Chapter Three

Applying the Revised Framework for Interpreting Domination

The revised framework for interpreting domination proposed in chapter five was accorded the status of a heuristic with hypothetically greater purchase than the approaches discussed in part one of this thesis. An inclusivist transÐdisciplinary via media was recommended which sought to steer a course between critical understanding of the realities of modern social structure, purely oppositional critique, and normative commitments, the last being the least developed aspect of the framework.

Five key components in the revised framework were suggested:

1. A disaggregated approach to actor domination; 2. An analysis of structural domination; 3. A dialectical phenomenology; 4. An exploration of existential components of domination; 5. A specific social ontology.

Sharp and Gandhi part company as strategists of nonviolence because Sharp is essentially a theorist and historian of nonviolence who has focused on establishing the legitimacy and efficacy of nonviolence as a neglected type of struggle (Sharp, 1973: esp. 71 Ð 76). More recently, Sharp worked as a policy advocate arguing for nonviolence to be added to national defence strategies (e.g., Sharp, 1985; 1990). SharpÕs later policy advocacy will not be considered here. Nonetheless, it is important to note that Sharp was a peace activist at an earlier stage in his career (e.g., Sharp, 1979: 251 Ð271). Gandhi, in contrast, was always an activist, developing his theory and practice of Satyagraha in an onÐgoing practical struggle against historically specific and more general individual and social obstacles to the point of human existence: an openÐended seeking after truth (e.g., Gandhi, in Fischer {ed.}, 1962: 320). This foundational tension is constantly present throughout the work of the two strategists of nonviolence.

1. A Disaggregated Approach to Actor domination

It is important to disaggregate domination because it clearly consists of at least three possible kinds, structural, actor, and unthematised. Here, attention will focus on actor domination, in which an actor dominating other actors can be detected.

The revised definition of disaggregated actor domination proposed in chapter five was:

Domination refers to socially unnecessary constraints on human freedom which restrict human potentials for emancipation, as hermeneutically interpreted in terms of specific contexts and historically precise local ethical systems and legal orders.

The revised definition of actor domination, in contrast, offers sensitivity to a variable hermeneutic lacking in SharpÕs approach.

In the case of Gandhi, the need to apply a hermeneutic interpretation to specific contexts and historically precise local ethical systems and legal orders is crucial. Gandhi clearly saw the British colonial presence as unnecessary for Indian society, but, as the following extract from Young India dated February 2, 1920, indicates, he also believed that many aspects of Indian society itself needed to change. Replying to criticisms of his support for a memorial to those who died in the Amritsar massacre in May, 1919, Gandhi wrote: I would invite Englishmen to appreciate our feeling in the matter, ask them by subscribing to the memorial in the spirit of the Royal Proclamation to make common cause with us in our endeavour to regain consciousness, to realize the same freedom that they enjoy under the same constitution and to realize Hindu Ð Muslim unity without which there can be no true progress for India (Gandhi, 1961: 107).

Looking at GandhiÕs agenda for swarj and sarvodaya, it is clear that he viewed the caste system, particularly its treatment of the untouchables, whom he renamed Harijans, meaning Ôpeople of GodÕ (Hari) as needing reform in a future independent Indian society as disunity between Hindus and Muslims. For example, he wrote in Young India published on February 23, 1921, that:

We can do nothing without HinduÐMoslem {sic.} unity and without killing the snake of untouchability. Untouchability is a corroding poison that is eating into the vitals of Hindu society... No man of God can consider another man inferior to himself. He must consider every man his blood brother. It is the cardinal principle of every religion (in Fischer{ed.}, 1962: 253).

Applying the revised definition of actor domination to Gandhi highlights his rootedness in traditional Indian society and its beliefs and values. GandhiÕs approach can be seen to embrace structural and existential critiques of, and potentially achievable alternatives to, the domination which riddled his society, though, with respect to the social and economic position of Harijans, he largely avoided addressing the structural domination of untouchability by attempting to raise the symbolic character of their lowÐstatus labour as well as exhorting them to change habits such as meat eating and drinking alcohol which offended higher caste Hindus.

The revised definition of actor domination thus aids in sorting out GandhiÕs diffuseness with respect to what might constitute domination. But it also points to the possibility that Gandhi was attempting to achieve two almost different objectives. On the one hand, he was trying to challenge violence on a number of structural levels Ð the violence of British colonialism, interÐcommunal violence predominantly, but not exclusively, between Hindus and Muslims, and the violence of entrenched customs and beliefs in Hindu society such as untouchability, child marriages, and the treatment of women. These phenomena can seen as falling into the sphere of structural domination. On the other hand, Gandhi was also aiming at eradicating violence within the self, and thence between selves, witness his appropriation of the traditional religious and contemporary political meanings of swaraj.

In Young India published on May 21, 1925, Gandhi indicated this universal applicability of Satyagraha:

There is no principle worth the name if it is not wholly good. I swear by nonÐviolence because I know that it alone conduces to the highest good of mankind, not merely in the next world, but in this also. I object to violence because, when it appears to do good, the good is only temporary, the evil it does is permanent... (in Fischer {ed.} 1962: 201).

[We] think it impossible to evoke the hidden powers of the soul. Well, I am engaged in trying to show, if I have any of these powers, that I am as frail a mortal as any of us and I never had anything extraordinary about me nor have any now. I claim to be a simple individual liable to err like any other fellow mortal. I own, however, that I have humility enough in me to confess my errors and retrace my steps. I own that I have an unmovable faith in God and His goodness and inconsumable passion for truth and love. But is that not what every person has latent in him? If we are to make progress, we must not repeat history but make new history.... If we may make new discoveries and inventions in the phenomenal world, must we declare our bankruptcy in the spiritual domain? Is it impossible to multiply the exceptions as to make them the rule? Must man always be brute first and man after, if at all? (in Fischer {ed.}1962: 206).

For example, on December 29, 1930, a leading Muslim League politician, Sir Muhammad Iqbal, echoing the growing hardening of Muslim political opinion in favour the possibility of postÐindependence partition, wrote:

...it is clear that, in view of IndiaÕs infinite variety in climates, races, languages, creeds, and social customs, the creation of autonomous States based on the unity of language, race, history, religion and identity of common interests, is the only way to secure a stable constitutional structure in India... The Hindu thinks that separate electorates are contrary to the spirit of true nationalism, because he understands the word ÔnationÕ to mean a kind of universal amalgamation in which no communal entity ought to retain its private individuality. Such a state of things, however, does not exist. Add to this the general economic inferiority of Muslims, their enormous debt, especially in the Punjab, and their insufficient minorities in some of the provinces, as at present constituted, and you will begin to see clearly the meaning of our anxiety to retain separate electorates. In such a country and in such circumstances, territorial electorates cannot secure adequate representation of all interests and must inevitably lead to the creation of an oligarchy. The Muslims of India can have no objection to purely territorial electorates if provinces are demarcated so as to secure comparatively homogeneous communities, possessing linguistic, racial, cultural and religious unity (in Pandey {ed.}, 1979: 83 Ð 4).

The revised definition of actor domination reveals GandhiÕs own role in determining how Satyagraha was to be interpreted. GandhiÕs followers were not really authorised to form their own interpretations. When others violated what he took to be the principles of Satyagraha, he called off campaigns, criticised participantÕs lack of discipline, and fasted, allegedly in personal penance at the violence which erupted, but also to effectively coerce others to return to policies he advocated.

The revised definition of actor domination further alerts us to the fact that much greater attention must be paid to the evidence about how different actors were interpreting what Gandhi and his close followers were advocating or doing. Existing accounts of Gandhi either tend to romanticise his life and work, glossing over crucially important details relevant to a better understanding of what, in fact, was occurring in the complex and shifting Indian situation, or his life and work is mined to produce explanations of his activities and views. They do not emphasise the different hermeneutic interpretations of the actors in sufficient detail. This failure is all the more important when the existing literature is used as a basis for contemporary reinterpretationÕs of Gandhi or as guides for contemporary action against domination.

The Indian historian, Sasadhar Sinha, also notes a distinct reluctance on the part of historians to confront the actual complexities of the Indian situation:

Contemporary official history and historians are, of course, expected to be silent... for they are largely concerned with providing a thesis that India achieved her freedom through a nonÐviolent struggle under Gandhian leadership, and that everything began and ended with the Mahatma and his loyal followers. Such a view obviously takes no account of all the internal forces Ð violent and non - violent Ð which have shaped the course of Indian struggle in the twentieth century...

... the only thing that can be asserted without any fear of contradiction is that because of the basic nonÐviolent character of the movement Gandhi led, the Congress and the Mahatma as well as the British were saved a good deal of trouble, thus ensuring a relatively peaceful solution of the IndoÐBritish problem while Gandhi was alive and his leading lieutenants were still at the helm of affairs (Sinha, 1964: 120).

I do not know myself who is a Gandhian. Gandhism is a meaningless word for me. An ism follows the propounder of a system. I am not one, hence I cannot be the cause for an ism. If an ism is built up it will not endure, and if it does it will not be Gandhism. This deserves to be properly understood (in Parekh, 1989: 224; see also, Gandhi in Fischer {ed.}, 1962: 320).

2. A Structural Analysis of Domination

It will now be shown how attention to structural aspects of domination reveals that both leading strategists of nonviolence mishandle the issue of structural domination. Sharp and Gandhi both deal with the relationships between structural domination and nonviolence, and would agree that a given societyÕs structures play crucial parts in establishing, maintaining, and extending domination. Both would also agree that nonviolence, as a tactic of waging struggle, is often deployed against social structures, or more specifically, functions of particular social structures which oppress individuals or particular social groups. Explicit in both approaches is a rejection of the alleged immutability, impenetrability, and unchangability of social structures. Both strategists of nonviolence also stress the necessity for persistence, discipline, resilience, and the deployment of a multiplicity of nonviolent methods when challenging structural aspects of domination.

