The organic identity August 2008
By: Dilip SimeonHate is a form of stunted love, created by enforced affinity.
In considering the value of the concept of Southasia, the answer can be formulated as a neutral assessment of whether or not the term carries descriptive weight. It could be couched in the language of ideals, addressing the matter of whether Southasian identity fulfils positive goals and aspirations. In questioning whether the concept is useful, I can only say this: it must be useful for some, and pointless for others. Yes, geopolitical forces have pushed the governments of the region towards certain forms of cooperation, but then the same factors have fuelled endless examples of animosity as well. Sharing a common space does not necessarily give rise to positive outcomes.
The tensions between the governments of this region are well known. Despite these, Indian and Pakistani citizens pour out hospitality when they visit one another’s cities. The opening run of the Srinagar-Muzzafarabad bus service was witness to heartrending scenes of repressed nostalgia – teaching us once again, if ever we need reminding, that hate is but a form of stunted love. Over the past five years, the crisis in Nepal saw an outflow of thousands of political refugees, who obtained warmth and generosity from Indians across the class spectrum. West Bengalis can never forget the origins of their greatest artists and leaders in East Bengal, which became East Pakistan and later still Bangladesh. What does a change of name do to us? Here is a country whose currency is still the taka, and which has a Gandhi museum in Noakhali. When the Pashtun peace activist Abdul Ghaffar Khan died in 1988, the Soviet-Afghan war was in full cry; yet the antagonists ceased their fire, and the Peshawar-Jalalabad border opened to allow thousands to join his funeral procession. Badshah Khan’s death reminded many of the possibility of a closed border becoming an open frontier. Here was a man who could walk across three borders and into four countries, and be accepted as ‘one of us’ by the people of each.
The positive aspect of the category ‘Southasian’ is that it remains (thus far) an organic, rather than enforced, identity. Nationalism, or for that matter any form of authoritarian identity expressed as a political project, is based upon the enforcement of affinity. It involves being told that we must love this leader, this sole spokesman, this geographical space, this flag, etc. Yet it is quite a simple truth that you cannot enforce love at the point of a knife. Often, there are too many negative features to permit us to spontaneously love our state structures or rulers. This is why patriotism is often embellished with untruth. The official need for untruth is the birthplace of censorship and propaganda, two sides of the coin of official deceit.
If the people of Southasia regard each other affectionately despite the propaganda and the deliberately generated animosity, then this must be treated as a valuable emotional resource. Here is an opportunity to enable ordinary citizens from all over the region to communicate over questions of justice, economic well-being, health and education. Most of all, here is an opportunity to discuss the possibilities of forging a political culture of tolerance, equality and respect. The unevenness that characterises social norms across and within Southasian frontiers can only be bridged by free and uninhibited dialogue. The fact that such a dialogue is even conceivable is evidence that the concept of a Southasian identity is not only real, but has the potential to carry some of our cherished ideals as well.
Baby Noor
Abdul Ghaffar Khan was a Pakistani who received India’s highest civilian award, the Bharat Ratna. To my mind, he was a true Southasian. So were Gandhi and Tagore. So is Khurshid Khemkhani, of Sikar, Rajasthan, who was forced to migrate to Pakistan; and my friend Hindu Singh Sodha, of Sindh, who is a ‘Pakistan oustee’ but still considers Pakistan his home. They are both Southasians. In bitterness, so are Maoists of all stripes, the RSS, the ULFA, the Manipuri and Naga insurgents, the Hizbul Mujahidin, the Khalistanis and the Tamil Tigers. Now that they have lived with us for nearly 50 years, the Tibetan refugees are also Southasians, even though we wish them an early and happy return to Tibet. L K Advani once had a home in Karachi. Zia ul-Haq was born in Jalandhar, and studied at St Stephens College. Pervez Musharraf spent his childhood in a Delhi mohalla. They are all Southasians, whether they (or we) like it or not. What they make of it is another matter.
But being Southasian is not only about the partitioned past and the current insurgencies. In 2003, a two-year-old girl named Noor Fathima came to Bangalore from Pakistan for a heart operation, and melted the hearts of millions of Indians. Reflective articles appeared in the Indian media, asking how it was possible for entire peoples to be enemies when we all adored ‘Baby Noor’. How indeed? Noor should be seven this year. Let us hope that she will grow up to see another Southasia emerge from nostalgia into reality.
