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Title: Gandhian Nonviolence
Author: Geoffrey Ostergaard
Date: 1989
Language: en
Topics: Mohandas Gandhi, nonviolence
Source: Retrieved on 3rd May 2021 from http://www.satyagrahafoundation.org/gandhian-nonviolence-moral-principle-or-political-technique/
Notes: This article first appeared in V. T. PATIL, New Dimensions and Perspectives in Gandhism. New Delhi: Inter-India Publications, 1989.

Geoffrey Ostergaard

Gandhian Nonviolence

The early 20^(th) century European anarchist-pacifist movement was early

influenced by Gandhian nonviolence. Many anarcho-pacifists, such as

Ostergaard and Bart de Ligt, found in satyagraha and Gandhi’s social

programs the counterpart for the more violent European anarchist strains

they were eager to reject. Ostergaard’s distinction between nonviolence

as a moral principle and nonviolence as a political strategy seems more

relevant now than when he wrote it in the 1980s; more central to debates

within the Occupy Movement, and the nonviolent movement in general. This

is the second in our series of historical articles that we began with

Theodore Paullin’s “Introduction to Nonviolence”. The Editor’s Note at

the end of the article presents biographical information about

Ostergaard, sources, and credits.

Discussions of nonviolence tend, not unnaturally, to focus on the issue

of the supposed merits, efficacy and justification of nonviolence when

contrasted with violence. Here, however, I propose to pursue a different

track. My object is to explicate the Gandhian concept of nonviolence and

this, I think, can best be done, not by contrasting nonviolence with

violence but by distinguishing two different kinds of nonviolence. My

thesis, in short, is that, Janus-like, nonviolence presents to the world

two faces which are often confused with each other but which need to be

distinguished if we are to appraise correctly Gandhi’s contribution to

the subject.

Gandhi is sometimes credited with being, if not the inventor of

nonviolence, then the person who first employed it, successfully and on

a mass scale, for political purposes. But, although we owe the term with

its present connotations to Gandhi, nothing could be further from the

truth. Nonviolent action as a political technique is very old, dating

back at least to ancient times. One of the first recorded uses of it

occurred in 494 B.C. when the plebeians of Rome withdrew en masse to the

Sacred Mount as a way of seeking redress of their grievances.

Subsequently, the technique has been employed by all kinds of people, in

various circumstances, and on both a small and a large scale. A

significant expansion of its use occurred in the late 18^(th) and in the

19^(th) centuries and is associated with the development of the labour

and socialist movements and with movements for national independence. In

the movement which led to ‘the first new nation’, the United States of

America, a variety of methods of nonviolent action, including tax

refusal, were employed by the rebel colonists before they eventually

turned to military struggle. And it was the Hungarian nationalists who,

in a protracted campaign lasting from 1850–67, provided one of the

clearest examples of successful nonviolent action, the campaign

resulting in the recognition of Hungary as an autonomous state within

the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

Other pre-Gandhian examples are provided by the Finnish and the Irish

nationalists—the latter using, among others, the method of the boycott,

named after a landlord against whom it was originally directed. One

particular method of nonviolent action—the strike, in all its many

varieties—has been the classic weapon of labour and socialist movements.

Typically, of course, the strike has been used against employers for

economic ends, but overtly political strikes have a long history. And

one particular school of Socialism, namely Syndicalism, developed the

notion that Socialism could be achieved by a general strike, in the

course of which the workers would take over the factories, workshops and

mines, dispossessing the capitalists. Although Syndicalists believed

that it would be necessary for the workers to defend the revolution by

armed force, the essentially nonviolent character of this notion is

conveyed by the Syndicalist symbol of the sturdy proletarian standing

upright with folded arms; and also by the name originally given to the

general strike by its Owenite inventor, William Benbow: ‘The Grand

National Holiday’.