SharpÕs view of society stresses the functions of social structures, and not the structures themselves, except where he constantly discusses how those structures can be challenged by interrupting their functions using nonviolent tactics. Changes to structures may occur when their functions are sufficiently interrupted, but his emphasis is almost exclusively on challenging and obstructing some of the specific, and occasionally more general functions structures perform. As a result, his analysis of the structures themselves, and how they act with respect to domination is weak.

He does accept that, through the disciplined and persistent nonviolent actions of the activists, from within the oppressorÕs forces unease about the activities, dissent from those activities, defections from the oppressorÕs ranks, and even conversions to the activistÕs cause could occur, though he emphasises that activists should not place much reliance upon this occurring (Sharp, 1973: 665 Ð 695). This suggests that he does not entirely accept a monolithic view of the oppressor, but regards an oppressive regime or force as being made up of individuals who may be swayed by the activistÕs political and even moral strength and demonstration of purpose. Within the oppressorÕs agencies, many tactics which can be deployed which retard or interrupt the expected and routine operations of those agencies, presenting a less than monolithic view of state structures and replacing it with a view which suggests structures are composed of shifting alliances of interest, some antagonistic to and some compliant with a rulerÕs aims and orders (e.g., Martin, 1989). With respect to structural domination, Sharp often presents a stark dichotomy between the ruler and the ruled. He places great emphasis on the consent of the ruled as a decisive factor in maintaining the rulerÕs power. He acknowledges that, particularly in WesternÐtype constitutional democracies, checks and balances inherent in such governmental systems necessarily restrict the power of even an autarchicly inclined individual or agency such as a party or even elements within the stateÕs uniformed forces. But he also emphasises that it is more likely for such entities to seize or steadily gather greater power if other social institutions, or, as he describes them, loci of nonÐcentralised power, are weak or weakened. His major point is that to maintain effective control on rulers, social structures outside of the state must remain, or be encouraged to become strong as a deterrent to the centralisation of power by an actual or possible future ruler. In the event of an internal or external attempt to usurp power, these diffuse yet strong loci of power can mobilise to, needless to add, nonviolently frustrate the designs of the usurper (Sharp, 1980: 21 Ð67).

The persistent use of the terms ÔrulerÕ or ÔoppressorÕ throughout his work suggests that Sharp maintains a structurally monolithic view of the opponent of a nonviolent campaign. Similarly, his emphasis on the control of a rulerÕs power suggests that he exclusively focuses on the state as the main concentration of power in a society, control of the state and its key institutions being the goal of contending actors and agencies, an emphasis which strongly echoes the views of Max Weber. There is a protoÐanarchist tendency in his argument that diffusing and mobilising loci of social power places greater power into the civil society (though he never uses the conception of society consisting of a civil and a formal sphere, e.g., after Habermas et.al.), power which might be manipulated through greater consensus, trust, selfÐreliance, and selfÐconfidence on the part of the activists (Sharp, 1973: 777 Ð 817; see also, Bruyn, 1979).

Many nonviolent campaigns tend to focus on reforming existing social structures, and more specifically, at changing particular policies or functions of specific structures or agencies. They tend not to seek to destroy or remove the structures. There are situations, however, in which the establishment of parallel or alternative structures or institutions to state or other institutionalised structures can be attempted, or even becomes necessary, at least for the duration of and shortly subsequent to a campaign. Sharp writes that, especially when a protracted campaign against some structureÕs function is waged,

... increased cooperation within the grievance group is required in order to provide alternative ways of meeting those social needs formerly met by the institutions with which cooperation has been now refused. The reverse side of noncooperation is cooperation, and that of defiance is mutual aid. These make it possible both to preserve social order and to meet social needs during and following a nonviolent action movement. Without such positive efforts, even though the nonviolent action were effective and successful Ð which is doubtful Ð the result would be social chaos and collapse which would lead the way toward quite different results than those intended by the nonviolent group, unless there were a prompt resumption of cooperation under the old system. The alternative arrangements for preserving social order and meeting human needs depend upon the willingness of the grievance group to give them their cooperation and to make them a success (Sharp, 1973: 795 Ð 796).

A further criticism of Sharp raised earlier focused on a feminist approach to nonviolence and the structure of patriarchal domination, in which consent is not often even an issue for women dominated by institutionalised patriarchy. McGuinness points to feminist theories of power which emphasise the notion of ÔplacingÕ, which turns on power being attached to and limited by positions which carry with them particular responsibilities and claims, such as caring for children. In situations in which women are the primary carers of children, and for that matter, the elderly, it seems impossible for these services to be withdrawn. ÒGenerative power is created and satisfied in the life it generates and nurtures. Any threat to that life would be counterproductiveÓ (McGuinness, 1993: 111). To be sure, men are slowly but increasingly taking on caring roles, but this is a long way from completely eradicating the functions of patriarchy throughout a society. This also points to an extended definition of nonviolence discussed in the previous chapter which takes nonviolence well beyond simply being what Sharp takes it to be Ð a group of sanctions and a technique of struggle that wields power (1980: 219) Ð but a key component in what has been labelled Ôlife politicsÕ (e.g., Giddens, 1991) with explicit structural, and functional, as well as personal, transformative agendas and goals.

GandhiÕs approach to the structural aspects of domination is also clarified by the revised framework. It is entirely possible to extract sarvodaya and swardeshi from his conception of Satyagraha, and examine the constructive programme purely in terms of a structural analysis of Indian society, and as a strategy for changing structures he often argued were inimical to the achievement of Poorna Swaraj in its narrower political sense. Certainly, he saw British domination of India as a major structural impediment to Indian selfÐdetermination and independence. Enormous effort was expended by Congress, the Muslim League, and many other Indian nationalist organisations in making the British presence in India untenable, and in developing constitutional and administrative structures to replace colonial impositions inimical to Indian traditions, politics, and aspirations. Gandhi was a leading participant in this process, but, as even his supporters, such as the Nehrus and many in Congress, and his most vigorous critics in the Muslim League, the Indian Communist Party, or orthodox Hindus, agreed, his agenda was apparently wider than a narrow political one involving the postÐRaj seizure and sustainable control of state power (on these differing positions see, e.g., Pandey {ed.}, 1979).

GandhiÕs agenda was finally a metaphysical one, in which, through activity in society according to the tenets of Satyagraha, the individual could approach truth and God. If, in pursuit of this end, structural aspects of domination were challenged or even transformed, this was a positive result, but one not decisively fundamental to the aims of Satyagraha. Scholars who have examined GandhiÕs reform agendas have tended to extract his various policies on issues like economics, education, health reforms, and the emancipation of women from his foundational doctrine of Satyagraha. To simply extract and discuss GandhiÕs views and practice on structural domination and his proposed means to address it would eradicate the admittedly shifting and yet relatively coherent edifice of Satyagraha. Gandhi, though a lawyer by training, and reluctantly though actively a political protagonist in a conventional sense, was not a political or social scientist or an economist. He was simultaneously a traditional and reformist Hindu, had a keen sense of the strengths and weaknesses of traditional Indian society, and was generally suspicious of industrialisation and WesternÐstyle development.

Attending to the details of GandhiÕs reaction to structural domination radically clarifies his position, and this demonstrates the value on structural domination in the revised framework in the context of a disaggregation of domination. In Young India published on January 8, 1925, Gandhi wrote that:

[To prepare for home rule] individuals must cultivate the spirit of service, renunciation, truth, nonviolence, selfÐrestraint, patience... they must engage in constructive work [the term Gandhi gave for his threeÐpoint program: removal of untouchability, Hindu Ð Muslim unity, and universal spinning] in order to develop these qualities. Many reforms would be effected automatically if we put a good deal of silent work among the people (in Fischer {ed.}, 1962: 222).

1. Communal unity. 2. Removal of untouchability. 3. Prohibition. 4. Khadi. 5. Other village industries. 6. Village sanitation. 7. New or basic education. 8. Adult education. 9. Uplift of women. 10. Education in health and hygiene. 11. Propagation of Rastra Bhasha (national language) 12. Promotion of economic equality (Bondurant, 1965: 180 Ð 181)

Each of these points clearly required a structural change in one or several Indian institutions. The emphasis was always on a devolution of centralised power into the villages, and parallel empowerment of villagers. This has led to Gandhi being seen as an anarchist (Bondurant, 1965: 182 Ð 187; Woodcock, 1972: 79 Ð 89). Gandhi contradicted this impression because he readily acknowledged the need for some centralised authority, such as the state, but wanted to restrict the stateÕs functions to those absolutely essential for democratic government (e.g., Parekh, 1989: 110 Ð 141).

Gandhi and his followers certainly established parallel or alternative structures to established structures. The khadi campaign, for example, sought to replace reliance on foreign cloth with selfÐsufficiency implemented at the most basic village level. His views on changing the structure of education to basic education similarly evidenced the need to educate the masses in alternative ways and using methods different to those of the Raj governmentÕs educational practices. He was also a realist, as the following extract from Young India published on August 18, 1920, demonstrates:

I agree too that a sudden withdrawal of the military and the police would be a disaster if we have not acquired the ability to protect ourselves against robbers and thieves. But I suggest that when we are ready to call out the military and the police on an extensive scale, we would find ourselves in a position to defend ourselves. If the police and the military resign from patriotic motives, I would certainly expect them to perform the same duty as national volunteers, not as hirelings but as willing protectors of the life and liberty of their countrymen. The movement of nonÐcoÐoperation is one of automatic adjustment. If the Government schools are emptied, I would certainly expect national schools to come into being. If the lawyers as a whole suspended practice, they would devise arbitration courts and the nation will have expeditious and cheaper method {sic.} of settling private disputes and awarding punishment to the wrongÐdoer (Gandhi, 1961: 152).

