In the serene coastal village of Munambam, Kerala, where the waves whisper tales of resilience, 68-year-old Omana Yayi sits on the edge of despair. Her weathered hands, once strong enough to carry sand from the sea to build a home, now tremble with the fear of losing everything. For over 50 years, she and her husband poured their blood, sweat, and dreams into a small plot of land on Vypeen Island—a plot they legally bought in the 1970s from Farook College, a purchase that promised a future for their children and grandchildren. But today, that future hangs by a thread, snatched away by the Kerala State Waqf Board’s relentless claim over 404 acres of Munambam land, a claim that threatens to uproot 600 families, mostly Latin Catholic Christians like Omana’s.
Omana Yayi’s story is one of grit and heartbreak. A member of Munambam’s Latin Catholic fishing community, she has lived her entire life in this coastal haven, where the fishing-based economy sustains a historically marginalized group. In the 1970s, she and her husband, with dreams of stability, bought their plot from Farook College, which had been gifted the land in 1950 after it was leased by the Travancore royal family to Abdul Sathar Moosa Sait in 1902. The land was submerged, uninhabitable—a watery expanse that mocked their hopes. But Omana and her husband didn’t falter. Day after day, they carried sand from the sea, their backs bent under the weight, their hands blistered, transforming the marsh into a home where they raised their children and now watch their grandchildren play.
That home, however, is now a battleground. In 2019, the Waqf Board registered the 404 acres as Waqf property, claiming it was an inalienable endowment under Islamic law, despite the legal purchases by residents like Omana. The board demanded that the families vacate, turning their hard-earned sanctuary into a legal quagmire. “The land is practically worthless now,” Omana told Business Standard, her voice heavy with the weight of betrayal. She can’t sell it, can’t mortgage it, can’t use it to secure a loan for her grandchildren’s education or her family’s survival. The seasonal income from fishing, already strained by sea erosion that has shrunk the land to 135-225 acres, offers no buffer. For Omana, a backward-class fisherwoman, this isn’t just a property dispute—it’s the erasure of a lifetime’s labor.
Omana lives with her husband, children, and grandchildren—a multi-generational family typical of Munambam’s close-knit community. Her home, once a symbol of hope, is now a crucible of anxiety. The uncertainty of losing their ancestral land has cast a dark shadow over their lives. Her grandchildren, who should be playing carefree by the sea, sense the tension in their grandmother’s furrowed brow. Her children, who once dreamed of building on their parents’ legacy, now face the prospect of starting over with nothing. The Waqf Board’s claim has trapped them in a legal limbo, with the Kerala High Court and Waqf Tribunal offering little relief. The board’s directive to stop accepting land taxes since 2019, upheld by a High Court stay, has stripped Omana of her ability to prove ownership, leaving her family financially crippled.
The emotional toll is palpable. Omana’s memories of carrying sand from the sea are now tainted by the fear of eviction. “We made this land with our own hands,” she said, her voice breaking. The relay hunger strike, ongoing for 174 days as of April 4, 2025, as reported by The Indian Express, is a testament to the community’s desperation. Omana and her neighbors, mostly Catholic Christians, have watched their dreams erode faster than the coastline, their faith tested by a system that seems to care little for their plight.
Munambam’s social fabric, woven by its fishing-based economy and coastal charm, is unraveling. The Latin Catholic community, a historically marginalized group despite Kerala’s high literacy rates, has always lived on the edge—dependent on the sea’s fickle bounty. The Waqf Board’s claim has pushed them to the brink. The 600 affected families, including Omana’s, are predominantly Christian, with a smaller Hindu minority, living alongside a Muslim minority in what was once a harmonious village. But the dispute has sown seeds of division, with the board’s actions perceived as an assault on their very existence.
The land, once a source of pride, is now a curse. Sea erosion has already claimed much of the original 404 acres, leaving 135-225 acres, but the Waqf Board’s claim has rendered even this diminished expanse untouchable. Omana can’t secure a loan to repair her fishing boat or fund her grandchildren’s education. Her family’s modest income, tied to the seasonal rhythms of fishing, offers no safety net. The dispute has turned their property into a financial dead-end, a cruel irony for a community that has fought the sea itself to survive.
There are flickers of hope, but they are faint. On April 7, 2025, the Kerala High Court stayed an earlier order quashing the Justice C.N. Ramachandran Nair Commission, set up by CM Pinarayi Vijayan in November 2024 to resolve the dispute, as reported by Mathrubhumi and ETV Bharat. The commission’s next hearing, scheduled for June 16, 2025, offers a sliver of optimism for Omana and her neighbors. But the wait is agonizing, another chapter in a 60-year saga that has drained their spirit.
The Waqf (Amendment) Bill, 2025, passed into law on April 5, 2025, has been a beacon for Munambam’s residents. The bill removes the “Waqf by user” doctrine, which the board used to claim the land, and shifts dispute resolution to District Collectors, potentially nullifying baseless claims. On April 4, 2025, the community celebrated with firecrackers and chants of “Narendra Modi Zindabad,” as reported by The Indian Express. But opposition leaders like V.D. Satheesan and Minister P. Rajeev have dampened these hopes, arguing the bill lacks retrospective effect, meaning it may not apply to pre-existing disputes like Munambam’s, as noted in The Hindu and Onmanorama. For Omana, this legal nuance is a cruel twist—another promise that might not deliver.
Omana Yayi’s story is a microcosm of Munambam’s misery. Her home, built with decades of toil, is now a battlefield where her family’s future hangs in the balance. The Waqf Board’s claim, rooted in a 1950 deed that Farook College failed to disclose as Waqf property, has turned her legal purchase into a nightmare. The board’s demand to vacate, backed by a system that favors Waqf Tribunals over civil courts, has left her powerless. The hunger strike, the protests, the prayers at the Church of Our Lady of Velankanny—all are cries of a community pushed to the edge.
For Omana, at 68, the fight is personal. It’s about the sand she carried, the home she built, the legacy she wanted to leave for her grandchildren. But it’s also about justice—for her, for her 600 neighbors, for a community that has given everything to Munambam, only to have it snatched away by a claim that defies fairness. As of April 7, 2025, at 1:38 PM IST, Omana Yayi waits, her heart heavy with pain, her eyes fixed on a horizon that offers little but uncertainty. Her story is a stark reminder of the human cost of systemic failures, a plea for justice that echoes far beyond the shores of Munambam.
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