It is only in very recent years, however, that academic researchers have

begun to make a serious study of nonviolent action as an unconventional

political technique intermediate between constitutional action, on the

one hand, and violent revolutionary action, on the other. The person who

has done most in this respect is Gene Sharp, whose book, The Politics of

Nonviolent Action, published in 1973, provides the most comprehensive

analysis of its theory and practice. Cataloguing, with historical

examples of their use, no less than two hundred distinct methods of

nonviolent action, Sharp classifies them into three broad categories :

(i) nonviolent protest and persuasion, (ii) nonviolent non-cooperation,

and (iii) nonviolent intervention. The first includes actions, which are

primarily symbolic in their effect and designed to indicate dissent to a

particular policy or, on occasions, to a whole regime. Examples are mass

demonstrations, marches, vigils and picketing. The second includes

actions, which are characterised by a withdrawal of the usual degree of

cooperation with the opponent, the object being to make it difficult or

impossible to maintain the normal efficiency and operation of the

system. Examples, in addition to strikes and boycotts, are tax refusal,

abstention from elections, and mass voluntary emigration. In the third

category fall those methods, which involve activists intervening in the

situation, either negatively by disrupting established patterns of

behaviour, or positively by creating new ones. Actions of this kind are

the most radical of all and are exemplified by sit-ins, factory

occupations, nonviolent invasions, and the establishment of alternative

institutions and a system of parallel government.

In Sharp’s terminology, ‘nonviolent action’ is a generic term for a

political technique adopted by those who seek to achieve their objects

by pressuring their opponents but without inflicting, or threatening to

inflict, on them physical injury. Defined in this way nonviolent action

is not synonymous with pacifism or identical with religious or

philosophical systems of thought that emphasize nonviolence as a moral

principle. Some notable campaigns using methods of nonviolent action

have been led by pacifists, but many have not. And further, there are

some forms of pacifism, which look askance at all or many of the more

popular methods of nonviolent action. For example, the form of pacifism

held by some Christian sects, such as the Mennonites and the Amish,

leads them to adopt a posture of non-resistance, rather than nonviolent

resistance. They refuse to participate in war or to hold public office,

but, provided that it is not inconsistent with what they see as their

duty to God, they do whatever else the State demands. For them, evil is

not to be resisted even by nonviolent methods; it is to be ignored as

much as possible. Considered historically, it is also clear that the

technique of nonviolent action has been used as much, if not more, by

non-pacifists as well as by pacifists. And, when used by the former, it

is often combined with, or is the prelude to, the use of other

techniques, which involve violence (including ‘legitimate violence’,

usually labeled ‘force’).

In the West, the interest of political scientists and political

activists in Gandhi has centered largely on his use of various methods

of nonviolent action, such as the boycott and civil disobedience of

unjust laws. It is usually assumed that it is possible to abstract from

Gandhi his technique and to ignore his philosophy and metaphysics as

well as his peculiar social ideas, such as ‘the fad’ of reviving the

khadi (cotton cloth) industry by means of the charkha (spinning wheel).

This assumption rests, in turn, on more general assumptions: that

techniques are merely techniques, neutral between various social

philosophies, and that in the sphere of human action means are clearly

separable from ends. To make explicit these assumptions is to indicate

clearly the risk involved in treating Gandhi in this way. For it is an

essential element in Gandhi’s thought that, in human action, means are

not separable from ends. Means precede ends temporally, but the two are

morally indistinguishable, and, in the last analysis, convertible terms.