As a result they had no opportunity to work and fight alongside the Hindus, and they neither occupied important positions in the Harijan sevak sangh and the Congress, nor set up an independent and effective organisation of their own. Not surprisingly, they hardly grew under GandhiÕs shadow, and a man who created so many great leaders was unable to create a single Harijan leader of equal stature (Parekh, 1989: 211).

Brown summarised the lasting effect of GandhiÕs campaign on untouchability:

In social relations... there are few signs of change as a direct reflection of GandhiÕs work. Certainly his growing hostility to caste as he found it in India and his abhorrence of untouchability were significant in moulding the Congress mind; and when an independent government, freed from the inhibitions of an alien, imperial regime, took power, it rapidly and robustly legislated against the public observance of untouchability and proclaimed the equality of all citizens, regardless of caste. But as Gandhi knew full well, laws need public support, and he was realistic in his assertion that the critical change needed was one of attitudes.... Untouchability, for example, persists with its degradation; it rests on unchanged attitudes and the harsh facts of economic life which prevent most untouchables from gaining access to essential credit, to new employment and to new wealth. As change does slowly occur in class perceptions and relationships, it is the result of new values inculcated through mass education, which in form and content reflects Western values and practices in a way which would have horrified Gandhi who formulated such distinctive and Indian plans for Basic Education (Brown, 1989: 390 Ð 391).

3. A Dialectical Phenomenology

The specific dialectical phenomenology deployed in the revised framework for interpreting domination is of a specific kind which is designed to foreground relationality. To do so, it emphasises the relational constitution of the actors as opposed to them being construed as separate entities, in particular, where the vocative relationality is aÐsymmetric. Nonviolent actors tend to propose a vocative relationality but this can be rejected by the opponent. Analysing this aÐsymmetric relationality foregrounds acceptances and refusals of possible vocative relations relative to the particular multiple hermeneutics operative in specific situations, which themselves require attention. This clearly has implications for the distribution of social power. The voluntary acceptance of suffering by the nonviolent actors can be seen as a means to bridge this aÐsymmetric relationality and transform a refusal into a recognition of the vocative appeal being made to the opponent as a second person self.

If this dialectical phenomenology is applied to the nonviolent strategies of Sharp and Gandhi the results point to problematic components in their different approaches which signal the need for a revision of aspects of nonviolence theory, and to the interpretation of nonviolence in the context of domination. In examining nonviolence theory, almost without exception nonviolence theorists and activists prefer the term ÔopponentÕ to alternatives such as ÔenemyÕ, though Sharp often also uses the term ÔoppressorÕ to describe actionistÕs opponents, congruent with his general WesternÐliberal view of political action. This preference for ÔopponentÕ can be seen to erode the semiology of ÔenemyÕ, an attempt to at least reduce the stark divisiveness of ÔusÕ versus a reified, even dehumanised, ÔenemyÕ. To typify oneÕs opponent as a reified ÔenemyÕ could lead to assuming that they (it) are a monolithic entity devoid of human characteristics of doubt, fear, or riddled with widely varying degrees of individual or group commitment to the dominatorÕs cause. In its minimalist form, nonviolence contains an embedded vocative appeal because, unlike some opponents who have no qualms about injuring or killing actors they regard as third person objects, nonviolent actors refuse to injure or kill their opponents. Beyond this basic acceptance of terms like ÔopponentÕ, SharpÕs ÔnegativeÕ approach to nonviolence is almost completely devoid of a dialectical phenomenology, except where he discusses the role of activistÕs suffering for their cause garnering defections from the opponentÕs forces, or galvanising potentially supporting thirdÐparty involvement in the struggle (e.g., Sharp, 1973: 707 Ð 733). His discussion of political jiuÐjitsu, which he argues is the tool which many nonviolent actions utilise against an opponent, and specific effects political jiuÐjitsu can achieve, such as mobilising uncommitted third parties, sewing dissent in the opponentÕs forces, and strengthening the resolve of the, potentially, growing ranks of the actionists, is entirely aimed at understanding, and then exploiting the growing power of the actionists vis a vis the diminishing power of the opponent. He cautions against expecting sudden, widespread, or decisive results from tactics such as voluntarily accepting suffering, especially against opponents deeply inured to believe the actionists are less than human.

He cites the lengthy Vykom Satyagraha of 1924 Ð 25 as an example of how even almost apparently unbridgeable social distance, in this case between untouchables and Brahmans, was eroded through resolute adherence to nonviolence, including selfÐsuffering on the part of the actionists (Sharp, 1973: 83, 717; Bondurant, 1965: 46 Ð 52; Pelton, 1974: 222). Indeed, this Satyagraha was one of the most successful, and will be examined in detail below.

Another Satyagraha, the Rowlatt Satyagraha of early 1919, was one of GandhiÕs significant early failures. This campaign will also be examined in detail below. The brutality of reaction against protesters, specifically the details of the Amritsar massacre of April, 1919, and the Dharsana salt works raid of May, 1930, round the account to consider how nonviolent action can provoke violent responses from opponents. The dialectical phenomenological interpretation of Gandhi, and these incidents deployed here facilitates possibly a new reading of Gandhi.

Sharp makes only passing references to the Rowlatt Satyagraha, and almost completely neglects the aÐsymmetric vocativeness of the activistÕs appeals to potential supporters and to the Raj in the context of complex multiple hermeneutics in play throughout India which contributed to the campaignÕs failure. More precisely, the significant unevenness of adherence to the hartal, the nationÐwide strike called by Gandhi as part of the campaign, and the discipline of Satyagraha throughout India adds to a clearer analysis of how and why Rowlatt failed. SharpÕs treatment of Rowlatt is an example of Gandhi, and the context in which Gandhi operated, being mined to suit particular purposes though, to be fair, SharpÕs approach is more illustrative of the points he wants to make than analytical of the detailed circumstances of each incident. Sharp first mentions Rowlatt as an example of the use of the hartal as a nonviolent tactic which extends further than a factory strike because businesses and shops are also closed and participants often fast (1973: 277 Ð 278). The hartal was an ancient Indian, and indeed Celtic custom, the latter called troscad, in which an aggrieved individual would fast against their wrongdoer in order to persuade them of their error. The Indian hartal was traditionally undertaken against a ruler to make them aware of the unpopularity of their actions. Gandhi drew together purificatory fasting, strikes, and business closures in his concept of hartal as well as using it as a tactic to test the resolve of participants and indicate to the opponent the strength of resolve by the satyagrahis. SharpÕs next mention of Rowlatt is in the context of discussing the role of leadership in a nonviolent campaign, especially one in which violence becomes a likely or actual result. A nonviolent movementÕs leadership does not have many avenues available for disciplining its members, most of whom would usually be volunteers. When violence erupted in the first days of Rowlatt, Gandhi personally tried to quell the violence where he could, fasted, and then called the Satyagraha off, drawing on his authority as a nonviolent leader to discipline his followers (Sharp, 1973: 466), a tactic he would later repeatedly use, particularly as his stature as a national figure, and then a Mahatma or ÔGreat SoulÕ imbued him with enormous moral, even religious authority. SharpÕs final reference to Rowlatt is in the context of discussing how nonviolent discipline can be promoted in a campaign or a movement, and he mentions GandhiÕs suspension of the Rowlatt Satyagraha as a recognition that when circumstances were not fully propitious to achieving the campaignÕs goals nonviolent activists can suspend their activities (Sharp, 1973: 622).

It is useful to commence examining Gandhi in the light of the dialectical phenomenology proposed here by considering how he approached his opponents, especially when engaged in face to face negotiations. This suggests that Gandhi often sought to dialogically bridge the gulf between himself and his opponents. In summarising GandhiÕs method of negotiating, K. Shridharani wrote that:

[GandhiÕs] first manoeuvre, when an impasse arises, is to cease public utterances and controversy through the printed word. Instead, he seeks a personal interview with the opponent or spokesman of the opposition, as the case may be. Being an exceedingly gracious person, his first inquiries during the intimate meeting are after the opponentÕs health and his familyÕs; he knows and remembers every name of any consequence to his adversary. With the amenities out of the way, he turns to a lengthy review of the past when both of them worked shoulder to shoulder and admired each other Ð GandhiÕs way of emphasizing with all his persuasive power the fundamental unity underlying their temporary differences. But even at this point, Gandhi does not broach the issue; he lets his opponent air his grievances first. It is then that Gandhi lets loose a barrage of logical arguments, with all the ease acquired while practicing law... Finally, he convinces his adversary that both parties have the same end in view, and their only differences lie in their ways of gaining this mutual objective. The straightening out of these little residual differences Gandhi leaves for the inevitable next interview. But as it is expected, in most cases when the adversary comes to see Gandhi again, he is in fine shape for the final adjustment of minor points (Shridharani, 1939: 232 Ð 233).

[GandhiÕs] satyagraha was basically a new kind of dialogue, a form of discussion which, although not rational in the narrow sense, was not irrational either. It involved trying hard both to persuade others of oneÕs point of view and to understand theirs, and relied on each opening himself up to others by both sharing with them his thoughts and feelings and letting theirs flow into and inform his own (Parekh, 1989: 166).

There is nothing striking about his appearance. He came to visit me in a white dhoti and cap, woven on a spinning wheel, with bare feet and legs, and my first impression on seeing him ushered into my room was that there was nothing to arrest attention in his appearance, and that I should have passed him by in the street without a second look at him. When he talks, the impression is different. He is direct and expresses himself well in excellent English with a fine appreciation of the words he uses. There is no hesitation about him and there is a ring of sincerity in all that he utters, save when discussing some political questions. His religious views are, I believe, genuinely held and he is convinced to a point bordering on fanaticism that nonÐviolence and love will give India its independence and enable it to withstand the British Government. His religious and moral views are admirable and indeed are on a remarkably high attitude {sic}, but I must confess that I find it difficult to understand his practice of them in politics (in Brown, 1989: 145).

