Adequate solutions to conflicts of long standing generally have to begin with a new way of understanding the situation. My thinking about the meaning of a “diaspora” grew out of my reflections on the ideology and politics of Zionism. At the same time it is my hope that the idea of the “New Diaspora” that is developed later in the article will be seen to have a much broader application in the world today.

Zionism

During the last Century Zionism dominated the theological and political life of Judaism. Zionism is both a religious ideology and a political movement. The basic tenet of Zionism was that the Jewish people, although they were scattered throughout the earth, constituted a nation, and as such they needed, and had the right to, a nation state of their own. Obviously the most salient obstacle in the way of accomplishing this goal was the fact that their ancient homeland in Palestine, as well as all viable alternative locations, was already inhabited.

Although many of the Zionist leaders were agnostics or atheists, the basic justification for wresting a homeland from its present inhabitants, who predictably would be reluctant to simply hand it over, was a religious one. God had promised the Jews this land, as it was recorded in the Torah. In addition to this religious motivation there was also a more practical one. To the degree that the Jewish people attempted to protect their own identity in the midst of other populations, they tended to become the target of persecutions – some of which were quite severe.

Prior to the second world war only about 20% of the Jewish people were motivated to support Zionism as a political movement. Some religious leaders felt that Zionism as a political movement was heretical, in that human beings were taking into their own hands what God was supposed to do through the action of the awaited Messiah. Many of the more secular Jews were undoubtedly disinclined to lend their support to the Zionist movement simply because they were fairly comfortable where they were, and were preoccupied with their daily concerns. Some opposed Zionism on moral or humanitarian grounds. They knew that trying to create a Jewish nation state in a land that was already occupied by other people would lead to bloodshed and suffering, and they felt that the Jewish people had no right to initiate such a conflict.

The Holocaust turned the tide in favor of the Zionist cause. It persuaded the majority of Jews that they would never be safe living as guests in other nations. It also aroused sympathy and support for the Zionist agenda from people all over the world. The political forces thus set in motion were decisive and by 1948 Israel was a recognized nation state.

This is not the place to detail the historical developments since 1948. Israel became a powerful and successful nation-state, but at a tremendous price both to the Jewish people themselves, and to the Palestinians whose land they took. The suffering, bloodshed and danger, as everyone is aware, continues to this day.

It is not my intention in this article to point my finger or to blame. Certainly one can understand the sense of urgency that compelled the Jews to pursue the Zionist agenda after the horror of the Holocaust. One can equally well understand why the Palestinians have been driven to extreme actions as they have attempted to cope with their many losses and humiliations at the hands of the Israelis. It is perhaps more difficult to sympathize with the Machiavellian policies of the United States in this situation. However, my intention here is not to blame anyone, but to seek a more adequate way of understanding of the situation.

According to an entry in the Wikepedia Encyclopedia, the term diaspora comes from a Greek word meaning “a scattering or sowing of seeds.” It “is used (without capitalization) to refer to any people or ethnic population forced or induced to leave their traditional ethnic homelands, being dispersed throughout other parts of the world, and the ensuing developments in their dispersal and culture.” The most common use of the term is to refer to the dispersion of the Jews who were exiled from Judea in 586 BCE by the Babylonians, and again from Jerusalem in 135 CE by the Romans. When it is used in this specific sense the word is capitalized.

Other well known examples of diasporas are the Africans who were taken into slavery, the Native Americans of north and South America, the Roma, the Irish as a result of the Potato Famine, the Buddhists from Tibet, and the Somalis who fled their homeland due to political turmoil in Somalia. This is not intended as an exhaustive list. It would seem that diasporas are both more common, and of greater historical significance, than is generally recognized.

The Tamils

Because of a violent conflict between the Tamils of Sri Lanka and the Sinhala majority that continued for some decades, many Tamils felt it necessary to leave their homeland. In an article titled “Tamil Diaspora: A Trans State Nation” on the web site Tamilnation.org we read:

“The Tamil diaspora is a growing “togetherness” of more than 70 million people living in many lands and across distant seas, many thousands as refugees and asylum seekers. It is a togetherness rooted in an ancient heritage, a rich language and literature, and a vibrant culture. But it is a togetherness which is not simply a function of the past. It is a growing togetherness consolidated by struggle and suffering and, given purpose and direction by the aspirations of a people for the future - a future where they and their children and their children’s children may live in equality and freedom in an emerging one world.”

Two interesting points are made in this article. First, a nation need not have physical boundaries. The Tamil people scattered across the earth in many lands are still considered to be a single nation because of their “togetherness” with regard to cultural and spiritual matters. Second, they see their primary hope for the future in the equality and freedom that they will find in an “emerging one world.” This is the same “emerging one world” that Black Elk envisioned in the famous vision that came to him when he was in a near death state as the result of an illness at the age of about 10.

“I was seeing in a sacred manner the shapes of all things in the spirit, and the shape of all shapes as they must live together like one being. And I saw that the sacred hoop of my people was one of many hoops that made one circle, wide as daylight and as starlight, and in the center grew one mighty flowering tree to shelter all the children of one mother and one father. And I saw that it was holy.”

The New Diaspora

Some become members of a diaspora because traumatic historical events have made them refugees. I do not wish to romanticize their situation, or suggest anything that might prolong it. Those who are refugees for any reason need to be helped to find places where they can settle and try to build new lives. Always they are faced with the problem of retaining what is good from their own cultures while adapting to the new environments in which they find themselves. This is never easy, and should never be forced on anyone. At the same time there may be a spiritual significance to what they are undergoing. In many ways these diasporas may be on the cutting edge of history. They force people in concrete ways to come to terms with what may be the most important issue in the world today – how do we find unity in diversity? The origin of the word is significant. A diaspora is a “scattering of seeds” a source of new growth.

Others become members of a diaspora because they have been excluded from full membership within the communities where they reside. Those with “deviant” sexual orientations, those who have been in prison for any reason, those labeled as “mentally ill,” and those with belief systems that vary too much from the norm, all find themselves excluded in varying degrees, and become a part of diasporas that await the day when we are able to create a world that excludes no one. These groups also are on the cutting edge of history. They disturb the sleep of acceptable humanity with questions that may some day awaken it: “Why do you choose not to see me as fully human?” “What can be done so that we will not fear each other so much?” “How can we be different yet not at war?”

Perhaps there are some who become dislocated from an easy identification with their nation states and their social groups simply because of their vision of a Promised Land of universal dimensions. Such people have been made homeless simply by their spiritual awakening. They realize that the old containers of sex, nation, social class, race and spiritual tradition are no longer adequate markers for their primary identification. These five containers must be broken. They are the “foreign lands” that hold us in captivity, and alienate us from who we might become, individually and collectively.

The whole earth must be the Promised Land, and it must exclude no one regardless of sexual identity, national affiliation, race, spiritual tradition, or social class. Social class, as an organizing structure superimposed over us, poisons our collective and individual lives and must radically dismantled. No person or group is entitled to hugely disproportionate degrees of either the world’s goods or social power. The other “containers” may continue to exist, but not as primary focal points for our identities. I am a citizen of the world first, and only secondarily a citizen of the United States or of Zimbabwe. I am a spiritual seeker first, and only secondarily a Christian or a Jew or a Hindu. I am a loving person first, and only secondarily a woman or a man or a homosexual or a heterosexual. I am a human being first, and only secondarily a member of whatever race I may choose to assign myself to. The New Jerusalem is not to be found in any nation-state, nor in any other grouping of people that sets itself up in opposition to other groups that it would exclude.