Or, to put it in another way, means, according to Gandhi, are never

merely instrumental: they are always also expressive, end-creating and

part of a continuous chain of events infused with moral value. And,

because means and ends are convertible terms, one can in a sense forget

about the ends and concentrate on the means—which are ends-in-the-making

sure in the knowledge that, if the means are pure, the end-result will

coincide with the end-goal. More concretely, this view implies that if

one has as one’s end the achievement of, say, the socialist ideal of

human brother/sisterhood—a society reflecting concern and respect for

others as equals—then the means to it are actions in the here and now

which treat all human beings —including capitalists—as brothers and

sisters. To act otherwise is, in effect, to abandon one’s end which then

becomes a mere utopia, or something worse—a mental construct by which

one rationalizes actions that are in fact inconsistent with it. For

Gandhi, one might say, utopia is for today—not for tomorrow, after the

revolution. The real revolution is now and, hence, ‘Socialism begins

with the first convert’. Referring to violent revolutionaries whose

ultimate ideals he shared, Gandhi rejected their means as

self-defeating. “I would use,” he said, “the most deadly weapons if I

believed they would destroy the system. I refrain because the use of

such weapons would only perpetuate the system.”

For Gandhi, then, nonviolence is both an end and a means. But, to

appreciate the full significance of treating nonviolence in this way, it

is necessary to look more closely at his philosophy of action. This

philosophy is composed of three main elements: Truth, Nonviolence, and

Self-suffering. The three are inextricably fused together but, if one

can be considered more basic than the others, then that one would be,

not nonviolence but truth. This much is suggested by the term Gandhi

coined to describe his philosophy of action: ‘satyagraha’, meaning

literally ‘the firm grasping or holding on to truth’. But, in Gandhi’s

usage, ‘truth’ has a wider connotation than it has in Standard English.

‘Satya’ derives from the Sanskrit ‘sat’ which means ‘being’, ‘abiding’,

‘actual’, ‘right’, ‘wise’, ‘self-existent essence’, ‘as anything really

is’, and ‘as anything ought to be’. In the Indian tradition of thought,

Sat in its highest sense stands for the absolute, archetypal Reality and

for the absolute, archetypal Truth. For Gandhi, therefore, ‘satya’

embraces not only factual and logical truth but also moral and

metaphysical truth. From the perspective of social relationships, it is

the moral aspects of ‘satya,’ which are the more important. ‘Satya’ then

stands for the eternal moral order, which is a constituent of the cosmic

order, the ultimate reality. In its moral sense, Truth for Gandhi

approximates to the concept of Justice in the natural law tradition of

Western thought. But in its fullest sense Truth is more than Justice: it

is truth in the realm of knowledge, and righteousness in the realm of

personal conduct, as well as justice in social relations. It is not

surprising, therefore, to find Gandhi asserting on occasions the

familiar religious equation: ‘God is ‘Truth’. But since truth can also

be expressed by a sincere atheist, Gandhi goes further and reverses the

equation: ‘Truth is God’, adding that this is the most perfect

definition of God.

Given this definition, “Devotion to Truth,” says Gandhi, “is the sole

justification of our existence.” Life is thus seen as a search for

self-realization (moksha), a striving to achieve identification with the

absolute, which is at once both imminent and transcendent. Truth as the

ground of being and as ‘the substance of all morality’ exists as an

absolute and merits a capital T. But one important aspect of Truth is

that, in life at least, it is given to humans—even to those considered

to be Mahatmas—to glimpse only faintly this absolute. The truth that

humans actually achieve and express, therefore, is always relative,

never absolute. This limitation is inherent in the nature of life, and

it is because of this limitation that the search for Truth must proceed

by the way of nonviolence.

The Indian term for nonviolence is ‘ahimsa’, meaning ‘ literally

‘non-injury or non-harm to all sentient beings’. The concept, like

‘satya’ has its roots in ancient Vedic religious thought. But, in this

case, Gandhi invests the traditional concept with new meaning. His usage

differs from the orthodox Hindu concept of ‘ahimsa’ in conceiving it not

merely in a negative but also a positive way. Conceived positively,

‘ahimsa’ would be more fittingly translated into English by ‘the simple

four letter word: love’—except that ‘love’ is not a simple word. If we

translate it thus, we must not, of course, equate it with erotic love,

as in the slogan of the hippies, ‘Make Love, not War’. The

Greco-Christian concept of agape, signifying goodwill rather than good

feeling towards other persons, comes perhaps nearest to Gandhi’s

meaning. “Ahimsa and love are one and the same thing”, said Gandhi; and,

again, “In its positive form, ahimsa means the largest love, the

greatest charity”.