What these incidents indicate is that Gandhi, even when dealing with the most powerful British representatives in India, regarded them as fellow human beings, with similar weaknesses to himself, momentarily divided by a problem which they could solve if they worked together. His vocative appeals in a clearly aÐsymmetric relationship nevertheless struck a chord which at least partially bridged the gulf between activist and opponent at the highest political level in the Raj. In terms of the dialogical phenomenology deployed here, GandhiÕs evolving practice and understanding of Satyagraha indicates that interpreting his actions as attempts to reconstitute the aÐsymmetry of relations of domination into a relationality of domination, and exploit that relationality to vocatively transform the situation into one of dialogue rather than deep division. GandhiÕs approach to nonviolence maybe seen to exelempify data which can be theorised in this way. Nevertheless, examining the specific details of GandhiÕs campaigns show that GandhiÕs explicitly vocative appeals were disastrous in a wider context.

Returning to the Vykom Satyagraha, as an example of how Satyagraha was apparently successfully deployed to bridge a significant gulf between the opponents and satyagrahis, it is hardly mentioned in some of the major Western literature on Gandhi. The best known biography, by Louis Fischer, does not mention it (Fischer, 1982), nor does Robert Payne (Payne, 1969). Judith BrownÕs detailed histories omit the period between 1922 and 1927 (Brown, 1972; 1977), and it only receives a few lines in her biography of Gandhi (Brown, 1989: 206). Judith Brown places Vykom in the wider context of GandhiÕs campaign against untouchability, indicating his reluctance to seriously challenge it at a structural level:

He totally supported a satyagraha campaign in the Princely state of Travancore in 1924 to allow untouchables to use the roads around the temples. But he opposed any forcible entry into temples by untouchables, and in 1926 was maintaining that the time had not yet come for satyagraha on this issue (Brown, 1989: 206).

The Vykom Satyagraha was comparatively small, involving, at most, a few hundred people (though this is unclear), mostly local untouchable and a minority of caste Hindus, and emphasised strict adherence to GandhiÕs ideals of Satyagraha. The opponents were local Brahmans, the Travancore provincial government, and their police force deployed against the satyagrahis.

Nevertheless, what Gandhi made of the Vykom Satyagraha illustrates that something more was in train than just committed and disciplined nonviolent activists wearing down the opponentÕs resolve through persistence and acceptance of selfÐsuffering, and a final conversion of the opponent to the satyagrahiÕs cause. Gandhi supported this Satyagraha from the start, though he did not travel to Vykom until the early part of 1925. Interestingly, support for this Satyagraha also initially came from Punjabi Sikhs, who set up a kitchen to feed satyagrahis but they were replaced by local Hindus after Gandhi advised that support should come locally lest local orthodox Hindus be offended. The opponents of the Satyagraha were largely high caste Hindus, especially Brahmans, an orthodox Hindu society, the Savarna Mahajana Sabha, state police from Travancore, and the majority of the Travancore Legislative Council. The satyagrahis were beaten by opponents, and were arrested in such numbers that local prisons became overcrowded, which led to a cessation of arrests. Organisers were ostracised and threatened with the removal of family property and with being labelled outÐcaste. The police built a barricade across the road, which was later removed when Gandhi negotiated concessions from the state authorities in April, 1925. But when the barricade was removed, the satyagrahis did not proceed down the road as their opponents expected, but held their ground, continuing to pray that the Brahman opposition would grant access to the road. By the autumn of 1925, this occurred.

Gandhi wrote in Young India published on May 1, 1924, as the Vykom Satyagraha was commencing, that the opposition must be won over through strict adherence to the disciplines of Satyagraha:

There is no doubt in my mind about it that the orthodox Hindus who still think that worship of God is inconsistent with touching a portion of their own coÐreligionists and that a religious life is summed up in ablutions and avoidance of physical pollutions merely are alarmed at the developments of the movement at Vykom. They believe that their religion is in danger. It behoves the organizers therefore, to set even the most orthodox and the most bigoted at ease and to assure them that they do not seek to bring about the reform by compulsion... (in Bondurant, 1965: 52).

...I would ask you to forget the political aspect of the program. Political consequences of this struggle there are, but you are not to concern yourself with them. If you do, you will miss the true result and also miss the political consequences, and when the real heat of the struggle is touched you will be found wanting... I want you to feel like loving your opponents, and the way to do it is to give them the same credit for honesty of purpose which you claim for yourself...[Immediately] we begin to think of things as our opponents think of them we shall be able to do them full justice. I know this requires a detached state of mind, and it is a state very difficult to reach. Nevertheless, for a Satyagrahi it is absolutely essential. ThreeÐfourths of the miseries and misunderstandings in the world will disappear if we step in to the shoes of our adversaries and understand their standpoint. We will then agree with our adversaries quickly or think of them charitably. In our case, there is no question of our agreeing with them quickly as our ideals are radically different. But we may be charitable to them and believe that they actually mean what they say... Our business, therefore, is to show them that they are in the wrong, and we should do so with our suffering. I have found that mere appeal to reason does not answer where prejudices are ageÐlong and based on supposed religious authority. Reason has to be strengthened by suffering, and suffering opens the eyes of understanding... (in Fischer {ed.}, 1962: 255 Ð 256).

He also wrote in Young India in September, 1926, that:

The golden rule of conduct, therefore, is mutual toleration, seeing that we will never all think alike and we see Truth in fragment and from different angles of vision. Conscience is not the same thing for us all. Whilst, therefore, it is a good guide for individual conduct, imposition of that conduct upon all will be an insufferable interference with everybodyÕs freedom of conscience (in Pantham, 1986: 199).

Evolution of democracy is not possible if we are not prepared to hear the other side. We shut the doors of reason when we refuse to listen to our opponents, or having listened, make fun of them. If intolerance becomes a habit, we run the risk of having missed the truth. Whilst, with the limits that Nature has put upon our understanding, we must act fearlessly according to the light vouchsafed to us, we must always keep an open mind and be ever ready to find that what we believed to be truth was, after all, untruth. This openness of mind strengthens the truth in us (in Pantham, 1986: 199).

If Vykom, four years later, was successful because it was primarily focused on a local issue with, to be sure, national implications particularly for Hindus and most especially for Harijans, involved comparatively few people, and was highly disciplined, then the earlier Rowlatt Satyagraha indicates the potentially disastrous consequences of attempting something like Satyagraha on a national scale involving vastly more complex groups, each with their own agendas, on an issue which did not directly affect the majority of Indians, be they Muslims, Hindus, or the many other actually or potentially antagonistic grassroots interests. Essentially, Rowlatt was a symbol of British imperialism attempting to exert greater domination of Indian affairs through legislating against political activities deemed subversive. As the majority of Indians were not especially aware of political issues beyond their immediate experiences, nor were politically active, especially against the Raj, the Rowlatt Bills, and the Act proclaimed on March, 21 1919, did not directly affect their daily lives. What was significant about the Rowlatt Satyagraha was GandhiÕs recognition of how he had miscalculated on the discipline of many Indians in maintaining a nonviolent stance, and explains why he called off the Satyagraha after only a few weeks. This suggests the necessity on the part of nonviolent actors to be acutely sensitive to the phenomenological dynamics in play, or soon to be in play, as they prepare for and engage in nonviolent action across aÐsymmetric vocative and power relations.

In the immediate context, the planned Satyagraha against the Rowlatt Act was complicated by escalating Muslim agitation on the Khilafat issue, British duplicity on this issue being seized upon by both Hindu and Muslim activists as evidence that Britain had to be forced to quit India because promises and undertakings regarding the postÐwar disposition of Turkey and the Kaliph, and thence regarding India, could be readily reversed. This suggests that the gulf between the likely and actual protagonists in the Satyagraha would be even wider and harder to vocatively bridge, especially in areas with significant Muslim populations.

After justifying her assessment of the Rowlatt Satyagraha as properly adhering to the tenets of Satyagraha, Joan Bondurant summarises the reasons for the failure of the Satyagraha in these terms:

... the Rowlatt satyagrahaÕs disintegration into violence was the result of an appeal to the masses before they had been adequately prepared to offer satyagraha. It was a failure to communicate the meaning, the philosophy, and the implications of the allÐimportant technique to its mass participants, and finally the failure to plan for a nonÐviolent resistance to elements within its own ranks what had turned to violent means (Bondurant, 1965: 88).

... A Satyagrahi obeys the laws of society intelligently and of his own free will because he considers it to be his sacred duty to do so. It is only when a person has thus obeyed the laws... that he is in a position to judge as to which particular rules are good and just and which are unjust and iniquitous... My error lay in my failure to observe this necessary limitation. I had called on the people to launch upon civil disobedience before they had thus qualified themselves for it, and this mistake seemed to me of Himalayan magnitude (in Fischer {ed.} 1962: 148).

Looking more closely at Rowlatt, for example in the Punjab centre of Lahore, on April 11, 1919, a day after British police had fired on and killed or wounded over twenty demonstrators, just after the noon nimaz at the Badshahi Mosque, some 35,000 people gathered for a peaceful meeting which demonstrated how the Rowlatt Satyagraha had, at least temporarily, drawn a wide crossÐsection of the population of the city together. R Kumar writes that:

... roughly a third consisted of Hindu merchants and professional men, while the rest were made up of Muslim artisans and workers. Students, as usual, were well represented at the meeting. But the tone of the gathering was set by the Hindu petite bourgeoisie and the Muslim workers and artisans particularly the latter (Kumar, 1971: 287).

... was a serious confession of failure because British rule over India rested on the acquiescence, if not the collaboration, of influential individuals and powerful social groups in the community, rather than on the exercise of brute power (Kumar, 1971: 294).