Teilhard de Chardin summed it up nicely. “We must give up our old prejudices and build the earth.” The New Jerusalem, the Promised Land, must be the whole earth, and all its people.

The New Diaspora consists of all those people whose Promised Land is the whole earth as a community living in harmony with each other – a harmony that is made possible not because diversity is suppressed but because it is celebrated. The ideal of the New Diaspora is diversity within unity – a community of people that is grounded in freedom, mutual respect, and civil liberties for all. Until we have arrived there we are “strangers in a strange land.”

Application to the Israeli/Palestinian conflict

However understandable the Zionist political movement was, it would seem that it was a mistake. The mistake was essentially religious in nature. It was a matter of identifying the Promised Land with a nation state – with any nation state – when it must now be understood to be the whole earth. The future of the world is with the New Diaspora – with those who are only nominally, if at all, citizens of any nation state – those who await the arrival of the “New Jerusalem” – the Promised land – the great hoop that Back Elk dreamed of.

We cannot undo what has been happening for the last fifty years in Israel and Palestine, any more that we can undo slavery, or the genocide of Native Americans in North America, or the Chinese invasion of Tibet. But we can take things as they are now and ask, “what would bring this situation closer to the new spiritual ideal that we must now put forward – the ideal of an enriching diversity within the unity of the whole earth – the dream of all those who long for the only Promised Land that makes sense in the 21st Century.”

With regard to the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, our analysis of the New Diaspora suggests that the only progressive solution to the conflict lies in the Israelis and the Palestinians learning to live together. As Todd May summarizes it, “the only politically and ethically viable approach to the problem of Israel and Palestine is to support a single democratic secular state that provides equal rights for all of its citizens.” (See the article, “The Emerging Case for a Single State in Palestine,” below).

Some would question how realistic it is to hope for a single state in which Jew and Palestinians can live together in relative harmony. In all probability, some less that ideal compromise will have to be accepted as a way of ending the violence and opening the way to a deeper resolution of the conflict. Eventually, however, a solution will need to be found that is based on the concept of a single, multi-cultural democracy, or on an arrangement that transcends the notion of a “nation state” entirely.

A Personal Reflection

Jedson

Yoga means union. The aim of any form of yoga is union with the Absolute. I use the term the “absolute” to refer to the Divine Ground of all reality – the One from which we come, and to which we return – the Divine that is at work in creation – that which is ultimately beyond both logic and language. We encounter the Absolute within time and space in the forces of evolution that seek to create and intensify values that can only be achieved in duality – love, beauty, adventure, knowledge, creativity and growth. We also encounter the Absolute as that point of ecstatic stillness beyond time and space – as the unmoving, self-sufficient One. A complete or integral yoga will reflect this duality. It will seek the incarnation of the Absolute in ever more satisfactory ways. The person who chooses an integral yoga will seek moments of stillness, in which to know the Absolute in that form. However, based on this experience of Oneness, he or she will not seek to disengage from the world but to transform his or her manner of being in the world. In this way s/he will seek the transformation of the world itself, so that it becomes a more beautiful, loving, place where collectively and individually we can learn, grow and create. Understood this way, then, yoga becomes politics.

The aim of a politics of yoga is to embody the light and to bring it to others. Plants, through photosynthesis, take the light of the sun into themselves and transform it into the living energy that is the foundation for all life on the earth. In a similar manner we can take the light of the absolute into ourselves where it becomes a living energy for creative and loving action.

What then is this light
That presents equally as an object,
And as a wave of nothing in particular
—This not this not that
—This limit to our rushing?

In the Raven light is swallowed up.
In his bleached bones on a pebbled beach
It is given again.

A pion dies into two gamma rays.
Shall I too
When I throw off my mass
Spin off effortlessly
Like two skaters racing across the ice
In time to each other and to a larger melody?

To the scientist a problem –
To the artist a mistress –
To the blind an unrequited love.
But what is light to itself?

What can I say, I who am not light?
Only that it laughs on the rippled surface,
And plays in the plumage of birds.

The embodiment of the light takes place in the social groups around us – in our immediate circle, in society as a whole, and in the ecology of the earth. The person for whom politics is a path is informed and energized by the light he or she encounters from the outside as well as that which comes from within.

The Christian myth tells of a wrongness that has entered into creation. The ultimate cause of this wrongness is unknown. It would seem to have been a collective wrong choice of the human race. We see it manifest in three ways: In the hatred of Eros, in the will to dominate others, and in the will to claim for oneself a disproportionate share of the worlds resources. These are the knots that have entered into creation – the knots that must be unraveled if we are to survive. In the self these knots are created when love goes out into the world and there encounters hostility and rejection. This love then turns back into the self where it creates psychic entanglements that prevent the free flow of love between the self and others. This, for example is what creates what in psychoanalytic terms is called the “sadistic super-ego.” Similar knots are found in society on all levels.

From time to time we find ourselves in a Camelot situation. Things are pulling together with a creative synergy. Our aims dovetail with the aims of others with whom we are connected. Life seems good. Central to the story of Camelot is the idea that the seeds of its destruction are present at it’s inception. Guenevere and Lancelot were attracted to each other from the beginning. Whether something akin to this is always present in real life situations is difficult to say. But for a variety of reasons no created form can last forever. The person who has chosen politics as a path does not seek to establish fixed Utopias; rather he or she attempts to facilitate the continuous creative unfolding of life.

Life processes do not move forward in a simple continuous motion, but through a rhythm – a continuous movement between reflection within the realm of potentiality and action in the world of external reality. Always that which has been encountered, enjoyed, endured or created in the external world of action is taken into the self where it is assimilated. This is followed by a re-emergence into the external world of action where the aims and knowledge of the living organism function in a modified, and ideally, an enlarged, more knowledgeable and more skillful manner. The rhythm can be seen most clearly in the waking and sleeping rhythm that we experience on a daily basis. It also occurs on a minute by minute basis during the day when we do something active on a project, pull back and contemplate what must be done next, and then move out into action again. On a larger scale one sees it in the passing of the generations. The older ones attempt to pass on what they have learned to the younger, who invariably modify it for their own purposes, and carry it forward in a new way. If re-incarnation is in some literal sense true, then we would have a natural extension of this rhythm through many lifetimes. In David Bohm’s terminology, we are constantly moving back and forth between the implicate and the explicate order of things. Death and re-embodiment. This is the central rhythm of all living systems.

The person who choses politics as a path must select his or her task. Often it seems rather like the task comes to the person. In any case our task is found at the interface between what we most love and the needs we encounter in the world around us. Each person is positioned in a unique way where certain possibilities are open to him or her that may not be open to others. Each person is also motivated by loves and interests that are unique, and is enabled by a particular set of skills. The political task is the point around which everything that we are – both in the implicate and the explicate order of things – and everything we encounter in our full range of experience, becomes a unifying process and a loving and creative force in the world.

In “The Synthesis of Yoga” Aurobindo speaks of “the triple path of devotion, knowledge and works.” When pursued together in a coherent manner these practices form an “integral” yoga. The yoga of politics is also an integral yoga. It is centered on four practices:

1. Meditation. Through any of a number of practices, the individual attempts to find the unmoving center within him or herself. In doing so one connects with a source of power that is beyond the time/space within which creation is embodied.

2. Action. Finding the unmoving center need not lead to a withdrawal from action in the world. Rather, one finds within the experience of that which is beyond time and space a source of comfort, peace and strength from which to confront the uncertainties and real dangers of the world with concerted and skillful action.