Thought of in this positive way, nonviolence is not to be identified

with non-killing. Indeed, as a votary of nonviolence, Gandhi explicitly

justified some types of killing of sentient creatures. Humans, he

believed, are justified in killing when it is necessary to sustain their

bodies; for example, killing monkeys which destroy food crops. They are

also justified in killing when it is necessary to protect those under

their care. On this ground, Gandhi provides a sharp answer to the

classic question posed by tribunals ‘to the conscientious objector to

military service: What would you do if someone tried to rape or kill

your sister? : “He who refrains from killing a murderer who is about to

kill his ward (when he cannot prevent him otherwise) earns no merit but

commits a sin; he practices no ahimsa but himsa (violence) out of a

fatuous sense of ahimsa.” And, finally, killing may be justified, Gandhi

believed, for the sake of those whose life is taken. On this ground,

Gandhi once caused grave offence to orthodox Hindus, to whom cows are

sacred, by sanctioning the killing of a suffering calf. Gandhi regarded

such killing as an expression of ahimsa, not himsa. For him a basic

consideration in deciding whether or not a particular act of killing

amounted to violence was the motive behind the act.

The same consideration led him to insist that nonviolence born of

cowardice was not genuine ahimsa. The person who has not overcome all

fear, including the fear of death, cannot, in his view, practice ahimsa

to perfection. If the choice is between cowardice and violence, then the

latter is always to be preferred. To practice nonviolence, in his sense

requires the possession of several positive qualities. These include

courage in the face of violence, truthfulness of thought and word,

adherence to the ideal of non-possession, and the qualities of

brahmacharya, meaning by that not merely sexual continence but control

of all the senses. Above all, the practice of nonviolence requires the

presence of love and the total absence of hatred or any other form of

ill will to others, including one’s adversaries. But love for one’s

adversaries does not imply acquiescence in the act of a wrongdoer. In

Gandhi’s words: Ahimsa is not merely a negative state of harmlessness;

it is a positive state of love, of doing good, even to the evildoer. But

it does not mean helping the evildoer to continue the wrong or

tolerating it by passive acquiescence. On the contrary, love, the active

state of ahimsa, requires you to resist the wrong-doer by dissociating

yourself from him even though it may offend him or injure him

physically.”

Truth and Nonviolence are, in Gandhi’s philosophy, intimately related.

In one sense, Truth has primacy because Truth may be thought of as the

supreme end and Nonviolence, or Love, the means. But since, in Gandhi’s

view, ends and means are not in fact separable, Truth and Nonviolence

may be thought of as two sides of a single smooth-surfaced coin. In the

search for Truth in action, one turns up, so to speak, the nonviolent

side of the coin. Nonviolence is essential because absolute Truth is

unknowable to humans: to use violence is to make the unwarranted

assumption that one has achieved absolute Truth. Joan Bondurant in

Conquest of Violence: The Gandhian Philosophy of Conflict, (Oxford

University Press, 1959, p. 25) expresses the relationship thus: “To

proceed towards the goal of Truth—truth in the absolute sense—the way

must lead through the testing of relative truths as they appear to the

individual performer. The testing of truth can be performed only by a

strict adherence to ahimsa—action based on refusal to do harm, or more

accurately, upon love. For truth, judged in terms of human needs, would

be destroyed, on whichever side it lay, by the use of violence.

Nonviolence or ahimsa becomes the supreme value, the one cognisable

standard by which true action can be determined.”