Louis Fischer writes more generally about the effect of the Rowlatt Satyagraha in the Punjab, quoting from the later Hunter Commission of Inquiry into the Jallianwallah Bagh massacre at Amritsar on April 13, 1919, to indicate that momentary Hindu Ð Muslim unity was demonstrated through widespread and nonviolent observance of the hartal in Amritsar on March 13, and again on April 6. Two days later, on the day of the Hindu festival Ram Naumi, and after one Hindu and one Muslim Congress leader had been arrested, Muslims joined in celebrating Ram Naumi and were reported to have shouted ÒMahatma Gandhi ki jai (Long Live Mahatma Gandhi)Ó, ÒHindu Ð Mussalman ki jai (Long Live Hindu Ð Muslim unity)Ó and Òdrinking out of the same cups publicly by way of demonstrationÓ (Fischer, 1982: 229 Ð 230). If April 9 was the high point of this activity, the afternoon of April 13 at Jallianwallah Bagh marked the nadir of British Ð Indian relations.

The significance of the Amritsar massacre lies in the fact that it can be interpreted as an example of what can happen when a vocatively inflected dialectical phenomenology encounters evidence of instances in which the gulf between opponents and nonviolent actors reaches an unbridgeable depth. The Amritsar massacre is a graphic example of the reverse of the import of a dialectical phenomenology being deployed here. If the ideal of Satyagraha in practice is the reconciliation between activist and opponent, a recognition that they share more than a momentary disagreement over some problem, then its antithesis is the killing of opponents which destroys any possibility of reconciliation. The relationality of domination remains a constant, manifested in reconciliation or bullets, but the positive relationality dies with the activists. It also indicates the limits of the suspensive element in the phenomenology, for simply examining the massacre in isolation neglects its consequences for all the actors involved.

The Amritsar massacre, which was graphically recreated in Richard AttenboroughÕs film Gandhi, demonstrates what can happen when a vocative appeal made across grossly aÐsymmetric power relations and profoundly divergent hermeneutics on the part of protagonists is met with absolutely no recognition whatsoever from the opponentÕs side, save extreme violence. The Hunter CommitteeÕs Report, and the parallel Congress PartyÕs investigation, both condemned the militaryÕs actions, the incident had enormous impact on Indian opinion with respect to British domination, and added strength to subsequent vocative appeals made by Gandhi and other politicians to the Raj and British domestic leaders, largely, but not universally, shaken and even ashamed by the massacre carried out by their own forces.

With martial law declared in Amritsar, and unrest widespread but diminishing, the commander of the Jullunder brigade, Brigadier Ð General Reginald Dyer, was ordered to Amritsar, and on April 12, 1919, issued a proclamation banning processions and meetings. He left publication of this order to the local police, and on the morning of April 13, went through the city reading the proclamation. However, as the Hunter Report later said, the route taken by Dyer mitigated against the proclamation being widely known. For Sikhs, April 13, the first of Baisakh, was also the birth anniversary of Khalsa, and many came to Amritsar to celebrate at the Golden Temple (Singh, 1966: 163 Ð 167). Many who had come from outlying villages gathered at Jallianwalla Bagh for the day to cool before they went home. Meanwhile, Dyer learned that a large meeting was being planned for 4.30 pm that afternoon and about 1.00 pm, he went to the location, Jallianwalla Bagh, were a large crowd estimated at between ten and twenty thousand people was already gathering. Believing the crowd was in breach of his proclamation, Dyer ordered his troops to open fire on them. The Bagh effectively boxed the crowd in, with the troops commanding the major exit. Over 1,500 rounds were fired into the crowd, almost 380 people were killed, and 1,137 people injured. It is important to note that Brigadier Ð General DyerÕs troops that day consisted of Ghurkhas from Nepal and Baluchis from Baluchistan (Fischer, 1982: 231 Ð 232), only the latter being even remotely likely to have any empathy with or knowledge of their Muslim cousins crowded into the Bagh, along side many Hindus. The troops were garrisoned well outside Amritsar, and had been in the city for only two days, no doubt insulated from any contact with locals. The consequences of denying a shared humanness with others leads to events such as the Amritsar massacre, and Brigadier Ð General DyerÕs earlier infamous Ôcrawling orderÕ (Brown, 1972: 241; Fischer, 1982: 234). After a British woman had been assaulted by a mob, Dyer had ordered that all Indians literally crawl past the place where the woman had been attacked (Payne, 1969: 340).

The Hunter Report cited one General Drake Ð Brockman of Delhi who asserted: ÒForce is the only thing that an Asiatic has any respect forÓ (in Fischer, 1982: 233). In his report to his superior, Dyer wrote: ÒI fired and continued to fire until the crowd dispersed and I consider this the least amount of firing which could produce the necessary effect it was my duty to produce if I was to justify my action. It was no longer a question of merely dispersing the crowd, but one of producing a sufficient moral effect from a military point of view not only on those who were present, but more especially throughout the Punjab. There could be no question of undue severityÓ (in Fischer, 1982: 232 Ð 233; emphasis in original). In crossÐexamination before the Hunter Committee, Dyer said, ÒYes, I think it quite possible that I could have dispersed them perhaps without firingÓ but ÒI was going to punish them. My idea from a military point of view was to make a wide impressionÓ (in Fischer, 1982: 234 Ð 235; on British domestic reaction to the Hunter Report, see, Brown, 1972: 243 Ð 244; Payne, 1969: 341). Another example of Satyagraha actually eliciting a viscous response from the opponentÕs forces occurred when some 2,500 Congress members attempted a nonviolent ÔraidÕ on the salt works at Dharsana, some 150 miles north of Bombay, on May 21, 1930. The point to be drawn from this example is that, when outnumbered by Satyagrahis, the police reacted in quite the opposite of how the voluntary acceptance of suffering by their opponents was supposed to make them react. Instead of converting or uplifting them, the SatyagrahiÕs action provoked them to ferocious reaction.

Gandhi had been jailed on May 5, so the ÔraidÕ was led by Sorojini Naidu, a noted Indian poet. Gandhi had earlier written to the Viceroy, informing him about the ÔraidÕ. As was reÐenacted in one of the most harrowing scenes in AttenboroughÕs film Gandhi, the Satyagrahis advanced towards the salt works, which was guarded by a force of some 400 Indian police, six British officers, and twentyÐfive Indian riflemen. The police not only relentlessly beat the nonÐresisting Satyagrahis with their metal tipped lathis, as more protesters approached the works and were beaten, some were kicked in the abdomen, had sticks thrust up their anuses, and, while lying wounded, had their testicles squeezed. One of the witnesses of the action was experienced American journalist, Webb Miller, who later described the scene as the most harrowing he had ever experienced in eighteen years of reporting in twentyÐtwo countries. Vallabhbhai Patel, arriving as the action was dying down, was reported to have said:

All hope of reconciling India with the British Empire is lost forever. I can understand any governmentÕs taking people into custody and punishing them for breaches of the law, but I cannot understand how any government that calls itself civilized can deal as savagely and brutally with nonviolent unresisting men as the British have this morning 1969: 397).

Another incident was reported by another American journalist, Negley Farson. A police sergeant had been beating a Sikh, who fell from a heavy blow. He was assisted by Congress first aid volunteers, and stood up again. The police officer drew back his arm for a final swing, and then dropped his hands by his side, reportedly saying, ÒItÕs no use. You canÕt hit a bugger when he stands up to you like thatÓ. The police officer gave the Sikh a mock salute and walked off (in Bondurant, 1965: 96). Two interpretations of this incident are possible. A satyagrahi would argue that this is indicative of the vocative power of nonviolence bridging the shared humanity of the Sikh and the police officer. Alternatively, assuming that the incident occurred in the midst of a larger demonstration, the police officer simply gave up, possibly disgusted, degraded, or exasperated by having to beat the Sikh (Parekh, 1989: 168 Ð 169).

A dialectical phenomenological approach not only leads to a new reading of Gandhian nonviolence and incidents such as Rowlatt, or Dharsana, it also facilitates a different understanding GandhiÕs use of secrecy. This issue, apparently of largely tactical importance, actually goes into the operations of the relationality implicit in a dialectical phenomenology being deployed here. Given the vocatively dialogic components in practical dialectical phenomenology, deliberately withholding information from an opponent is a violation of the intent of bridging the gulf between opponent and activist.

Turning to secrecy, Gandhi is adamant that secrecy, and deliberately withholding information from the opponent to gain tactical advantage over them, has no part in Satyagraha . As he wrote in a section called ÔA Question BoxÕ published in Harijan on April 13, 1940:

I am quite clear that secrecy does no good to our cause. It certainly gave joy to those who were able to outwit the police. Their cleverness was undoubted. But Satyagraha is more than cleverness. Secrecy takes away from its dignity. Satyagrahis have no reason to have secret books or secret funds (Gandhi, 1961: 370).

Secrecy aims at building a wall of protection around you. Ahimsa distains all such protection. It functions in the open and in the face of odds, the heaviest conceivable. We have to organise for action a vast people that have been crushed under the heel of unspeakable tyranny for centuries. They cannot be organised by any other than truthful means (Gandhi, 1961: 379 Ð 380).

Gandhi rejects secrecy for moral reasons, whereas Sharp concludes that secrecy should be very carefully considered, and probably rejected, because keeping secrets from the opponent could have counterproductive effects on the nonviolent movement and the struggleÕs conclusion. Secrecy can erode the potential of crucial thirdÐparty support being attracted to the struggle, prevent the opponent from recognising the sincerity and strength of the opposition, and contribute to eroding vital trust and confidence within the campaignÕs membership. An opponent equipped with surveillance devices and using agents provocateurs to infiltrate the campaign will probably be able to extract required information anyway.

