going to solve it together, and in the process, we’re both going to grow.” Community paralegals saved my own relationship to law.
After about a year in law school, I almost dropped out. I was thinking maybe I should have listened to my grandmother. It was when I started working with paralegals in Sierra Leone, in 2003, that I began feeling hopeful about the law again, and I have been obsessed ever since.
Let me come back to Ravi 2013, he did reach the gates of that factory with the bucket of petrol in his hands, but he was arrested before he could follow through. He didn’t have to spend long in jail, but he felt completely defeated. Then, two years later, he met someone I’m going to call him Kush.
Kush is part of a team of community paralegals that works for environmental justice on the Gujarat coast. Kush explained to Ravi that there was law on his side. Kush translated into Gujarati something Ravi had never seen. It’s called the “consent to operate”. It’s issued by the state government, and it allows the factory to run only if it complies with specific conditions.