Dilip Simeon is a senior research fellow at the Nehru Memorial Museum and Library, New Delhi.
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| Carey L Biron |
The tensions between the governments of this region are well known. Despite these, Indian and Pakistani citizens pour out hospitality when they visit one another’s cities. The opening run of the Srinagar-Muzzafarabad bus service was witness to heartrending scenes of repressed nostalgia – teaching us once again, if ever we need reminding, that hate is but a form of stunted love. Over the past five years, the crisis in Nepal saw an outflow of thousands of political refugees, who obtained warmth and generosity from Indians across the class spectrum. West Bengalis can never forget the origins of their greatest artists and leaders in East Bengal, which became East Pakistan and later still Bangladesh. What does a change of name do to us? Here is a country whose currency is still the taka, and which has a Gandhi museum in Noakhali. When the Pashtun peace activist Abdul Ghaffar Khan died in 1988, the Soviet-Afghan war was in full cry; yet the antagonists ceased their fire, and the Peshawar-Jalalabad border opened to allow thousands to join his funeral procession. Badshah Khan’s death reminded many of the possibility of a closed border becoming an open frontier. Here was a man who could walk across three borders and into four countries, and be accepted as ‘one of us’ by the people of each.
The positive aspect of the category ‘Southasian’ is that it remains (thus far) an organic, rather than enforced, identity. Nationalism, or for that matter any form of authoritarian identity expressed as a political project, is based upon the enforcement of affinity. It involves being told that we must love this leader, this sole spokesman, this geographical space, this flag, etc. Yet it is quite a simple truth that you cannot enforce love at the point of a knife. Often, there are too many negative features to permit us to spontaneously love our state structures or rulers. This is why patriotism is often embellished with untruth. The official need for untruth is the birthplace of censorship and propaganda, two sides of the coin of official deceit.
If the people of Southasia regard each other affectionately despite the propaganda and the deliberately generated animosity, then this must be treated as a valuable emotional resource. Here is an opportunity to enable ordinary citizens from all over the region to communicate over questions of justice, economic well-being, health and education. Most of all, here is an opportunity to discuss the possibilities of forging a political culture of tolerance, equality and respect. The unevenness that characterises social norms across and within Southasian frontiers can only be bridged by free and uninhibited dialogue. The fact that such a dialogue is even conceivable is evidence that the concept of a Southasian identity is not only real, but has the potential to carry some of our cherished ideals as well.
Baby Noor
Abdul Ghaffar Khan was a Pakistani who received India’s highest civilian award, the Bharat Ratna. To my mind, he was a true Southasian. So were Gandhi and Tagore. So is Khurshid Khemkhani, of Sikar, Rajasthan, who was forced to migrate to Pakistan; and my friend Hindu Singh Sodha, of Sindh, who is a ‘Pakistan oustee’ but still considers Pakistan his home. They are both Southasians. In bitterness, so are Maoists of all stripes, the RSS, the ULFA, the Manipuri and Naga insurgents, the Hizbul Mujahidin, the Khalistanis and the Tamil Tigers. Now that they have lived with us for nearly 50 years, the Tibetan refugees are also Southasians, even though we wish them an early and happy return to Tibet. L K Advani once had a home in Karachi. Zia ul-Haq was born in Jalandhar, and studied at St Stephens College. Pervez Musharraf spent his childhood in a Delhi mohalla. They are all Southasians, whether they (or we) like it or not. What they make of it is another matter.
But being Southasian is not only about the partitioned past and the current insurgencies. In 2003, a two-year-old girl named Noor Fathima came to Bangalore from Pakistan for a heart operation, and melted the hearts of millions of Indians. Reflective articles appeared in the Indian media, asking how it was possible for entire peoples to be enemies when we all adored ‘Baby Noor’. How indeed? Noor should be seven this year. Let us hope that she will grow up to see another Southasia emerge from nostalgia into reality.
Dilip Simeon is a senior research fellow at the Nehru Memorial Museum and Library, New Delhi.
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