Associated with secrecy is the tactic of informing the opponent about what one is going to do before one does it. Gandhi would do so out of courtesy, consistent with the rejection of secrecy, and congruent with the centrality of truth to Satyagraha. Sharp would alert an opponent prior to what the campaign is going to do as part of a continuing tactic of impressing the opponent about the campaignÕs sincerity, strength of purpose, and extent of popular support. When campaigners and opponents actually meet in conflict, the opponent knowing what the campaign is planning to do beforehand could also reduce casualties caused by the opponentÕs forces overreacting because of surprise or fear. Sharp concludes by warning that openness might not bring initial gains, because the opponent may interpret the admission of the campaignÕs plans as a sign of weakness or ineptness to be fully exploited. Even though Gandhi informed the authorities of the forthcoming Dharasana salt works ÔraidÕ, the violence which ensued was significant, if not entirely uniform.

Another reason for eschewing secrecy in a nonviolent campaign is that secrecy contributes to both paranoia and arrogance, and thence to the divisions between activist and opponent which is a major phenomenon nonviolence often explicitly seeks to erode. If one side does not know what the other is planning or is likely to do, the ignorant side can become decidedly apprehensive, even paranoid, about what their opponents might be plotting. Paranoia can contribute to fear, and fear can contribute to over-reactions and escalating dehumanisation of the other side. Not knowing what they might be or indeed actually are capable of doing enables the ignorant side to create all sorts of fantasies which can multiply unless checked by sincerity and openness. Equally eroding of the essential solidarity between activist and opponent can be arrogance on the part of those keeping secrets from the other side in that they can grow to believe they are superior because only they really know what plots are being hatched. They can come to believe they are superior beings to their opponents, such arrogance hardly being efficacious to opening and extending lines of communication between parties to a conflict.

In contexts less complex and smaller than India, in which there are fewer and weaker themes and currents than the many languages, ethnicities, religions, political and economic interests crammed together in thousands of Indian cities and villages, a dialectical phenomenology of the kind deployed here would clearly indicate how a multiplicity of interests interact in a flow of events and perceptions, thus shedding light on the dynamics at work in a particular nonviolent campaign. A dialectical phenomenology deployed to analyse even a single campaign in even a single locale, such as Lahore or Vykom, indicates the need to find, tease out, and analyse the various interests and perceptions, both complicating the usual picture, but adding greater insight and scope for more detailed analysis. Such an approach, however, of itself, does not aid in addressing is why, for example, momentary unity between Lahore or AmritsarÕs Hindus and Muslims was, and probably remains, unsustainable. More research might indicate why PunjabÕs some five million Sikhs seemed so reticent to participate in the Rowlatt Satyagraha. It is also clear that, even when Gandhi was able to quell or diffuse violence, his personal charisma, and thence his moral authority, only extended a little beyond his physical presence, and his staunchest followers were only less able to exert authority over a Satyagraha which got out of control.

At this level of analysis, it is simplistic to dismiss Satyagraha as ineffective because campaigns such as Rowlatt erupted into violence, apparently contributed to the brutality at Dharasana, or that Satyagraha works because the Brahmans at Vykom finally allowed the Harijans to pass their temple. At the same time, GandhiÕs explanations that Ôthe masses were not ready to use itÕ appear either selfÐserving, naive, or idealistic, especially given his amply demonstrated and escalating awareness of the complexities of India. What Gandhi did demonstrate, especially with Rowlatt, was a selfÐcorrecting function in Satyagraha, which enabled the campaign to be suspended, mostly more than less, once it became clear that the campaign was out of control. Vykom, and even momentary instances of interÐcommunal accord, indicate that something was at work which overcame deepÐseated distrust and hatred between former antagonists. GandhiÕs personal methods of negotiating across a wide range of social divisions also point to the effects of reducing mistrust and recognising, and then acting upon an essential humanity shared by all parties to a conflict (see, for example, Pelton, 1974: 210 Ð 249). The renunciation of secrecy, and its inherent dangers of selfÐaggrandisement, paranoia, and encouraging an opponent to overÐreact, as well as violating the principles of Satyagraha, is one important example of how practitioners of ÔnegativeÕ and ÔpositiveÕ mode nonviolence can agree, but, as expected, for different reasons given their widely differing vocative positions. With respect to deploying a dialectical phenomenology as part of a revised framework for interpreting domination, GandhiÕs own theory of Satyagraha appears to embed a transformative relationality of domination into his theory, and attempts to carry that through into his praxis, though it would appear that this only extended into situations in which he or his closest followers were present.

Evidence can be found to suggest that a vocative relationality contains its own contradictions in which there can be no guarantee that the other side in the relation will respond as expected, even when the satyagrahis adhere to their own discipline. Account must then be taken of all operative factors in an onÐgoing encounter, and not just suspend one encounter, though a phenomenology of the kind suggested here appears to offer some analytic purchase when encounters are suspended from the experiential flow of events. This suggests that a structural analysis needs to be coupled with a dialectical phenomenology and the two approaches held in creative tension to facilitate more efficacious analysis. There appears to be ample scope for further investigation of nonviolent incidents and campaigns using a carefully limited dialectical phenomenological approach deployed as a component in a revised framework for interpreting domination. The approach is by no means sufficiently adequate to give a complete analysis of nonviolent actions, or other issues of concern to peace research, but it would appear to give added, if limited, insights into specific incidents.

4. An exploration of existential components of domination.

As has been suggested in Part One Chapter Five, the existential effects of domination require attention because they arguably distort the personalities, and affect the behaviour of the dominated, preventing consideration of their dominated condition, and retarding any possible efforts to achieve liberation. The neglected existential effects of being a dominator also need attention, not only to round out the analysis, but also to be congruent with some of the implications of the forgoing dialectical phenomenological approach.

Applying the revised framework for interpreting domination to the work of Sharp brings out several ambivalences. He fully acknowledges the importance of the existential effects of being dominated but in his work he appears to gloss over them. Obviously, Sharp is aware of the many effects of being oppressed. His focus is on extreme instances of what can interpreted as domination in practice: his four unsolved political problems of dictatorship, war, genocide, and social oppression (Sharp, 1980). His detailed and extensive historical examples of nonviolent tactics in practice range across the most historically vivid examples of oppression, such as the Holocaust, through to seemingly fairly trivial, yet in their own way significant, instances of oppression. Given that his foundational axiom is that oppressors are allowed to get away with their activities because people let them, he goes on to focus on why people obey. His explanations for this largely follow WeberÕs explanations of why people accord legitimacy to domination: habit, fear of sanctions, selfÐinterest, moral obligation. He goes on to consider what can be interpreted as mimesis in practice, psychological identification with the ruler, zones of indifference, and absence of self confidence among subjects (Sharp, 1973: 16 Ð25; 1980: 23 Ð 44).

With respect to mimetic identification with the ruler, which is not limited to any political system, Sharp writes:

This identification may be stronger and more usual in societies in which the common beliefs and sense of purpose have broken down; people often need something or someone to believe in and some source of purpose and direction in their lives (Sharp, 1973: 23)

Another significant effect of domination is the erosion of selfÐconfidence among the dominated. Especially in the context of a removal of a shared value system or sense of identity, dominated people may come to believe that their dominators really do have greater knowledge, skills, and capacities for making decisions. Some people may retreat from the responsibility and risk of making decisions, preferring their rulers to make them on their behalf. ÒEven where subjects wish to alter the established order,Ó Sharp writes, Òthey may remain submissive because they lack confidence in their ability to act effectively in bringing about the desired changes. As long as people lack selfÐconfidence they are unlikely to do anything other than obey, cooperate with, and submit to their rulersÓ (Sharp, 1973: 24). Brigadier Ð General DyerÕs Ôcrawling orderÕ, mentioned in the previous section, can be interpreted as a crude means of achieving this effect (Payne, 1969: 340).

Sharp does not focus much on the existential effects of being an oppressor, beyond fragmentary references to ÔselfÐaggrandisementÕ or their Ôneed for powerÕ. While by no means suggesting that rulers are monolithic, personalised, and operate out of an actually or potentially realised total domination, and hold power simply through superior firepower or a supremely effective police force, Sharp almost exclusively consigns the ruler to the role of a rather disembodied entity against which nonviolent action is deployed. ÒAs the opponentÕs first point of reference is himself, he must keep a favourable selfÐimage. His justification for the policy at issue and his dismissal of the grievance group as nonhuman or outside the common moral order may have helped him to do thisÓ (Sharp, 1973: 724). Even when the oppressorÕs agents defect from their ranks and join the opposition, or sustained, disciplined, and persistent nonviolent action leads to at least unease among some elements of the oppressing agency, Sharp is cautious about the effectiveness of such results which may, or may not, lead to genuine conversion of the opponent (Sharp, 1973: 707 Ð 733). Attention to the effects of being a dominator suggests that, from their point of view and depending on their legitimation system or ideology, the masses live in the best of all possible worlds so they would have to be genuinely insane were they to rebel, the masses are in need of constant guidance and discipline so that they may one day join the civilised world (but hopefully not for quite a while yet), the masses are closer to animals than humans and therefore require constant firm treatment and control, or, they are subÐhuman, polluting, corrupting, and must be exterminated (e.g., Pelton, 1974: 199 Ð 204; see also, ParekhÕs summation of general British paternalistic and imperialistic attitudes to India and Indians, 1989: 12 Ð 15).

Sharp is also aware of the benefits which waging conflict nonviolently can bring to the activists, in addition to actually ameliorating the specific or more general instances of oppression against which their campaigns are aimed. In summary, he writes:

... to start with, the people end their submissiveness and learn a technique of action which shows them they are no longer powerless. They are also likely to experience a growth of internal group solidarity. Certain psychological changes occur which spring from their new sense of power and their increased selfÐrespect. Finally, members of the group which uses nonviolent action seem during and after the struggle to cooperate more on common tasks (Sharp, 1973: 778; see also, 777 Ð799).