3. Love. The mainspring for a yoga of action is Love. But it is not a love that is composed merely of sentimental feelings about the hungry, the sick and the imprisoned. Nor is authentic love satisfied with mere “charity.” Rather it is a compassion that is motivated to alter those social, economic and political realities that lead to people starving, to unnecessary sickness and to the need for prisons.

4. Understanding. Knowledge is a form of power. If conditions are to be changed for the better, many different forms of knowledge may be needed. Study is an aspect of any political path. Knowledge of many different things may be relevant. Deepened understanding of both the self and the world are crucial. Knowledge of science, literature and spiritual disciplines are all relevant.

“End times” can mean many different things. We all face the fact of our own death, and for any of a number of reasons this may be an immediate rather than remote prospect. We also experience the loss of relationships, of groups, or of communities to which we belonged. These are all experienced as deaths. Our nation may be faced with destruction or with being transformed into something unbearably ugly and oppressive. At the present time science as well as religion is telling us that these may be the end times for the earth. It is important not to allow ourselves to succumb to a self fulfilling prophesy. It is necessary to do everything within our power to prevent this untimely end of a beautiful and fragile planet. Yet even the prospect that we may fail in this should not lead us to despair. The yoga of politics does not become irrelevant in the end times, regardless what form the end is taking for us. Within the scope of our lifetimes we see the destruction of much that we love and care for, but the Creative Power behind evolution takes up whatever good that has been accomplished, and moves it forward in new embodiments.

Death is a part of the creative process. We encounter it in personal death, in the death of our social forms, and perhaps in the death of the earth itself. The faith of the person who is practicing the yoga of politics is not grounded in the wisdom and power either of the self or of some revered leader or teacher, but in the Absolute. It is the faith that those things which have been truly good will be taken up and will serve as starting points for new creations.

Introductory Note by HealthWrights staff

This highly informative article places “Dalit theology” in its larger historical and cultural context. We are shown both the uniqueness of Dalit theology, and its relationship to other liberation theologies – especially those of Central and South America. At the center of Dalit theology is the issue of liberation. Perhaps the manner in which various religious traditions deal with this matter of “liberation” is the most revealing point of comparison between them. The Hindu tradition tended to see liberation as an escape from duality – from history itself. In Dalit theology, on the other hand, it is the historical meaning of liberation that is emphasized. Oommen points out that there are two aspects of this historical quest for liberation. First, in involves liberation from “historically oppressive structures – both religio-cultural and socio-economic.” But he points out that it is equally important to liberate people from the “slavery of self-captivity.” This “self-captivity” has to do primarily with the internalization of oppression through taking into oneself the identity images provided by the larger culture.

The Emerging Dalit Theology --
An Historical Appraisal

by George Oommen, 2000.06.01

“Liberation” by Escher

The Rev. George Oommen, Ph.D., received his doctorate at the University of Sydney, Australia. He is Chairperson and Professor of History of Christianity and Dean of Graduate Studies at the United Theological College, Bangalore, India. This article originally appeared in Indian Church History Review, Vol. XXXIV, Number 1 June 2000, pp. 19-37.

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Dalit Theology is a new strand which has emerged in the Asian theological scene. This theology began to take shape in the early 80s when A.P. Nirmal, then a faculty member at the United Theological College, floated the idea of “Shudra Theology.” But now, Dalit theology has come of age and it stands by its own uniqueness and creativity.

At the outset it is appropriate that I explain the term “Dalit” because it has come into popular use in India only very recently. The etymology of the term “Dalit” goes back to the 19th century when a Marathi social reformer and revolutionary Mahatma Jyotirao Phule used it to describe the “outcastes” and “untouchables” as the “oppressed and crushed victims of the Indian caste system.” In the 1970s the Dalit Panther Movement of Maharashtra gave currency to the term “Dalit” as a reminder that they were the deprived and the dispossessed section of Indian society and as a means of rejecting other names given to them with a paternalistic attitude.

“Outcastes” in India have been known by different names such as: “Harijan,” meaning children of Han (God) given by Gandhi; “Avarrias” meaning casteless; “Panchamas” meaning fifth caste; “Chandalas” meaning worst of the earth; “Depressed classes” given during British Colonial days, and Scheduled Caste given by the Indian Constitution. Recent Dalit protest movements in India have increasingly used the term Dalit to demonstrate the rejection of derogatory names given by outsiders and further, to refer to their pain, suffering and hope for liberation.

James Massey, a prominent Dalit theologian captures the wide usage of the term Dalit as follows:

“Dalit is thus not a mere descriptive name or title, but an expression of hope for the recovery of their past identity. The struggle of these “outcastes” has given the term dalit a positive meaning. The very realisation of themselves as Dalit, the very acceptance of the state of “dalitness,” is the first step on the way towards their transformation into full and liberated human beings.”1

Dalits who constitute almost 20% of the Indian population (200 million), were considered untouchables as a result of the Hindu understanding of “ritual pollution and purity.” Dalits were not included in the four fold varna categories. At the top were the Brahmins, who considered themselves as the most ritually pure. Beyond the pale of society, “outcastes” were considered extremely polluted and were assigned occupations such as removal of dead animals, scavenging and cleaning of the village. They were also landless agricultural labourers and tanners. They were barred from using village water tanks and public roads. Temple doors were closed on them.

Dalit Christians

Although Christianity is an egalitarian religion, the caste system found its way into it in India. Dalit Christians within the church were discriminated against and were denied powers within the ecclesiastical structure.

Although Dalit Christians constituted approximately 70% of the Indian Christian population they were marginalized and ignored until recently. To illustrate this let me quote what Archbishop George Zur, Apostolic Pro-Nuncio to India said while inaugurating the CBCI (Catholic Bishops Conference of India) in 1991:

Though Catholics of the lower caste and tribes form 60 per cent of Church membership they have no place in decision-making. Scheduled caste converts are treated as lower caste not only by high caste Hindus but by high caste Christians too. In rural areas they cannot own or rent houses, however well-placed they may be. Separate places are marked out for them in the parish churches and burial grounds. Inter-caste marriages are frowned upon and caste tags are still appended to the Christian names of high caste people. Casteism is rampant among the clergy and the religious. Though Dalit Christians make 65 per cent of the 10 million Christians in the South, less than 4 per cent of the parishes are entrusted to Dalit priests. There are no Dalits among 13 Catholic Bishops of Tamilnadu or among the Vicars-general and rectors of seminaries and directors of social assistance centres.2

The situation in the Protestant Church is no different except that some Dalits have been elevated to Bishopric and other positions of power recently. Many Dalit Christian leaders refer to the thrice-alienated situation of the Dalit Christians in India, namely, discrimination within the Church, discrimination by Hindu culture and discrimination by the State as they are denied Scheduled Caste status in the Constitution, and the related privileges which come with that status.3

At the outset it should be noted that the emergence of Dalit Christian Theology in India is intrinsically linked to more recent and significant developments within the Dalit Movement in India from the 70s.

But before we go into that, a word about the history of Dalit Movement in India is in place. Dalit protest and resistance movements seem to have gone through several phases. Bhakti movements within Hinduism between 14th and 16th centuries symbolised low castes’ aspiration for an egalitarian society and religion. The Bhakti movement stood for transformation of Hindu society and used religious resources to push forward the basic ideology that all persons were equal before God. However, the dominant castes co-opted it and transformed it into a reform movement within Hinduism. Moreover the British Colonial system dealt a decisive blow to the growth of the Bhakti movement.

