Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Arundhati Roy and Violent Resistance

Those of us on the left, particularly in the West, constantly hear about the importance of non-violence resistance.  Of course, Western liberals are also apt to lecture the Third World folk about the importance of non-violence resistance, too, even when they are being violently repressed by their governments.  Arundhati Roy, on the other hand, takes a different tact, one that presupposes the right of a people to defend themselves by force of arms against those who would kill you, which in this era of course is akin to advocating terrorism--and thus one of Roy's problems, in the West and even back in her home country.  Interesting article and interview.

Arundhati Roy: 'They are trying to keep me destabilised. Anybody who says anything is in danger'

by Stephen Moss

The Booker prize-winning novelist on her political activism in India, why she no longer condemns violent resistance – and why it doesn't matter if she never writes a second novel.

This is not an ideal beginning. I bump into Arundhati Roy as we are both heading for the loo in the foyer of the large building that houses her publisher Penguin's offices. There are some authors, V S Naipaul say, with whom this could be awkward. But not Roy, who makes me feel instantly at ease. A few minutes later, her publicist settles us in a small, bare room. As we take our positions on either side of a narrow desk I liken it to an interrogation suite. But she says that in India, interrogation rooms are a good deal less salubrious than this.

Roy, who is 50 this year, is best known for her 1997 Booker prize-winning novel The God of Small Things, but for the past decade has been an increasingly vocal critic of the Indian state, attacking its policy towards Kashmir, the environmental destruction wrought by rapid development, the country's nuclear weapons programme and corruption. As a prominent opponent of everything connected with globalisation, she is seeking to construct a "new modernity" based on sustainability and a defence of traditional ways of life.

Her new book, Broken Republic, brings together three essays about the Maoist guerrilla movement in the forests of central India that is resisting the government's attempts to develop and mine land on which tribal people live. The central essay, Walking with the Comrades, is a brilliant piece of reportage, recounting three weeks she spent with the guerrillas in the forest. She must, I suggest, have been in great personal danger. "Everybody's in great danger there, so you can't go round feeling you are specially in danger," she says in her pleasant, high-pitched voice. In any case, she says, the violence of bullets and torture are no greater than the violence of hunger and malnutrition, of vulnerable people feeling they're under siege.

Her time with the guerrillas made a profound impression. She describes spending nights sleeping on the forest floor in a "thousand-star hotel", applauds "the ferocity and grandeur of these poor people fighting back", and says "being in the forest made me feel like there was enough space in my body for all my organs". She detests glitzy, corporate, growth-obsessed modern Indian, and there in the forest she found a brief peace.

There is intense anger in the book, I say, implying that if she toned it down she might find a readier audience. "The anger is calibrated," she insists. "It's less than I actually feel." But even so, her critics call her shrill. "That word 'shrill' is reserved for any expression of feeling. It's all right for the establishment to be as shrill as it likes about annihilating people."

Is her political engagement derived from her mother, Mary Roy, who set up a school in Kerala and has a reputation as a women's rights activist? "She's not an activist," says Roy. "I don't know why people keep saying that. My mother is like a character who escaped from the set of a Fellini film." She laughs at her own description. "She's a whole performing universe of her own. Activists would run a mile from her because they could not deal with what she is."

I want to talk more about Mary Roy – and eventually we do – but there's one important point to clear up first. Guerrillas use violence, generally directed against the police and army, but sometimes causing injury and death to civilians caught in the crossfire. Does she condemn that violence? "I don't condemn it any more," she says. "If you're an adivasi [tribal Indian] living in a forest village and 800 CRP [Central Reserve Police] come and surround your village and start burning it, what are you supposed to do? Are you supposed to go on hunger strike? Can the hungry go on a hunger strike? Non-violence is a piece of theatre. You need an audience. What can you do when you have no audience? People have the right to resist annihilation."

Her critics label her a Maoist sympathiser. Is she? "I am a Maoist sympathiser," she says. "I'm not a Maoist ideologue, because the communist movements in history have been just as destructive as capitalism. But right now, when the assault is on, I feel they are very much part of the resistance that I support."

Roy talks about the resistance as an "insurrection"; she makes India sound as if it's ripe for a Chinese or Russian-style revolution. So how come we in the west don't hear about these mini-wars? "I have been told quite openly by several correspondents of international newspapers," she says, "that they have instructions – 'No negative news from India' – because it's an investment destination. So you don't hear about it. But there is an insurrection, and it's not just a Maoist insurrection. Everywhere in the country, people are fighting." I find the suggestion that such an injunction exists – or that self-respecting journalists would accept it – ridiculous. Foreign reporting of India might well be lazy or myopic, but I don't believe it's corrupt.