Sharp summarises Gandhi on this point, which is about as close as he gets to addressing this crucial question of why people would rebel, or more precisely, how they might be induced to rebel:

There was [Gandhi argued] a need for: 1) a psychological change away from passive submission to selfÐrespect and courage; 2) recognition by the subject that his assistance makes the regime possible; and 3) the building of a determination to withdraw cooperation and obedience. Gandhi felt that these changes could be consciously influenced, and he therefore deliberately to set out to bring them about. ÒMy speeches,Ó he said, Òare intended to create ÔdisaffectionÕ as such, that people might consider it a shame to assist or cooperate with a government that has forfeited all title to respect or supportÓ (Sharp, 1973: 31 Ð 32).

... The Devil succeeds only by receiving help from his fellows. He always takes advantage of the weakest spots in our natures in order to gain mastery over us. Even so does the Government retain its control over us through our weaknesses or vices. And if we would render ourselves proof against its mascinations we must remove our weaknesses. It is for that reason that I have called NonÐcošperation a process of purification. As soon as the process is completed this Government must fall to pieces for want of the necessary environment just as mosquitoes cease to haunt a place whose cesspools are filled up and dried.

Has not just a Nemesis overtaken us for the crime of untouchability? Have we not reaped what we have sown?... We have segregated the ÒpariahÓ and we are in turn segregated in the British colonies... ... The slave owner is always more hurt than the slave. We shall be unfit to gain Swaraj so long as we would keep in bondage a fifth of the population of Hindustan. Have we not made the ÒpariahÓ crawl on his belly? Have we not segregated him? And if it is religion so to treat the ÒpariahÓ it is the religion of the white race to segregate us. And if it is no argument for the white race to say we are satisfied with the badge of our inferiority, it is less for us to say the ÒpariahÓ is satisfied with his. Our slavery is complete when we begin to hug it (in Fischer {ed.}, 1962: 251).

While aware of specific instances of oppression in his own society, he was also aware of the effects of oppression on the individualÕs search for truth, and, more mundanely though nonetheless importantly, the effects of that oppression manifesting in a wide range of social ills: uncleanliness leading to disease and demonstrable of a wider lack of selfÐrespect, dehumanisation of lower and outÐcaste groups, oppression of women, or substance abuse. In his 1941 booklet entitled Constructive Program, Gandhi wrote:

...If we are to reach our goal through nonÐviolent effort, we may not leave to the future government the fate of thousands of men and women who are laboring under the curse of intoxicants and narcotics... [On the importance of adult education...] We have no notion of the ignorance prevailing in the villages. The villagers know nothing of foreign rule and its evils. What little knowledge they have picked up fills them with the awe the foreigner inspires. The result is the dread and hatred of the foreigner and his rule. They do not know how to get rid of it. They do not know that the foreignerÕs presence is due to their own weaknesses and the ignorance of the power they possess to rid themselves of the foreign rule. My adult education means, therefore, first, true political education of the adult by word of mouth...Side by side with the education by mouth will be the literary education...

But as every right in a nonÐviolent society proceeds from the previous performance of a duty, it follows that rules of social conduct must be framed by mutual cošperation and consultation. They cannot be imposed from outside. Men have not realized this truth in its fullness in their behaviour toward women. They have considered themselves to lords and masters... instead of... friends and coÐworkers (in Fischer {ed.} 1962: 300 Ð 302).

... Overdrawn her pictures of our insanitation, childÐmarriages, etc. undoubtedly are. But let them serve as a spur to much greater effort than we have hitherto put forth in order to rid society of all cause of reproach. Whilst we may be thankful for anything good that foreign visitors may be able honestly to say of us, if we curb our anger, we shall learn, as I have certainly learnt, more from our critics than from our patrons... (in Fischer {ed.}, 1962: 248).

...It is we ourselves with our inertia, apathy and social abuse that more than England or anybody else block our way to freedom. And if we cleanse ourselves of our shortcomings and faults no power on earth can even for a moment withhold Swaraj from us... (in Fischer {ed.}, 1962: 248).

... A slave is a slave because he consents to slavery. If training in physical resistance is possible, why should that in spiritual resistance be impossible?... (in Fischer {ed.}, 1962: 204).

Very early on August 8, 1942, Gandhi told a gathering of several hundred Congress Party leaders that:

... Every one of you should, from this very moment, consider yourself a free man or woman and even act as if you are free and no longer under the heel of this Imperialism. This is no makeÐbelieve. You have to cultivate the spirit of freedom before it comes physically. The chains of a slave are broken the moment he considers himself a free man. He will then tell his master: ÒI have been your slave all these days, but I am no longer that now. You may kill me, but if you do not and if you release me from the bondage, I will ask for nothing more from you. Henceforth, instead of depending upon you, I shall depend upon God for food and clothing. God has given me the urge for freedom and therefore I deem myself to be a free man... (in Fischer {ed.}, 1962: 347 Ð 348).

The moment the slave resolves that he will no longer be a slave, his fetters fall. He frees himself and shows the way to others. Freedom and slavery are mental states. Therefore, the firth thing is to say to yourself: ÒI shall no longer accept the role of a slave. I shall not obey orders as such but shall disobey them when they are in conflict with my conscience.Ó The soÐcalled master may lash you and try to make you serve him. You will say: ÒNo, I will not serve you for your money or under a threat.Ó This may mean suffering. Your readiness to suffer will light the torch of freedom which can never be put out (in Fischer {ed.}, 1962: 324; Sharp, 1973: 59).

Tolstoy Farm proved to be a centre of spiritual purification and penance for the final campaign. I have serious doubts as to whether the struggle could have been prosecuted for eight years, whether we could have secured larger funds, and whether the thousands of men who participated in the last phase of the struggle would have borne their share of it, if there had been no Tolstoy Farm (Gandhi, 1928: 258).

Writing in Harijan published on August 4, 1940, Gandhi connected his activities at Sevagram with the effect a single satyagrahi might have in such a situation:

He would be bound with the poorest of the village by ties of service. He would constitute himself the scavenger, the nurse, the arbitrator of disputes, and the teacher of the children of the village... His needs would, as far as possible, approximate those of the poor, he would harbour no untouchability, and would, therefore, inspire people of all castes to approach him with confidence.

Such is the ideal Satyagrahi. Our friend will always endeavour to come up to, wherever he falls short of, the ideal, fill in the gaps in his education, will not waste a single moment. His house will be a busy hive of useful activities, centring around spinning....

Such a Satyagrahi will not find himself singleÐhanded for long. The village will unconsciously follow him.... I may add in this connection that I came to Sevagram as a solitary Satyagrahi...

My present ambition is certainly to make of Sevagram an ideal village. I know that the work is as difficult as to make of India an ideal country. But while it is possible for one man to fulfil his ambition with respect to a single village one day, one manÕs lifetime is too short to overtake the whole of India. But if one man can produce one ideal village, he will have provided a pattern not only for the whole country, but perhaps for the whole world... (Gandhi, 1961: 376 Ð 377).

Given the relative paucity of detail on what actually occurred on a daily basis at Sevagram, an incident in August, 1938, is illuminating. A group of Harijans arrived and demanded that Gandhi appoint a Harijan to the Indian cabinet, something which, of course, he had no power to do. They responded that Gandhi could usually get what he wanted by fasting, so they would do the same. They also wanted the same treatment Gandhi received when in jail. A few days later, they left the village, but Gandhi was apparently shaken by having at least some of his tactics used against him (Payne, 1969: 481; Payne is incorrect when he describes this as a ÔsatyagrahaÕ campaign in the sense understood and advocated by Gandhi).

SharpÕs discussion of what can be interpreted as the existential effects of being dominated is, typically, oriented at indicating the obstacles to be overcome once people take the crucial step of deciding to rebel. He assumes that people will rebel, and will recognise that their domination is largely brought about by their own submission, at least according to his theory of power. A more analytic approach to the socialÐpsychological dynamics of domination would point to what is occurring when people take the potentially awesome step of overcoming the internal, and structural, obstacles to rebellion.

What Gandhi and Sharp agree upon is the openÐended process of empowerment, involving a large range of changing perceptions, beliefs, and actions which, over an equally variable time frame, could lead to, for Sharp, greater social and political freedom, and for Gandhi, a continuing search for truth.

In a theoreticÐpractical sense, GandhiÕs ideals can be seen to be directly aimed at addressing many of the existential effects of being dominated, and of being a dominator. The multiple hermeneutics embedded in his activities requires that the perceptions and actions of all the actors in each situation be fully examined. Indeed, each component in Satyagraha in practice can be seen to be aimed at a specific effect but with a ricochet to other effects, as demonstrated by attention to Harijan cleanliness improving health, raising selfÐconfidence, indicating selfÐrespect, and challenging an objective basis for higher caste ostracism of untouchables. More work to disclose the sustainable efficacy of GandhiÕs ideas in practice would serve to further illuminate the specific, and possibly wider utility of Satyagraha to address the existential effects of being dominated, and of being a dominator. It would be interesting, for example, to examine Sevagram several years after GandhiÕs assassination to see if there were any lasting effects of this smallÐscale Ôexperiment with truthÕ initiated by the Mahatma.

The five existential components of being dominated listed in chapter five appear to be partially addressed by both Gandhi and Sharp, though in different ways. The strongest purchase is found in addressing the passivity of dominated actors, selfÐexplanation of the dominatedÕs situation by reference to immutable laws, ÔfateÕ or the will of a God, and mimesis, or the mimicry of the dominator by the dominated. Gandhi, particularly, sought to address these, and some escape attempts from domination through substance abuse, while Sharp implies that greater selfÐrespect gained by the dominated would address other effects of being dominated. Sharp does not address the attempt by the dominated to alter their physical appearance, and GandhiÕs kadhi campaign and his adoption of traditional dress can be interpreted as transforming this effect in a positive direction by replacing WesternÐtype appearance with Indian appearance.