The destruction of the Jajmani system, communal ownership of landed property, by the British and introduction of legal land relationship changed the situation of Dalits for the worse. Jajmani had used traditional caste relationships for division of labour and had provided some material security for them, although it was an exploitative and unjust system.4

The entry of colonialism enabled Dalits to search for new means of protest and liberation. Some Dalits integrated themselves into the colonial system by joining the army or by serving as indentured labourers in British colonies. Others chose Sanskritization as a means of upward mobility. Self respect movements and religious and social reform movements for educational and political rights in South Indian analysis of the Kamataka situation in Godwin Shin, The Plight of Christian Dalits: A South Indian Case Study. Bangalore: ATC, 1997.

States were expression of this self assertion movement. This took place at the turn of the 20th century.

However, mass conversions to non-Hindu religions were the most prominent means of Dalit protest which began during the second half of the 19th Century. Many historians, such as John Webster, say that the modern Dalit movement was begun in and through the Christian conversion movements. 5

Several opinions are expressed regarding the reasons for Dalit conversion to Christianity. They range from the spiritual to socio-economic. But there is a general consensus among scholars that, “the underlying motivation was the search for improved social status, for a greater sense of personal dignity and self respect, for freedom from bondage to oppressive land owners.”6 A complete break with the past was impossible for Dalit Christians. But it is beyond doubt that Dalit Christians initiated a movement of Dalit power and cultural changes through conversion movement which included “alterations in perceptions of self and the world, in life-style, as well as the acquisition of enhanced resources for self-improvement and self-empowerment.”7

Dalits in post-Independent India sought new avenues of liberation. One of the best examples of this new wave of Dalit emancipatory movement was the Dalit Panther Movement in Maharashtra which popularized the use of the term Dalit. The Dalit Panthers saw caste as the major source by which their “humanity” was being virtually reduced to a state of “being no people.” 8 However, class analysis also was used as an effective tool to understand the plight of this downtrodden people. 9

Further there was a surge in the Dalit literature in 1960s. This literary tradition had a distinct anti-caste message. It embodied the Dalit search for a culture of their own and developed a counter culture parallel to the “Great Tradition” without being co-opted into the Sanskritic tradition. This literary movement created a Dalit folklore with the assertion that they have had a culture of their own and that they do have one which is not in any way inferior to any other traditions of India.10 Dalit literary movements were considerably influenced by Black American Literature and there were direct references, although in passing to the Blacks’ situation in America in these writings. The following is an interesting one:

The words “a peculiar institution” describe the untouchability created by the caste system. The Negro should not change the colour of his hide, nor the untouchable his caste. There is no difference between the place of the Negro in America and the step or level of the Untouchable in India. And so, for a long time, both were caught in whirlwind of self-denigration and self-hatred. Both were confined in the prison of fatalism. To prolong this imprisonment, the whites found authority in the Bible’s myths and symbols, and the clean castes in the Vedas and Manusmniti! 11

Closely following the teachings of B.R. Ambedkar, the 20th Century symbol of Dalit power and protest, the Dalit asserted their separateness from other Hindus and demonstrated vehement opposition to classical Brahmanic Hinduism.12 However, it may be stated that Dalit movement in India is not yet homogenous and does represent diverse policies and means of liberation. However, a pan-Indian psychological solidarity was increasingly emerging in the 1980s.

A Counter-Theology

A Series of attempts and initiatives began in the early eighties to systematically articulate the faith in the context of the newly emerging Dalit aspiration for liberation. A.P. Nirmal, James Massey, M.E. Prabhakar, M. Azariah, K. Wilson, V. Devasahayam and F.J. Balasundaram are some of the prominent persons who figure in this theological movement.13 As theology predominantly became a vehicle to serve the elite interests, marginalizing the Dalits’ faith, Dalit theology manifested itself as a counter-theology movement. Re-formulation and re-visioning were the objectives rather than reconstruction and deconstruction. Both the European missionary movement and the traditional Indian Christian Theology of the 20th Century were rejected as metaphysical speculations having nothing to do directly with the history and existence of the marginalized majority within the Indian Church.

Dalit theologians felt the need to consciously reflect upon the oppressive situation of Dalits in India. “Thus, when Dalit theologians speak of Dalit theology,” says James Massey:”They are in fact making an affirmation about the need for a theological expression which will help them in their search for daily bread and their struggle to overcome a situation of oppression, poverty, suffering, injustice, illiteracy and denial of human dignity and identity. It is these realities of Dalit life which require the formulation of a Dalit theology. The highly philosophical schools of thoughts such as Gnana Marga, Karma Marga and Bhakti Marga were of no liberative and theological value to Dalits.”

Many felt that the theological task of India need not be the preserve of the “Brahmanic Tradition” within the Indian Church, which had always used “intuition, inferiority oriented approach” to theologising.14 Dalit theologians were of the opinion that the theological and cultural domination of Brahmanic traditions within Indian Christianity, ignoring the rich cultural and religious experience of the Dalits had to be ignored, if not rejected completely. 15

It is relevant to note here that sacred texts of the Hindu religion such as Vedas and Mantras were not accessible to Dalits as a rule. They could perceive the same tradition continuing within Christianity in theology. In that sense Dalit theological movement was also an expression of appropriating a sacred mode from high caste theology. Thus Dalit theological movement was a corrective to the institutionalization of inequality and inaccessibility within the theological field. “To sum up, then,” Nirmal says;

Whether it is the traditional Indian Christian theology or the more recent third-world theology, our theologians failed to see the struggle of Indian Dalits for liberation a subject matter appropriate for doing theology in India. What is amazing is that fact that Indian theologians ignore the reality of the Indian Church. While estimates vary, between 50 and 80 percent of all the Christians in India today are of scheduled-caste origin. This is the most important commonality cutting across the various diversities of the Indian Church that would have provided an authentic liberation motif for Indian Christian theology. If our theologians failed, to see this in the past, there is all the more reason for our waking up to this reality today and for applying ourselves seriously to the “task of doing theology”.16

Thus, essentially, Dalit theology was a liberative action in itself, in the sense that its coming into being created space for the development of a Dalit Christian voice.

Major Affirmations and Features

1) The primary affirmation of Dalit theology is that it is a theology about Dalits, for Dalits and originated from them; “the theology which they themselves would like to expound.”17 They alone are the authors of this articulation. Almost closely following the Dalit literary movement, Dalit theology promotes an exclusiveness in the doing of theology. Defending this methodological exclusivism, the chief architect of this theology writes, “This exclusivism is necessary because the chief tendency of all dominant traditions - cultural or theological - is to accommodate, include, assimilate, and finally conquer others. Counter -theologies or people’s theology therefore need to be on guard and need18 to shut off the influences of the dominant theological traditions.

In fact it is the very Christian character of “Dalitness” which will justify this primacy given to Dalits and the methodological exclusivism. Some Dalit theologians say Dalit theology can be done only by the Dalits who have experienced sufferings and who understand the pain of people.

However, not all Dalit theologians accept this approach of virtual exclusion of others from doing Dalit theology. Balasundaram, a departmental colleague, says, “Dalit theology is not and can’t be exclusive. A theology that is exclusive can’t be Christian. Dalit theology is pursued for others’ liberation also.”19 Further, acknowledging the very inclusive structural nature of sin, in this case the caste system, and the role both the oppressed and the oppressors have in this., K. Wilson challenges the exclusive methodological approach. Non-Dalits’ expression of solidarity with Dalits also is seen as an inevitable component of the ultimate liberation of Dalits. K. Wilson expresses it is as follows: " Christian Dalit theology does not forbid Christian Dalits from working with non-Dalit authentic Christians, the renascent Hindus, the reformed Muslims and humanistic forces from various other faiths and ideologies, on a common human platform and thus hasten the process of establishing a human and humane culture which is why the Word became flesh.