She sounds like a member of a religious sect, I say, as if she has seen the light. "It's a way of life, a way of thinking," she replies without taking offence. "I know people in India, even the modern young people, understand that here is something that's alive." So why not give up the plush home in Delhi and the media appearances, and return to the forest? "I'd be more than happy to if I had to, but I would be a liability to them in the forest. The battles have to be fought in different ways. The military side is just one part of it. What I do is another part of the battle."

I question her absolutism, her Manichaean view of the world, but I admire her courage. Her home has been pelted with stones; the Indian launch of Broken Republic was interrupted by pro-government demonstrators who stormed the stage; she may be charged with sedition for saying that Kashmiris should be given the right of self-determination. "They are trying to keep me destabilised," she says. Does she feel threatened? "Anybody who says anything is in danger. Hundreds of people are in jail."

Roy has likened writing fiction and polemic to the difference between dancing and walking. Does she not want to dance again? "Of course I do." Is she working on a new novel? "I have been," she says with a laugh, "but I don't get much time to do it." Does it bother her that the followup to The God of Small Things has been so long in coming? "I'm a highly unambitious person," she says. "What does it matter if there is or isn't a novel? I really don't look at it that way. For me, nothing would have been worth not going into that forest."

It's hard to judge whether there will be a second novel. The God of Small Things drew so much on her own life – her charismatic but overbearing mother; a drunken tea-planter father whom her mother left when Roy was very young; her own departure from home in her late teens – that it may be a one-off, a book as much lived as written. She gives ambiguous answers about whether she expects a second novel to appear. On the one hand, she says she is engaged with the resistance movement and that it dominates her thoughts. But almost in the same breath she says others have "picked up the baton" and she would like to return to fiction, to dance again.

What is certain is that little of the second novel has so far been written. She prefers not to tell me what it is about; indeed, she says it would not be possible to pinpoint the theme. "I don't have subjects. It's not like I'm trying to write an anti-dam novel. Fiction is too beautiful to be about just one thing. It should be about everything." Has she been blocked by the pressure of having to follow up a Booker winner? "No," she says. "We're not children all wanting to come first in class and win prizes. It's the pleasure of doing it. I don't know whether it will be a good book, but I'm curious about how and what I will write after these journeys."

Are her agent and publisher disappointed still to be waiting for the second novel? "They always knew there wasn't going to be some novel-producing factory," she says. "I was very clear about that. I don't see the point. I did something. I enjoyed doing it. I'm doing something now. I'm living to the edges of my fingernails, using everything I have. It's impossible for me to look at things politically or in any way as a project, to further my career. You're injected directly into the blood of the places in which you're living and what's going on there."
She has no financial need to write another novel. The God of Small Things, which sold more than 6m copies around the world, set her up for life, even though she has given much of the money away. She even spurned offers for the film rights, because she didn't want anyone interpreting her book for the screen. "Every reader has a vision of it in their head," she says, "and I didn't want it to be one film." She is strong-willed. Back in 1996, when The God of Small Things was being prepared for publication, she insisted on having control of the cover image because she didn't want "a jacket with tigers and ladies in saris". She is her indomitable mother's daughter.

I insist she tell me more about her Fellini-esque mother. She is, says Roy, like an empress. She has a number of buttons beside her bed which, when you press them, emit different bird calls. Each call signals to one of her retinue what she requires. Has she been the centre of her daughter's life? "No, she has been the centre of a lot of conflict in my life. She's an extraordinary women, and when we are together I feel like we are two nuclear-armed states." She laughs loudly. "We have to be a bit careful."

To defuse the family tensions, Roy left home when she was 16 to study architecture in Delhi – even then she wanted to build a new world. She married a fellow student at the age of 17. "He was a very nice guy, but I didn't take it seriously," she says. In 1984 she met and married film-maker Pradip Krishen, and helped him bring up his two daughters by an earlier marriage. They now live separately, though she still refers to him as her "sweetheart". So why separate? "My life is so crazy. There's so much pressure and idiosyncrasy. I don't have any establishment. I don't have anyone to mediate between me and the world. It's just based on instinct." I think what she's saying is that freedom matters more to her than anything else.

She chose not to have children because it would have impinged on that freedom. "For a long time I didn't have the means to support them," she says, "and once I did I thought I was too unreliable. So many of the women in India who are fighting these battles don't have children, because anything can happen. You have to be light on your feet and light in your head. I like to be a mobile republic."

Roy has in the past described herself as "a natural-born feminist". What did she mean by that? "Because of my mother and the way I grew up without a father to look after me, you learned early on that rule number one was look out for yourself. Much of what I can do and say now comes from being independent at an early age." Her mother was born into a wealthy, conservative Christian community in Kerala, but put herself outside the pale by marrying Ranjit Roy, a Hindu from West Bengal. When she returned to her home state after her divorce she had little money and was thus doubly marginalised. The mother eventually triumphed over all these obstacles and made a success of the school she founded, but growing up an outsider has left its mark on her daughter.