One effect of being dominated not mentioned in chapter five, but which needs attention and appears to have been at least partially addressed by Gandhi, is the propensity by dominated groups to fight among themselves rather than unite to struggle against their main dominator. This effect can be exploited by the dominator to Ôdivide and ruleÕ their opponents. But this effect only partially explains endemic interÐcommunal violence, one of GandhiÕs major continuing problems which he only momentarily was able to solve.

There is therefore considerable scope for future research examining the existential components of domination from the dominatorÕs and the dominatedÕs perspective, both at a theoretic and an empirical level. These components in the revised framework for interpreting domination can be mediated through positive attention being given to further explicating how people can be induced to, or even spontaneously, make the steps from passivity to action. The revised framework for interpreting domination, in particular attention being given to the existential components of domination, would also be strengthened by research conducted along these lines.

5. A Specific Social Ontology of Domination

The revised framework for interpreting domination, taking account of the slippery conception of social ontology noted in chapter five, nevertheless includes the hypothesis that a specifically vocative social ontology may have greater purchase for interpreting domination, especially when actors are challenging domination.

In the case of nonviolence, the specific social ontology proposed in the revised framework for interpreting domination has a methodological purchase because of the dialogical nature of the exchange of action frames involved. The emphasis here is on the concrete processes of social constitution which could transform a dominated ÔotherÕ into a potentially aware ÔselfÕ.

SharpÕs view of social ontology, derived from his consistent stress upon the oppressed empowering themselves to challenge the oppressor nonviolently, while superficially attractive due to its foundational simplicity, does not take account of the profound relationality of domination, or how that relationality can be replaced with an emancipatory relationality which considers both structural and existential elements at work in situations of domination, and situations in which domination can be, or actually is being, challenged. SharpÕs strong sense of the role of agency is relevant here. While he does recognise that fear may prevent people from resisting an oppressor, and mentions a range of psychological factors which prevent people from recognising their potential power manifested in nonviolence, throughout his work, he stresses the fact that, in his view, finally an oppressor is allowed to oppress people because they continue to obey the oppressorÕs commands. This strong sense of agency is asserted, for example, in the context of SharpÕs discussion of the preparations which he argues must be made for nonviolent action:

Because all nonviolent action is based upon the view of power which claims that all governments, hierarchal systems, oppression and injustice are ultimately dependent on the submission, cooperation and assistance of the multitude of the citizens, subordinates and victims, it follows that the key to change by this technique lies in psychological and attitudinal changes among the subordinates. Feelings of apathy, impotence, fear and submissiveness will need to be replaced by their opposites (Sharp, 1973: 490).

A subtle patriarchal ontology embedded in SharpÕs approach has already been mentioned, especially when his strong sense of agency is coupled with a feminist analysis of power (McGuinness, 1993). ÒSharp is able to maintain his view steadfastly because the choices that confront individuals ultimately rest on abstract concepts Ð consent and power Ð which are removed from the circumstances, relationships, and lives involvedÓ (McGuinness, 1993: 109). The theory of needs has also been critiqued from a feminist perspective, the argument being that women tend to make moral judgements from an ethic of care, which implies a mutuality of responsibility, whereas men tend to make moral judgements from an ethic of justice, which implies a consideration of rights and claims. In the former, the self is defined in relation to the other, while in the latter, the self is defined as separated from the other, emphasising individual empowerment and separation from the other (e.g., Gilligan, 1982: 138 Ð 156).

It is universally admitted that there is a quasiÐmetaphysical dimension to GandhiÕs Satyagraha, but this should not be interpreted to mean that Gandhi clarified his ontological ideas. Gandhi argued that the individualÕs search for truth would lead them to realise God, which he took to be Truth. The renunciation of violence is but a major part of Satyagraha, violence abandoned because, if truth were relative, nobody could punish anybody else because their version of the truth differed. In a statement to the Hunter Committee, set up by then Secretary of State E.S. Montagu, and chaired by the former SolicitorÐGeneral for Scotland, Lord Hunter, to investigate the Punjab situation after the Jallianwalla Bagh massacre in 1919, Gandhi wrote of Satyagraha that: Its root meaning is holding on to truth, hence truthÐforce. I have also called it LoveÐforce or SoulÐforce. In the application of Satyagraha I discovered in the earliest stages that the pursuit of truth should not admit of violence being inflicted on oneÕs opponent but that he must be weaned from error by patience and sympathy. For what appears to be truth to the one may appear to be error to the other. And patience means selfÐsuffering. So the doctrine came to mean vindication of truth not by infliction of suffering on the opponent but on oneÕs self (Gandhi, 1961: 6).

In his examination by Sir Chimanlal Setalwad before the Hunter Committee, later reproduced in Young India published on January 21, 1920, Gandhi, in response to a question about who would determine truth, replied:

The individual himself would determine that. Q. Different individuals would have different views as to truth. Would that not lead to confusion? A. I do not think so. Q. Honestly striving after truth is different in every case. A. That is why the nonÐviolence part was a necessary corollary. Without that there would be confusion and worse (Gandhi, 1961: 29)

The inÐbuilt corrective to one personÕs search for truth imposing on others their version of hell was the discipline of Satyagraha. Embedded in this was a sense of the Hindu doctrine of karma, in which oneÕs actions in this existence would rebound in the next, though Gandhi once again amended this doctrine to also include the ricochet of evil actions now resulting in continuing evil unless the cycle was broken. That it could be broken was at the core of GandhiÕs practice. This view was asserted in Young India published on May 6, 1926, yet again indicating GandhiÕs constant merging of the spiritual and transcendent with the material realms:

I claim to be a simple individual liable to err like any other fellow mortal. I own, however, that I have humility enough in me to confess my errors and retrace my steps. I own that I have an immoveable faith in God and His goodness and unconsumable passion for truth and love. But is this not what every person has latent in him? If we are to make progress, we must not repeat history, but make new history... If we may make new discoveries and inventions in the phenomenal world, must we declare our bankruptcy in the spiritual domain? Is impossible to multiply the exceptions so as to make them the rule? Must man always be brute first and man after, if at all? (Gandhi, in Fischer {ed.}, 1962: 206).<

Given his view of the essential moral unity of humanity, Gandhi tended to regard evil as an illusion, which could be punctured through resolute, selfÐsuffering appeals by disciplined Satyagrahis. He thence experienced real anguish at irrational, wholesale, and fearsome evil, such as erupted during Partition, or when learning of the Holocaust and other Nazi atrocities, or the bombing of Hiroshima (e.g., in Fischer {ed.}, 1962: 327; 330 Ð 333; 334 Ð 336). His responses to these horrors were largely futile or simplistic. The reason why he could not respond to monstrous, and much lesser yet equally manifest evil probably lay in his unsatisfactory epistemology which held truth to be relative and thence moral dignity was conferred on every personÕs sincerely held belief. One can quite sincerely be a racist, misogynist, homophobe, or generally ethnocentric, or be a sincere Satyagrahi. One implication of this acknowledgment of genuine sincerity of belief is that, if a government embodying the sincerely held beliefs of many citizens legitimates or facilitates terrible evil, Gandhi finally cannot condemn or struggle against that government because, no matter how mistaken the beliefs may be according to another value system, they are sincerely held, and finally, acknowledgment of plural value systems is accepted in GandhiÕs scheme.

What GandhiÕs practice also tends to deprecate is the role of the sensuous, aesthetic, sexual and other dimensions of human social existence and experience. His austere views on chastity and procreation, for example, though generally congruent with his severe selfÐdiscipline, denied the significance of these areas of human experience, as well as major sectors of Indian history, literature, and art. There are very few positive references in his voluminous writings to these vibrant and rich areas of Indian, and more general, human activity. Though he often stressed and encouraged the participation of women in public life, their roles, for him, largely remained traditional, nurturing, and rearing roles. They were never seen as lovers, or as fully equal participants in public affairs alongside men.

GandhiÕs practice can also be interpreted as elitist in the sense that, while he always emphasised the importance of the poorest villagers, and tirelessly worked to improve their lot and exhorted others to do likewise, the extreme standards of his own interpretation of Satyagraha in theory and practice were so high that, finally, only a Gandhi could interpret, and implement, anything approaching the most rigorous discipline which he held Satyagraha demanded. Finally, GandhiÕs practice can be interpreted as unique, though deeply rooted in Hindu spirituality and experience. His explicit denial of seeking to found an ÒismÓ, reflective of the more general Hindu spiritual leaderÕs aversion to having followers, also indicated his extreme individualistic position regarding his Ôexperiments with truthÕ: they were finally his own. Bhiku Parekh summarises the result of this extreme individualism:

Gandhi the thinker was thus inseparable from his thoughts. They derived their energy and coherence not from within their own autonomous world but from him, a unique thinking subject, and their consistency was to be found not in their internal and unmediated relations but in his personal Ôgrowth from truth to truthÕ in a constant endeavour to approximate his ideals. GandhiÕs thoughts were ÔhisÕ not only in the biographical but in the deeper epistemological sense of being grounded in and nonÐdetachable from his personality (Parekh, 1989: 224).

Attention to the admittedly problematic conception of social ontology in the revised framework for interpreting domination does point to the need for further refinement of the framework in this particular aspect. Sensitivity to a social ontology indicates how SharpÕs ÔnegativeÕ mode approach stresses the importance of agency in nonviolence but neglects more subtle implications of deploying a social ontology to address what nonviolent actors might be or become as a result of their struggle, aside from achieving potentially greater social power and political freedom. Gandhi, on the other hand, offers a practical ontology overlain with a social metaphysic which may both indicate the significance of the role of ontological considerations in analysing nonviolence, and point to the need to more closely differentiate between a social metaphysic, a more generally constituted ontological perspective, and a specific social ontology with real purchase as part of a revised framework for interpr