Due to influence of the “secular” Dalit movement in India and the liberation theology from Latin America, Dalit theology began the movement by accepting Marxian analytical tools. However, caste is now seen as the major socio-economic formative force in shaping and understanding the history of Dalits. Moreover the over-arching impact of Ambedkarism on all Dalits further seems to enhance the process of accepting caste as the sole source of the suffering of Dalits. Ambedkar was very forthright in declaring the separateness of Dalits from the caste system as the means of their liberation. Dalit theology seems to be totally in conformity with this position.

2) One of the major sources of doing Dalit theology is Dalit experience of suffering and pain.

The narration of the story of their pathos and their protest has a primary place in this. Dalit literary movement gives “expression to their anger against those who have made them Dalits.” And Dalit theology gives vent to the agony and pain of God’s people.

Thus it results in the recovery of their past and the memory of their rejection. This recovery of the collective memory of their “wounded psyche” has another purpose also. It helps Dalits and Dalit theologians to theologically reflect on the “subjugated and submerged” rich cultural identity of Dalits. There is a conscious effort made by Christian theologians to capture the growing awareness among Dalits that they were “members of an ancient primeval society disinherited and uprooted by the alien Brahmanical civilization.”20

Thus, history is fundamental to the theological task in this movement. History is not illusionary or unreal as Hindu metaphysical philosophy may make one to believe. First, history is fundamental in the sense that realization of Dalits as the “subjects” of history is essential towards recovery and recapture of their lost dignity. Secondly, unlike the classical Indian Christian Theology, or for that matter the Indian classical Philosophy of the high caste, which is based on the transcendental nature of the Ultimate Reality and a cyclical view of history. History is fundamental in comprehending Dalit humanity. Human experience and ultimate liberation which are integral parts of the “here and now” are primary to the doing of Dalit theology. This anubhava (experience) takes precedence over anumana (speculation).

James Massey expounds four layer of colonisation as the fundamental causes for the suffering and the submergence of the identity and culture of the Dalits. They are Aryan, Muslim, British and the high caste internal colonisations. 21 This is how he summarizes his position:

“The colonization of the Dalits, which began with their defeat at the hands of the Aryans, was internalized through religious myths and stories and finally by introducing a fixed social order based on a caste system dependent on one’s birth. Neither the centuries during which India was successively dominated by Muslims and the British nor the arrival of other religions, including Christianity, succeeded in overcoming the influence of this caste system; indeed, the effect of Muslim and British colonization was to strengthen the status quo. With independence, the rule of the country went back in to the hands of the so-called upper caste, the original colonizers of the Dalits.”22

3) The ultimate function of Dalit theology is two fold: to act in solidarity and to act for liberation. Liberation is envisaged as liberation of Dalits from the historically oppressive structures both religio-cultural and socio-economic. Hence, theological articulation is not only a faith expression but also a means for liberation. According to this school of thought, any theological expression that will not lead to action and the resultant liberation is futile.

The concept for solidarity has also emerged in this school of theology. Christian values of sacrifice, charity and commitment to others are all intertwined in this profound understanding of solidarity. Transcending one’s creed, ideology and religion a Dalit is invited “to lose oneself for the sake of the other.” Incarnational theology is the basis of such a two-sided solidarity with God and with fellow Dalits. According to James Massey the core of the act of the incarnation of God in Jesus was God’s “acting in solidarity with human beings, particularly the oppressed of this world.” 23 Massey sees in this solidarity of God with human beings a challenge for Dalit solidarity:

The model of solidarity we find in God’s incarnational act in history challenges us Dalit Christians to follow it, so that the experiences we share with the Dalits in general should become the basis of an authentic Dalit theology. . . . Being in solidarity with our fellow Dalits of different faiths and ideologies is a demand which the God of the Bible, through his own act of incarnation, places on Dalit Christians. This is an important factor for the authenticity of Dalit theology, enabling it to become an instrument of destroying the social and religious structures responsible for the Dalits’ historical captivity. 24

4) It is not merely the enslavement of the Dalits by the dominating groups which comes under the critical scrutiny of Dalit theology but also the enslavement of the Dalit psyche or “the inner nature of Dalitness.” James Massey describes it as “a self-captivity” of the Dalit community. Dalit theology seeks to liberate people from this slavery of “self-captivity,” “a slavery from which it seems almost impossible to be liberated.” 25 The psychological dimensions within the Dalit theological movement are far more significant than we see at the surface. This should be recognized as an important aspect of Dalit theology.

A Dalit God and Jesus the Dalit

The Christian God is a Dalit god, affirm Dalit theologians. This God who is revealed in the Old Testament and Jesus who sided with the Dalits of the world are the liberative paradigms for the doing of Dalit theology. It not only helps them to come to terms with their historical consciousness, which is submerged in pathos and protest, but also to comprehend a God who in Jesus restores “humanness” to Dalits.

The Exodus liberation paradigm which had tremendous implications for liberation theologies in Latin America has extensively influenced the thinking and articulation of Dalit theology in India. A.P. Nirmal particularly depended on the Deuteronomic account of the affliction, toil and the oppression of the foreparents of the Israelites to expound the movement of Dalits from a “no people” to “God’s people.”

Using the Deuteronomic Creed as model, Dalit theology can construct the historical Dalit consciousness which has to do with their roots, identities and struggle for human dignity and “for the right to live as free people created in the image of God.” Nirmal says:

The historical Dalit consciousness in depicts even greater and deeper pathos than is found in the Deuteronomic Creed. My Dalit ancestors did not enjoy the nomadic freedom of the wandering Aramean. As outcasts, they were also cast out of their villages. When my Dalit ancestors walked the dusty roads of his village, the Sa Varnas tied a branch of a tree around his rest so that he would not leave any unclean foot prints and pollute the roads. Nirmal concludes,

The Dalit consciousness should realise that the ultimate goal of its liberation movement cannot be the “land flowing with milk and honey”. For Christian Dalit Theology, it cannot be simply the gaining of the rights, the reservation, and the privileges.. The goal is the realisation of our full humanness or, conversely our full divinity, the ideal of the Imago Dei, the image of God in us. To use another biblical metaphor, our goal is the glorious liberty of the children of god.” 26

Fo Dalit theologians God is clearly a Dalit God. God, who reveals himself, both through the prophets and Jesus Christ, is a God of the Dalits. The servant God, a God who identifies with the servant-hood of Dalits, is perceived by Dalit theologians as Dalit God. The servant role that the ex-untouchable played in India was indeed a participation in this “servant-God?s ministries.” Thus, Nirmal says, “To speak of a Servant-God, therefore, is to recognise and identify him as a truly Dalit deity. 27 For Dalit theologians Jesus is the ultimate Dalit, the servant God whom God reveals. However, it may be noted here that some of the recent theologians underplay the use of this servant imagery as it evokes extremely painful memories. Moreover, they feel, this will only help perpetuate structures of domination and subservience within which Dalits are caught up even now.

Jesus’ tilt towards the poor and the marginalized, tax-collectors, prostitutes and lepers, according to Dalit theology, portrays Jesus as God incarnated as a Dalit. Devasahayam reflects as follows on Jesus’ image from a Dalit perspective:

Jesus reveals a free God, who is uncoopted and uncontained by those identified with religion This God is free to hear the cry of the outcasts against the guardians of religious society This God is not under the power of Brahman but is free to hear ones against Brahmans and other upper castes and side with the Dalits, who are ousted from the Temples and who are denied the right to study the Scriptures. 28

The Cross has a special meaning in Dalit theology. Both the liberative praxis and the Dalitness of Jesus culminates in the symbol of Gurukul, 1992.

