A protest march being carried out by BJP workers in Delhi against the killing of RSS members in Kannur.

In Kerala's Kannur, hundreds have perished at the altar of vendetta politics, yet a respite is not in sight

In Kerala's northern district of Kannur, the sea is a clear blue, and the beaches clean. A magnificent fort built by the Portuguese in 1505, stands guard, stonily staring at the sea for enemies from far white lands. It might have just as well faced the city, because more violence and murders have happened on shore and among the natives, than during foreign invasions.

Ramachandran, Remith, Dhanraj, Naziruddin, Ramakrishnan. These are some of the more common names in Kannur, and they might belong to either of the perpetually warring factions, the RSS (Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh) and the CPI(M).

As a result, the 180-odd men killed since 2000, when the millennium turned flattering to deceive those who hoped new years and new centuries would usher in new, more peaceful people, might easily share not only the same names but also the same fate.

I have been to Kannur only once, though I have passed through the city several times. The one time I was in Kannur for longer than a few hours were years ago, when I drove from Bombay to Trichur and halted for the night at Kannur.

It was around three in the morning, and I went for a walk. Rather disappointingly, I saw no one killed, though party workers may have been gathering knives and sharpening them in some backyard.

To stroll on the Kannur beaches at night is very good, and you could see the foam of the sea very white and sharp running in against the dark of the water. No one killed me either, though I did expect someone to turn up and ask my political affiliations, which remain a mystery even to me.

In transit, at day time, Kannur is just like any other littoral town in Kerala. The air is laden with sea salt and ozone, and laced with the smell of petrol. Around some corners, you can hear the sea falling on the sands.

All around, armies of coconut trees wave their green flags in the air, a peace march no one appears to pay attention to. The roads are lined with shops from which hang big yellow bananas from their thick stalks; the neat rows of soda bottles balance lemons over their heads.

There are many eating joints in Kannur; most of them serve good food, and Kannur is famous for chicken and mutton biryanis. The practice of slaughtering animals may have facilitated political murders: most of the killings are done by hacking; death by a hundred cuts. From goat to man, there is, after all, only a fractional genetic difference, and the irons used are the same.

The killings may occur anywhere, any time. In the town square, in class rooms with children watching, in courtyards, inside houses.

Almost always the sentence is administered by groups. Almost always there are witnesses. Indeed, very often, the victims' survivors know the identity of the killers. Yet, rate of conviction is low. This is usually because of the political intervention at the top.

A total of 180 were killed since 2000, the tally nearly half-half, with the RSS slightly trailing behind. These teams, depending on the season, are more or less evenly matched. The popular version is that the practice of human sacrifice at the altar of politics started in 1969, when the Marxists killed a RSS worker. That apparently was what started off the lethal race.

In the year ending (2017), some 10 political murders have occurred, one almost every month. An interesting aspect of the politics in Kannur is that generally both CPI(M) and RSS share the same base: depending on the hook of the week or month the same cadres float in and out of the parties.

This adds to the sense of betrayal, and the severity of punishment. Kannur has a dominant population of Thiyyas, a backward community, and it is this caste, therefore, that takes the brunt, as the source-base.

The situation is one Hermann Gundert, German missionary and linguist, could not have foreseen when he landed in Kannur in 1838. Gundert, whose grandson is the novelist Herman Hesse, set up schools, wrote a Malayalam-English dictionary and codified the grammar for Malayalam language. He was welcomed in Kannur by all - kings and subjects.

Fortunately, at that time neither the RSS nor the CPI(M) - both entering the scene in the 1940s, and polarising sharply around the 1970s, especially during Emergency- was around, and Gundert could do most of what he wanted in his missionary and secular work. The people of Kannur have been grateful: they have erected a statue for Gundert in Thalassery.

On one side then, the Kannur Fort, on the other, Gundert. One represents war and violence. The other, learning and culture. Between these two choices, Kannur seems to have opted for the wrong one. But there is time yet, and the year is changing. Blood is best when it is not spilt.

The writer is poet, political commentator and former editor-in-chief, DNA newspaper.

ALSO WATCH | Kannur violence: BJP-CPM leaders assure to restore peace in Kerala