A few months ago, Harsh Mander, who is one of India’s most committed activists, a staunch anti-communalist, a fearless advocate of human rights, and—if I may add a personal note—an old and trusted friend, wrote an opinion piece for the Indian Express which gave me pause for some thought. I have since had other moments to think about Mander’s piece, which is entitled “Unlike America”; its sub-heading more than adequately suggests the tenor of his argument: “In India, voices of public protest against hate-mongering targeting Muslims have been far too muted and infrequent.” Mander is among the millions who throughout the world was filled with a “dark foreboding” after Donald J. Trump’s electoral triumph, and Trump’s reckless actions and pronouncements since his inauguration on January 20 would have done little to alleviate the deep misgivings about the American President that Mander like many others (myself included) have experienced.
Less than two weeks into his administration, Trump issued what became known as the “Muslim Ban”. It is at this point, Mander suggests, that many Americans woke up to the unpleasant reality that they would have to live for at least four years with a Commander-in-Chief and President who is boorish, narcissistic, and habitually prone to lying. Though Mander does not say so, Trump is fundamentally not merely uninterested in issues of social justice and equality but, to the contrary, subscribes to the absolutely vacuous Ayn Rand school of thought which believes that man is born to self-aggrandizement. (To my mind, the notion of Trump as a disciple of Ayn Rand, howsoever much he may detest the very idea considering his proclivity to think of himself only as a ‘winner’ and ‘leader’, has barely been noticed in the prolific public commentary.) The “Muslim Ban” had just been issued before a court put a stay order on it; the revised version of the ban, issued days later, similarly did not survive judicial review.
But none of this is the subject matter of Mander’s article, which is rather on how, in the wake of the “Muslim Ban”, Americans rose to the occasion in a vivid demonstration of what has made America ‘great’ and a beacon of light to other countries. Mander speaks approvingly and many would say justly of the “luminous, spontaneous public display of solidarity and empathy with the targeted Muslims by millions of ordinary Americans”, which to his mind is an affirmation of the fact that “a politics of hate, however powerful, can never triumph if people defy attempts to divide them with bigotry and fear.” Moving towards the last third of his opinion piece, Mander thoughtfully asks whether in India good-natured and well-intentioned people have done enough to resist “the fear and animosity that has been systematically fostered against the Indian Muslim minority in the Modi era.” Many Muslims in India view themselves as second-class citizens, and Mander poignantly inquires whether “Indian people have reached out to defend and reassure their Muslim neighbours in ways that many Americans have”.
It is doubtless true that within hours of the issue of the “Muslim Ban”, protestors came out on the streets of America to lodge their opposition against the xenophobic turn in the new administration and attempts to ‘secure’ America against supposed enemies of the state. The country’s airports, especially, became sites of concerted resistance, and hundreds of immigrant attorneys offered their services pro bono to immigrants and refugees. Elsewhere in the country, as Mander writes, what are called ‘faith leaders’ representing Christianity and Judaism also made it known that they would not abide by any executive orders or regulations that clearly target Muslims. One cannot but agree with Mander that this apparent display of solidarity with Muslims has been admirable.
However, I am slightly discomforted by certain assumptions that underlie Mander’s claim, and would like to conjoin some general queries with the specifics of the politics of protest in the US and India by way of opening up a space for discussion. First, there is the question that in the Indian liberal imagination, the US becomes the benchmark by which other countries are judged. The US scarcely has any monopoly on what we might call the architecture of popular protest: if anything, American streets see much less protest than do the streets in most other countries. Of course, one can anticipate the rejoinder, namely that the street protests in, for example, Russia and Venezuela have been waged not on behalf of the rights of various other religious, racial, ethnic, or gendered others, but rather by ordinary citizens who feel their own rights have been trampled upon or who seek to create a space for political dialogue. By the same token, however, it is indubitably the fact that the United States is essentially and in its core an immigrant society. The “Muslim Ban”, in other words, is not merely an issue with implications for Muslims, or even those, like Sikhs or brown-skinned people in general, who might be mistaken for Muslims. If the Muslim is a metaphor for the immigrant, then effectively most Americans are Muslims.
Thus, in this respect, the “Muslim Ban” can be described as something that is experienced viscerally as a ban upon every immigrant, or even ancestors of immigrants, which is the preponderant portion of the American population—as a rebuke, in other words, to every American. Mander could have perhaps made a stronger case if he had advanced the view that the Muslim in India is similarly a part of the Indian self, a part of every Hindu, just as every Hindu is a part of every Muslim self, even if the gravitational pull of South Asian politics, particularly in Pakistan, over the last course of the last century has been to try to demarcate the Muslim as an altogether separate entity from the Hindu.
Secondly, as a corollary to the above argument, it is thus easier to understand why the politics of agitation in the US has not, generally speaking, extended to a great many other issues. Trump’s “divisive politics”, as it is often termed, is unpleasant and even deeply offensive to many, but very few of the other equally odious measures that his administration has passed have given rise to mass demonstrations. To take one illustration, the various pushbacks in the Trump administration against measures designed to safeguard the environment, and even his rejection of the Paris climate accord, have not led to anything like the kind of demonstrations that we have seen over the “Muslim Ban”, though the implications of his administration’s repudiation of the scientific consensus over climate change are far-reaching and in some respects dwarf many other pertinent social issues. It may be that organization of resistance around climate change, which may seem something like an abstraction to some people, particularly in an affluent country such as the US, is no easy task. But this only goes to suggest that there is, in some ways, a singularity of concern that the “Muslim Ban” is able to evoke. Empathy, that is to say, is also selective.
Thirdly, then, there is something anodyne in the observation that Mander has put forward when he writes, to quote him again, that “a politics of hate, however powerful, can never triumph if people defy attempts to divide them with bigotry and fear.” My point here is not merely that “a politics of hate” does triumph all too often: if this were not the case, mass murders, genocide, and the carefully managed orchestration of hatred would not be routine facts of history. There may be, indeed there is, an ethical imperative to affirm, and affirm repeatedly, our capacity to overcome the politics of hate, bigotry, and fear. But there is also the need to reckon with the fact that the “politics of hate” is not an isomorphic phenomenon but rather is inextricably intertwined with the brute facts of nationalism, class hierarchies, and ideologies of exclusion.
We are left, moreover, with other questions which hover in the background of Mander’s piece. It was a mass movement of resistance, waged over three decades, which brought to an end colonial rule in India. In the mid-1970s, again, a popular movement, which saw meetings and demonstrations in north India, put an end to the authoritarianism that had guided Mrs. Indira Gandhi. In recent years, the issue of corruption has riled the middle class. It is unnecessary, at this juncture, to probe the politics of protest over “corruption”. Mander seeks to inquire: why is it that the ill-treatment of Muslims does not similarly evoke the anger or an anxiety over injustice and bring the people of the streets to India? It is not that the people of India will not take to the streets: but why do they fail to do so in the case of palpable forms of injustice and discrimination against Muslims? Mander has described the symptom, but not the disease. Is the disease Hindu nationalism? Is it a new-found adherence to the ideology of ‘each man to himself’? Is it the collapse of some notion of a social commons? Is it the decline of the ‘moral economy’? Has some kind of zero-sum politics become the norm? Even if Mander has not posed these questions, his short essay should certainly be read as a necessary provocation to ponder over the profound malaise that has afflicted India.