“On the Cross, he was the broken, the crushed, the split, the torn, the driven-asunder man,” revealing his Dalitness. 29

The vision of a new community under God is also envisaged by some Dalit theologians. Here the emphasis is on the invitation of Jesus to a new fellowship in which all equally and fully participate. “The focus is not merely on the oppression and God option for the oppressed, but on the new community of freedom and fellowship, love and justice, which is the new people of the reign of God to which God calls all peoples.” 30 Theologians like Wilson feel that God’s plan is to transform Dalits into a community which liberates not only themselves but also their oppressors and thus gives a liberative dimension to their very dalitness.

The use of the Bible in Dalit theology needs a special mention. Dalit theologians entirely depend on Bible and Biblical examples. Dalit theologians are not essentially different from liberation school of theology. However, there is a conscious and deliberate attempt on the part of Dalit theologians to re-read the Bible from the perspective of the experience of the victims.

Future Directions

1) Dalit theology is part of the post colonial struggle of different communities for their distinct identity and space. In a largely homogenizing trend influenced by two processes namely globalization and Hinduisation, Dalits and Dalit Christians are still struggling for a Dalit identify of their own. Intra-Dalit conflicts and Dalit sub-groups still continue despite the striving for a common Dalit identity and solidarity. Therefore, the challenge for Dalit theology is to strike an ideal balance.

Hindutva revival/reform movements are trying to absorb Dalits into a monolithic Hindu fundamentalist culture. Their systematic propaganda concentrates on the message that Dalits had been truly part of the “Hindu” religio-cultural structures. Several Hindu organizations are involved in re-conversion efforts to drive home this ideology. Although it is a clear historical distortion, Dalits are caught up in a dilemma whether to declare their solidarity with Hindus or with Dalits. In fact Dalits are caught between Hinduisation and Dalitisation. This historic dilemma appears to have had its impact upon Dalit Christians and Dalit theological movement too. This may be the reason why this new strand of theology appears to be at a standstill right now.

However, the recent efforts to genuinely develop a constructive theological strand is a welcome change. The trend setting work of Sathiyanathan Clarke, Dalits and Christianity Subaltern Religion and Liberation Theology in India (1998) deserves special mention here, as it opens up new avenues for Dalit theology movement. . .

2) The almost total dependence on Biblical thought for. theological construction needs further reconsideration in the light of the historical experience of Dalits.

Pre-existing/Christian egalitarian thoughts and struggle for equality and justice were evident in Dalit history and memory But the early Dalits had their own ways of protest and resistance. This is ignored by Dalit theologians.

Dalit theologians also need to widen the definition of “texts,” given the oral emphasis in Dalit Tradition By probing into Dalit folklore and songs they are likely to unearth extra textual sources for doing Dalit theology. This could also help create new hermeneutical principles unique to the Dalit theological movements. 31

3) Ancestral worship and female deities appear prominently in Dalit myths and songs. Dalit theologians could explore how the pre-existing religio-cultural ideas might have shaped their journey into Christianity and how they deal with such questions in their everyday life. All these could function as rich source of theologising and Dalit faith articulation in India.

4) While pathos, suffering and pain have found a place in Dalit theology, the rich Dalit traditions of celebrating life in the context of communitarian values seem to have been completely forgotten by Dalit theologians with few exceptions. The rich culture of the Dalit have a lot of egalitarian ideas. This needs to be further explored by Dalit theologians.

5) The “dialogue” and “accommodation” that take shape at the popular level of both Hinduism and Christianity need systematic consideration by Dalit theology. It appears that in a silent way people at the village level are moulding meaningful systems of interaction in a pluralistic socio-religious setting like that of India. If “the reality of the religion of a people can be studied only through the empirical enquiry into the meaning appropriated by them as persons and community of persons in their life situations,” 32 then Dalit theology needs to look carefully into popular level of Hindu-Christian religious encounter. Luke and Camian’s study reveals that religious boundaries at the level of belief systems and rituals are not so marked in the minds of the people in villages. In the popular worship context, there is mutual sharing of practices, symbols and values without so much fuss. 33 These marginalised spaces deserves systematic attention.

Endnotes:

1. James Massey, Down Trodden: The Struggle of India?s Dalits for Identity, Solidarity and Liberation. Geneva: WCC, 1997, p. 3., See an edited volume on the issue of Dalit Identity, Walter Fernandes, The Emerging Dalit Identity: The Re-Assertion of the Subalterns. New Delhi: ISI, 1996.

2. James Massey, Dalits in India: Religion as a Source of Bondage or Liberation with Special Reference to Christians. New Delhi: Manohar, 1995, p. 82.

3. See Duncan Forrester, Caste and Christianity. London: Curzon, 1979. See a recent Dalit Movement in India

4. Walter Fernandes, “A Socio-historical perspective for Liberation Theology in India? in Felix Wilfred (ed.), Leave the Temple: Indian Paths to Human Liberation. Maryknoll: Orbis, 1992.

5. John C.B. Webster, The Dalit Christians: A History. Delhi: ISPCK, 1992, pp. 33ff.

6. Webster, The Dalit Christians, p. 57, See also G.A. Oddie (ed.), Religion in South Asia: Religious Conversion and Revival Movement in South Asia in Medieval and Modern Times. New Delhi: Manohar, 1991, George Oommen, The Struggle of Pulaya Christians for Social Improvement, 1993 (unpublished Ph.D. Thesis, University of Sydney).

7. Webster, The Dalit Christians, p. 70.

8. Massey, Down Trodden, p. 2.

9. See Gail Omvedt, Dalits and the Democratic Revolution: Dr. Ambedkar and the Dalit Movement in Colonial India. New Delhi: Sage, 1994.

10. Eleanor Zelliot, From untouchable to Dalit: Essays on the Ambedkar Movement. Delhi: Manohar, 1996, pp. 267-333. See also Arjun Dangle (ed.), Poisoned Bread. Bombay: Longman, 1992.

11. Zelliot From Untouchable to Dalit, p. 281.

12. See for details, Zelliot, From Untouchable to Dalit, pp. 53-179. Paul Chirakarodu?s Massive volume on Ambedkar in Malayalam Ambedkar, Tiruvalla: Dalit Books, 1993 democrates the regional influence of Ambedkarism.

13. See Arvind P. Nirmal (ed.), A Reader in Dalit Theology. Madras: Gurukul, n.d., Arvind P. Nirmal (ed.), Towards a Common Dalit Ideology. Madras: Gurukul, n.d., Bhagwan Das and James Massey (eds.), Dalit Solidarity. Delhi: ISPCK, 1995, James Massey, Dalits in India: Religion as a Source of Bondage or Liberation with special Reference of Christians. Delhi: Manohar, 1995.

14. FJ. Balasundaram, Dalit struggle. . . . (unpublished manuscripts), pp. 2f.

15. Sathianathan Clarke, Dalits and Christianity: Subaltern Religion & Liberation Theology in India. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1998, P. 40. See also Arvind P. Nirmal, “Toward a Christian Dalit Theology,” R.S. Sugirtharajah (ed.), Frontiers in Asian Christian Theology: Emerging Trends. Maryknoll: Orbis, 1994, p. 28f.

16. Nirmal, “Towards a Christian Dalit Theology,” in Sugirtharajah, Frontiers in Asia, Christian Theology, p. 30.

17. lbid., p. 31.