The third element in Gandhi’s philosophy of action, self-suffering, is

the one that, perhaps, presents most difficulty for Westerners, despite

(or is it really because of) the example of Jesus. Like the concept of

ahimsa, Gandhi’s notion of it is rooted in an ancient Indian concept:

‘tapasya’, suffering or sacrifice voluntarily undergone as a means to

individual self-realization. In this sense, it forms the basis of the

ascetic practices we associate with yogis—fasts, strict bodily

discipline, vows of chastity, and other measures of self-restraint. To

many Westerners, such practices smack of masochism, but their object is

not perverted pleasure but self-mastery as a step towards

self-realization. The person who undertakes tapasya seeks to purify his

self by purging away the dross of life, the material things which

distract him from life’s real purpose. For Gandhi, tapasya retains this

original meaning, so that Churchill’s ill-tempered description of him as

‘the half-naked fakir’ is not altogether inapt. But it also has a larger

meaning and purpose, which are related to nonviolence in action. In this

larger sense, it links up with the Socratic idea that it is always

better to suffer evil than to inflict it. As Gandhi saw it, “Suffering

injury in one’s own person is ... of the essence of nonviolence and is

the chosen substitute for violence to others.” Tapasya, we should note,

plays an important role in the mechanism of satyagraha. First, it

demonstrates to the opponent the satyagrahi’s seriousness of purpose,

indicates that the opposition is not frivolous, and constitutes a

guarantee of sincerity. Secondly, it shows the opponent that the

satyagrahi is completely fearless. Since the satyagrahi is prepared to

suffer even unto death, his or her nonviolence cannot be dismissed as

the act of a weak and cowardly person. And thirdly, in Gandhi’s words,

‘it opens the eyes of understanding’. It constitutes a way of reaching

the opponent’s heart when appeals to his/her head, i.e. rational

arguments, have failed. It is an element in what Richard Gregg has

called ‘moral jiu-jitsu’. The act of not striking back, turning the

other cheek, accepting injury without retaliation, has the effect—so it

is claimed—of pulling up the opponents sharply in their tracks, leading

them to question their own values and to reconsider their position as a

prelude to joining the satyagrahis in a common pursuit of truth. By a

kind of shock treatment dramatizing the position of the satyagrahi,

writes Bondurant (pp. 227–8), “suffering operates ... as a tactic for

cutting through the rational defenses which the opponent may have

built.”

In this aspect of tapasya, there is, it should be noted, a large element

of faith, which shows that, in the last analysis, satyagraha is a closed

system of thought, incapable of disproof, unfalsifiable. Gandhi

sometimes referred to satyagraha as a science, and the subtitle of his

autobiography, My Experiments with Truth, evokes a scientific image. But

fundamentally his outlook is religious in a sense in which ‘religion’

and ‘science’ are opposed to one another. The presupposition is that ‘no

soul is beyond redemption’, that the heart of even the most wicked

opponent—a Hitler, a Stalin, an Idi Amin—will eventually be touched. And

if the satyagrahi fails to achieve this, the fault lies with the

satyagrahi: the nonviolence he or she has been practicing has not been

sufficiently pure. By definition, satyagraha is rooted in Truth and must

succeed: thus, the failure must be attributed to the practitioner, not

the philosophy.

The three elements of Gandhi’s philosophy of action: Truth, Nonviolence,

and Self-suffering, enable us to pinpoint his contribution to nonviolent

action considered as a political technique. This contribution may be

expressed as the clarification of the two types of nonviolence mentioned

in my opening paragraph. For convenience, I shall refer to them as

‘satyagraha’ and ‘passive resistance’—the latter a term commonly used to

describe the technique and one used by Gandhi himself in his early days

before he had established the use of his own term. In outward

appearance, the two forms of nonviolent action have much in common and

may involve the use of similar methods, as listed by Gene Sharp. But

they differ in their inward character, in their spirit, and in their

styles and manner of action.