Roy says she has always been polemical, and points to her run-in with director Shekhar Kapur in the mid-1990s over his film Bandit Queen – she questioned whether he had the right to portray the rape of a living person on screen without that woman's consent. It may be that the novel is the exception in a life of agitation, rather than the agitation an odd outcrop in a life of fiction-writing. But has she sacrificed too much for the struggle – the chance to dance, children, perhaps even her second marriage? "I don't see any of these things as sacrifices," she says. "They are positive choices. I feel surrounded by love, by excitement. They are not being done in some martyr-like way. When I was walking through the forest with the comrades, we were laughing all the time."


Out of all the issues addressed in this article, more than Roy's background, feminism, which are interesting and notable topics for discussion on any other day, what I find most interesting, and have always found most interesting, is that of violent revolution.  This is nothing new, of course, as this has been a topic going back to Marx in the 19th century, when he was one of the few voices who supported the Paris Communards, and resonated in the 20th century, as it became one of the dividing contentions between the Communists and social democrats throughout Europe, but it deserves an updated redressing today.  Just when is it legitimate for people to take up arms against their own government?

Countries like Libya, Bahrain, and Syria seem obvious to most Westerners, outside of the security forces in those governments, of course, but those countries are either dictatorships or semi-democratic states.  India always likes to advertise itself as a free society, "the world's largest democracy."  If you are an Adivasi in India, you live in something like a democracy, what should you do?  Do traditional non-violence tactics (many employed in India by Gandhi over two generations ago) really work anymore?

Western apologists for armed uprisings in dictatorial countries that we dislike prefer using qualifiers, such as,
"you have no choice in a non-democratic setting but to use violence to overthrow the oppressive government that rules over you," but can you not have the same settings in democratic countries, too?  The US was considered a democracy when women or African Americans were not allowed to vote.  And when is it legitimate for people to take up arms in democratic settings in which they are being oppressed?  These are the types of questions I would think that are more appropriate not just in the case of Roy but at times even in my own country, when our current government decides to spy, monitor, torture, and murder us under the guise of national security.

If I had to look at it objectively, I would think what differentiates the Adivasi from the average American is that they are an actual group (or groups) of people, not just individual citizens, and their government (knowing they are an extreme minority [well below 10% of the country's overall population]) deems it right to tear down their homes and villages and put up their land for sale to the highest corporate bidder.  I would certainly think that you could apply this to the experience of the indigenous peoples in American history, and one could justify their resistance to 'defending' what they believe to be their country from a foreign invader, but this is where it becomes more complex because India is an ancient civilization, heterogeneous in population, with groups and subgroups who have lived side-by-side for thousands of years, not just a few decades.

A second issue that makes it even more interesting is that few non-tribal Indians seem to care that much about the plight of the Adivasi, including the Indian government, even though they are included as one of the 'scheduled tribes' under Indian law.  Even so, they are dozens of different major ethnic groups in-country and subregionally, and India is certainly not the first country to push natives out of their land for future development (Brazil, the US, and Australia, for example).  The problem with the other cases is that they were long ago (Brazil being the most recent).  Also, there are few defenders of such policies today, even if they still partake in 'development' programs in indigenous areas (like in Colombia and Peru).  Nevertheless, in that context, the Adivasi are hardly alone.

But does that give them the right to take up arms against an otherwise democratic government that has decided to disenfranchise and de-land them?  Ultimately, that is what it comes down to.  From their perspective, I would certainly not take kind to my government seizing my land, kicking me out by force, burning down my subsistence, and expelling me or the people that I love and care about (like an indigenous enclosure).  I am not sure if I would take up arms and fight it, since I have been fortunate enough not to be put in those life circumstances, but it would be hard for me to judge someone who did so, although I would qualify such support under limited circumstances to prevent the type of etho-centric separatist movements that so often tend towards human rights abuses far beyond that of the national government it is fighting (such as the Tamil Tigers).  To that ends, it would have to be an environment in which an entire group (ethnic or otherwise) is being violently and collectively targeted and unjustly expelled (as a group) from their lands without legal redress, and even then much of this would depend on other factors (realistic assessment for success, the willingness of opposition government to negotiate, etc.).

In addition, should not our enlightened international community consider what is happening any different than a foreign military invasion of a national homeland (since these are militias and military forces expelling and expropriating Adivisai lands they have lived on for centuries)?  In Kosovo, we called such actions ethnic cleansing (and in that case the natives, the Serbs, were the ones accused of the crime for running out several hundred thousand Kosovar Albanians during their war with the KLA-UCK).  What I would like to know is should not such group-targeting tactics be considered a form of ethnic cleansing under international law?  Does it somehow make it more acceptable to do this because the government is not, on paper, a formal dictatorship or is acting under the appearance of 'economic development' exculpate the nation-state in question from its conduct?  I ask these as open questions.

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