18. lbid.

19. Balasundaram, “Dalit Struggle. . . ,”

20. A.M. Abraham Ayroorkuzhiel, “The Ideological Nature of the Emerging Dalit Consciousness” in A.P. Nirmal (ed.), Towards a Common Dalit Ideology Madras: Gurukul, n.d.

21. See for details Massey, Down Trodden, pp. 12-28.

22. Massey, ibid., pp. 27-28.

23. Ibid., p. 60.

24. Ibid., p. 61.

25 Ibid., p. 25.

26. Nirmal, “Towards a Christian Dalit Theology,” in Sugirtharajah, Frontiers in Asian Christian Theology, pp. 33f.

27. Nirma1, “Towards a Christian Dalit Theology,” in Sugirtharajah, Frontiers in Asian Christian Theology, p. 35.

28. Devasahayam, Outside the Camp: Bible Studies in Dalit Perspective. Madras:

29. Nirmal, “Towards a Christian Dalit Theology,” in Sugirtharajah, Frontiers in Asian Christian Theology, p. 39.

30. Michael Amaladoss, Life in Freedom: Liberation Theologies from Asia. Maryknoll:Orbis, l997, p. 31. between plurality and solidarity without succumbing to the pressures of homogenisation.

31. See an attempt in this direction in Joseph Patmury (ed.), Doing Theology with the Poetic Tradition of India: Focus on Dalit and Tribal Poems, Bangalore, PTCA/SATHRI, 1996. Some books have appeared in regional languages; Paul Chirakkarodu, M. Sathyaprakasham, Abraham Ayrookuzhi, Dalit Kavithakal: Oru Padanam (Dalit Poems: A Study). Tiruvalla: CLS/CISRS, 1992. Abraham Ayrookuzhi & Paul Chirakkarodu, Dalir Saahizyam (Dalit Literature: A Study). Tiruvalla: CSS, 1995.

32. M.M. Thomas, “Foreword,” in A.M. Abraham Ayroorkuzhiel, The Sacred in Popular Hinduism. Bangalore: CISRS, 1983, p. vii.

33. P.Y. Luke and John B. Carman, Village Christians and Hindu Culture: Study of a Rural Church in Andhra Pradesh, South India. Lutterworth Press, WCC, 1968. See also Paul Younger, “Hindu-Christian Worship Setting in South India,” in Harold Coward (ed.), Hindu Christian Dialogue: Perspectives and Encounters. Maryknoll: Orbis, 1989.

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“All revolutions are spiritual at the source. All my activities have the sole purpose of achieving a union of hearts.” – Vinoba

“Jai jagat! – Victory to the world!”

– Vinoba

Once India gained its independence, that nation’s leaders did not take long to abandon Mahatma Gandhi’s principles.

Nonviolence gave way to the use of India’s armed forces. Perhaps even worse, the new leaders discarded Gandhi’s vision of a decentralized society – a society based on autonomous, self-reliant villages. These leaders spurred a rush toward a strong central government and an industrial economy as found in the West.

Yet Gandhi’s vision was not abandoned by all. Many of Gandhi’s – constructive workers development experts and community organizers working in a host of agencies set up by Gandhi himself – resolved to continue his mission of transforming Indian society.

Leading them was a disciple of Gandhi previously little known to the Indian public, yet eventually regarded as Gandhi’s – spiritual successor: a saintly, reserved, austere individual called Vinoba.

In 1916, at the age of 20, Vinoba was in the holy city of Benares trying to come to a decision.

Should he go to the Himalaya mountains and become a religious hermit – Or should he go to West Bengal and join the guerillas fighting the British?

Then Vinoba came across a newspaper account of a speech by Gandhi. Vinoba was thrilled. Soon after, he joined Gandhi in his ashram. (An ashram is a religious community – but for Gandhians, it is also a center for political and social action.)

As Vinoba later said, he found in Gandhi the peace of the Himalayas united with the revolutionary fervor of Bengal.

Gandhi greatly admired Vinoba, commenting that Vinoba understood Gandhian thought better than he himself did. In 1940 he showed his regard by choosing Vinoba over Nehru to lead off a national protest campaign against British war policies.

After Gandhi’s assassination on January 30, 1948, many of Gandhi’s followers looked to Vinoba for direction. Vinoba advised that, now that India had reached its goal of Swaraj – independence, or self-rule – the Gandhians – new goal should be a society dedicated to Sarvodaya, the “welfare of all.”

The name stuck, and the movement of the Gandhians became known as the Sarvodaya Movement. A merger of constructive work agencies produced Sarva Seva Sangh – The Society for the Service of All – which became the core of the Sarvodaya Movement, as the main Gandhian organization working for broad social change along Gandhian lines.

Vinoba had no desire to be a leader, preferring a secluded ashram life. This preference, though, was overturned by events in 1951, following the yearly Sarvodaya conference in what is now the central Indian state of Andhra Pradesh. At the close of that conference, Vinoba announced his intention to journey through the nearby district of Telengana.

He couldn’t have picked a more troubled spot.

Telengana was at that moment the scene of an armed insurrection. Communist students and some of the poorest villagers had united in a guerilla army. This army had tried to break the land monopoly of the rich landlords by driving them out or killing them and distributing their land.

At the height of the revolt, the guerrillas had controlled an area of 3,000 villages. But the Indian army had been sent in and had begun its own campaign of terror. Now, many villages were occupied by government troops during the day and by Communists at night. Each side would kill villagers they suspected of supporting the other side. So most villagers lived in terror of both sides.

The government had clearly shown it would win, but the conflict wasn’t nearly over by the time of the Sarvodaya conference. Vinoba hoped to find a solution to the conflict and to the injustice that had spawned it. So, refusing police escort, he and a small company set off on foot.

On April 18, the third day of his walk, Vinoba stopped in the village of Pochampalli, which had been an important Communist stronghold. Setting himself up in the courtyard of a Muslim prayer compound, he was soon receiving visitors from all the factions in the village.

Among the visitors was a group of 40 families of landless Harijans. (Harijan was Gandhi’s name for the Untouchables, the outcasts from Hindu society. Literally, it means “child of God.”) The Harijans told Vinoba they had no choice but to support the Communists, because only the Communists would give them land. They asked, Would Vinoba ask the government instead to give them land?

Vinoba replied, “What use is government help until we can help ourselves?” But he himself wasn’t satisfied by the answer. He was deeply perplexed.

Late that afternoon, by a lake next to the village, Vinoba held a prayer meeting that drew thousands of villagers from the surrounding area. Near the beginning of the meeting, he presented the Harijans’ problem to the assembly. Without really expecting a response, he said, “Brothers, is there anyone among you who can help these Harijan friends?”

A prominent farmer of the village stood up. “Sir, I am ready to give one hundred acres.”

Vinoba could not believe his ears.

Here, in the midst of a civil war over land monopoly, was a farmer willing to part with 100 acres out of simple generosity. And Vinoba was just as astounded when the Harijans declared that they needed only 80 acres and wouldn’t accept more!

Vinoba suddenly saw a solution to the region’s turmoil. In fact, the incident seemed to him a sign from God. At the close of the prayer meeting, he announced he would walk all through the region to collect gifts of land for the landless.

So began the movement called Bhoodan “land-gift.” Over the next seven weeks, Vinoba asked for donations of land for the landless in 200 villages of Telengana. Calculating the amount of India’s farmland needed to supply India’s landless poor, he would tell the farmers and landlords in each village, “I am your fifth son. Give me my equal share of land.” And in each village – to his continued amazement – the donations poured in.