To be specific: in the first place, satyagraha is principled

nonviolence. Passive resistance, in contrast, is pragmatic or

expediential nonviolence—adopted not on grounds of principle but either

because one is weak—lacks the means of violence to secure one’s

objectives— or because one recognises that, in some particular

situation, the use of violent means is inexpedient, i.e. it will not be

the most efficient way of achieving one’s objectives, and may even be

counter-productive. It was this distinction, which Gandhi had in mind

when he contrasted nonviolence as a creed with nonviolence as a policy,

and the nonviolence of the strong with the nonviolence of the weak.

Leading on from this distinction about the status of nonviolence is a

difference about the scope of nonviolence. Because the nonviolence of

the satyagrahi is principled, it is something which he or she seeks to

apply to all social relationships, not merely—as in the case of the

passive resister—to selected relationships. For the passive resister,

nonviolence is like a raincoat to be worn or not worn according to the

state of the weather. For the satyagrahi, it is like his or her skin,

something that is perpetually renewed but never worn out or cast off.

Seeking to apply nonviolence to all social relationships, the

satyagrahi, unlike the passive resister, strongly emphasizes what Gandhi

called his ‘Constructive Programme’— measures or actions of social

reform, such as the promotion of khadi, the fostering of communal unity,

and the uplift of Harijans – measures, which on the face of it, have no

connection with confronting the principal opponent (in Gandhi’s case,

the British Raj). The importance that Gandhi attached to his

Constructive Programme is evident in this statement: “The best

preparation for, and even the expression of, Nonviolence lies in the

eternal pursuit of the constructive programme” (italics added). And also

in the statement, or confession, that he made in 1940: “In placing civil

disobedience before constructive work, I was wrong; I feared that I

should estrange co-workers and so carried on with imperfect ahimsa.”

A third difference may be expressed by saying that satyagraha is

truth-oriented, whereas passive resistance is power-oriented. Passive

resistance, although an unconventional political technique, belongs

squarely to the realm of power politics. It is an attempt to use force,

albeit nonviolently, to achieve one’s end. The idea is to direct the

power at one’s disposal at the weak points in the opponents’ defenses,

and to use it with sufficient skill to overcome them, so that they are

compelled to back down, or at least to make concessions. Passive

resisters are not concerned with truth: they know, or think they know,

that truth is on their side. They assume that error is all on the side

of the opponent: the opponent is wrong and must, therefore, be compelled

to acknowledge the right. Consequently, the desired outcome of the

conflict is prejudged. Passive resisters struggle against their

opponent, seek a victory over the opponent; and they see the desired

end-result as a change of relations, which will benefit their own side

and discredit that of their opponent. Because power and not truth is

central to their orientation, passive resisters are likely to be

careless of truth in the limited factual sense. They may exaggerate the

faults of the opponent and willfully misinterpret the opponent’s

statements and actions; and, as a way of improving their bargaining

position in the final negotiated settlement, they may state their own

claims at a higher point than they are really prepared to settle for.

Again, fearful of giving anything away to the opponent, passive

resisters are likely to be secretive in planning and in carrying out

their actions. If they can catch the opponent unawares, so much the

better, and so much nearer—they think—the ‘victory’. In short, passive

resistance shares many of the characteristics we associate with

conventional politics when we call politics ‘a dirty game’: it is

distinguished from conventional politics mainly by its avoidance of

violence.

In contrast to all this, satyagraha is always practiced with opponents,

not against them. True, the opponent may experience and define the

action of the satyagrahis as a form of coercion, but coercion is not the

essence of the situation. The struggle belongs essentially to the realm

of moral values, not power politics. The satyagrahis seek to transcend

conventional power politics in an effort to establish a new kind of

politics. No victory is sought over the opponent, but, rather, a

resolution of the conflict, which will be of real benefit to both sides.