Who gave, and why?

At first most of the donors were farmers of moderate means, including some who themselves owned only an acre or two. To them, Vinoba was a holy man, a saint, the Mahatma’s own son, who had come to give them God’s message of kinship with their poorer neighbors. Vinoba’s prayer meetings at times took on an almost evangelical fervor. As for Vinoba, he accepted gifts from even the poorest – though he sometimes returned these gifts to the donors – because his goal was as much to open hearts as to redistribute land.

Gradually, though, the richer landowners also began to give. Of course, many of their gifts were inspired by fear of the Communists and hopes of buying off the poor – as the Communists were quick to proclaim.

But not all the motives of the rich landowners were economic. Many of the rich hoped to gain “spiritual merit” through their gifts; or at least to uphold their prestige. After all, if poor farmers were willing to give sizeable portions of their land to Vinoba, could the rich be seen to do less? And perhaps a few of the rich were even truly touched by Vinoba’s message.

In any case, as Vinoba’s tour gained momentum, even the announced approach of the “god who gives away land” was enough to prepare the landlords to part with some of their acreage.

Soon Vinoba was collecting hundreds of acres a day. What’s more, wherever Vinoba moved, he began to dispel the climate of tension and fear that had plagued the region. In places where people had been afraid to assemble, thousands gathered to hear him – including the Communists.

At the end of seven weeks, Vinoba had collected over 12,000 acres. After he left, Sarvodaya workers continuing to collect land in his name received another 100,000 acres.

The Telengana march became the launching point for a nationwide campaign that Vinoba hoped would eliminate the greatest single cause of India’s poverty: land monopoly. He hoped as well that it might be the lever needed to start a “nonviolent revolution” – a complete transformation of Indian society by peaceful means.

The root of oppression, he reasoned, is greed. If people could be led to overcome their possessiveness, a climate would be created in which social division and exploitation could be eliminated. As he later put it, “We do not aim at doing mere acts of kindness, but at creating a Kingdom of Kindness.”

Soon Vinoba and his colleagues were collecting 1,000 acres a day, then 2,000, then 3,000. Several hundred small teams of Sarvodaya workers and volunteers began trekking from village to village, all over India, collecting land in Vinoba’s name. Vinoba himself – despite advanced age and poor health – marched continually, touring one state after another.

The pattern of Vinoba’s day was daily the same. Vinoba and his company would rise by 3:00 a.m. and hold a prayer meeting for themselves. Then they would walk ten or twelve miles to the next village, Vinoba leading at a pace that left the others struggling breathlessly behind. With him were always a few close assistants, a bevy of young, idealistic volunteers – teenagers and young adults, male and some female, mostly from towns or cities – plus maybe some regular Sarvodaya workers, a landlord, a politician, or an interested Westerner.

At the host village they would be greeted by a brass band, a makeshift archway, garlands, formal welcomes by village leaders, and shouts of “Sant Vinoba, Sant Vinoba!” (”Saint Vinoba!”)

After breakfast, the Bhoodan workers would fan out through the village, meeting the villagers, distributing literature, and taking pledges. Vinoba himself would be settled apart, meeting with visitors, reading newspapers, answering letters.

In late afternoon, there would be a prayer meeting, attended by hundreds or thousands of villagers from the area. After a period of reciting and chanting, Vinoba would speak to the crowd in his quiet, high-pitched voice. His talk would be completely improvised, full of rich images drawn from Hindu scripture or everyday life, exhorting the villagers to lives of love, kinship, sharing. At the close of the meeting, more pledges would be taken.

There were no free weekends on this itinerary, no holidays, no days off. The man who led this relentless crusade was 57 years old, suffered from chronic dysentery, chronic malaria, and an intestinal ulcer, and restricted himself, because of his ulcer, to a diet of honey, milk, and yogurt.

As the campaign gained momentum, friends and detractors alike watched in fascination. In the West, too, Vinoba’s effort drew attention. In the United States, major articles on Vinoba appeared in the New York Times, the New Yorker – Vinoba even appeared on the cover of Time.

By the time of the 1954 Sarvodaya conference, the Gandhians had collected over 3 million acres nationwide. The total eventually reached over 4 million. Much of this land turned out to be useless, and in many cases landowners reneged on their pledges. Still, the Gandhians were able to distribute over 1 million acres to India’s landless poor – far more than had been managed by the land reform programs of India’s government. About half a million families benefited.

Meanwhile, Vinoba was shifting his efforts to a new gear – a higher one.

After 1954, Vinoba began asking for “donations” not so much of land but of whole villages. He named this new program Gramdan – village-gift. Gramdan was a far more radical program than Bhoodan. In a Gramdan village, all land was to be legally owned by the village as a whole, but parceled out for the use of individual families, according to need. Because the families could not themselves sell, rent, or mortgage the land, they could not be pressured off it during hard times – as normally happens when land reform programs bestow land title on poor individuals.

Village affairs were to be managed by a village council made up of all adult members of the village, making decisions by consensus – meaning the council could not adopt any decision until everyone accepted it. This was meant to ensure cooperation and make it much harder for one person or group to benefit at the expense of others.

While Bhoodan had been meant to prepare people for a nonviolent revolution, Vinoba saw Gramdan as the revolution itself.

Like Gandhi, Vinoba believed that the divisiveness of Indian society was a root cause of its degradation and stagnation. Before the villagers could begin to improve their lot, they needed to learn to work together. Gramdan, he felt, with its common land ownership and cooperative decision-making, could bring about the needed unity.

And once this was achieved, the “people’s power” it would release would make anything possible.

Vinoba’s Gramdan efforts progressed slowly until 1965, when an easing of Gramdan’s requirements was joined to the launching of a “storm campaign.” By 1970, the official figure for Gramdan villages was 160,000 – almost one-third of all India’s villages!

But it turned out that it was far easier to get a declaration of Gramdan than to set it up in practice. By early 1970, only a few thousand villages had transferred land title to a village council. In most of these, progress was at a standstill. What’s more, most of these few thousand villages were small, single-caste, or tribal – not even typical Indian villages.

By 1971, Gramdan as a movement had collapsed under its own weight.

Still, the Gramdan movement left behind more than a hundred Gramdan “pockets” – some made up of hundreds of villages – where Gandhian workers settled in for long-term development efforts. These pockets today form the base of India’s Gandhian movement. In these locales, the Gandhians are helping some of India’s poorest by organizing Gandhian-style community development and nonviolent action campaigns against injustice.

As for Vinoba, he returned to his ashram for the final time in June 1970, after thirteen years of continual marching and five more of presiding over the “storm campaign.”

During his final years, Vinoba continued to inspire new programs – for instance, Women’s Power Awakening, a Gandhian version of women’s liberation. He also launched an ongoing campaign against “cow slaughter” to try to halt the butchering of useful farm animals, a practice destructive of India’s traditional agriculture.

In the mid-1970s, Vinoba and some close followers became estranged from Sarva Seva Sangh when he opposed the nationwide protest movement of fellow Gandhian Jayaprakash Narayan against the government of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi (no relation to the Mahatma). The “JP Movement” led to Indira Gandhi’s infamous declaration of Emergency and then indirectly to her temporary ouster from office. In the long run, the value of that movement’s accomplishments proved open to question, and much of Vinoba’s criticism of it was borne out.

Vinoba died on November 15, 1982. In his dying, as in his living, he was deliberate, instructive, and, in a way, lighthearted. After suffering a heart attack, Vinoba decided to “leave his body before his body left him.” He therefore simply stopped eating until his body released him.

Another Great Soul had passed.