Satyagrahis, at the outset of the struggle, naturally believe that they

are right and the opponent is wrong, but they do not assume that truth

is all on one side. Recognising that humans can achieve only relative

not absolute truth, satyagrahis maintain an open mind and are always

prepared to admit the valid claims of the opponent. And, although they

always stand ready to negotiate and reach an honorable settlement, their

posture is not that of a bargainer. They put forward proposals that they

genuinely believe in, and they stick to them or they modify them in the

light of their understanding of what truth and love demand in the

developing situation. In hope, what they seek through the conflict is a

deeper realization of the truth, a new level of understanding by both

parties. Since truth is at the forefront of their minds, satyagrahis

also scorn secrecy and maneuvering in their actions, and they refuse to

take unfair advantage of any chance weakness they may discern in the

opponent’s defenses.

The distinction between being power-oriented and truth-oriented leads to

other important differences. Passive resistance is a form of nonviolent

coercion: it seeks to compel opponents to do something against their

will. Satyagraha, in contrast, is not intentionally coercive; it seeks

always to convert the opponents, to persuade them voluntarily and

willingly to do what is right. And, since conversion, not coercion is

the aim, satyagrahis are careful to choose methods which are conducive

to this aim. Methods, which humiliate or harass opponents, are clearly

not conducive to their conversion. They are more likely to generate

fear, hatred, and continued opposition. And even if they appear to

succeed, they may well embitter subsequent relations between the parties

and lay the seeds of future conflicts. Respect for the person of the

opponent is essential to satyagraha, and this involves keeping clearly

in mind, the distinction between a person and the evil he or she

represents. Satyagrahis seek to separate opponents from their evil and

to treat them as persons, fellow human brothers and sisters. Their

refusal to inflict physical injury on opponents while at the same time

being prepared to accept such injury to their own persons is a signal to

opponents that they think of themselves as the opponents’ fearless

friends, and that they wish opponents to think likewise of them.

In sum: passive resistance is a power struggle in which nonviolence

figures as a tactic and presents a negative face. Satyagraha, although

it too involves struggle, is above all a search for truth in which

nonviolence, adopted as a principled way of life, appears as a positive

moral force—the force of truth and love. Passive resistance, when

practiced skillfully, may well produce favorable results, but these are

likely to be limited and temporary gains, setting the stage for future

conflicts. When practiced unskillfully, it may, like violent action,

serve simply to exacerbate the situation. Satyagraha, on the other hand,

with truth as its lodestar, never fails: by definition, it cannot

fail—only its practitioners can fail because they are not sufficiently

truthful and loving. Satyagraha presents or sees itself as creative

nonviolence that leads to a constructive transformation of

relationships. This transformation not only effects a change of policy

but also ensures a basic restructuring of the situation, which led to

the conflict. Conducted in a way that is fundamentally supportive of,

and reassuring to, the opponent, the outcome of the struggle is always

educative to both sides, and it leaves no legacy of bitterness behind.

Satyagraha and passive resistance, as I have described them, may best be

seen as what Max Weber called two ‘ideal types’ of nonviolence, or,

alternatively, as two models of nonviolent action at opposite ends of a

continuum—like the economists’ models of perfect competition and

monopoly, neither of which actually exist in the real world. Any

concrete instance of nonviolent action, will, almost certainly, contain

elements derived from both models, but with leanings towards one rather

than the other. Even the Gandhian campaigns in India bear out this

hypothesis, as Gandhi himself came to appreciate towards the end of his

life. He then said: “The nonviolence that was offered during the past

thirty years was that of the weak. India has no experience of the

nonviolence of the strong.” He was, of course, exaggerating, since his

own nonviolence and that of his closest followers was predominantly the

nonviolence of the strong. But most of those who joined him in the

struggle for independence, especially the bulk of politicians in the

Indian National Congress, were really passive resisters rather than

satyagrahis. It is not surprising that the Congress leaders, including

Pandit Nehru, ignored what is now called Gandhi’s Last Will and

Testament, written on the very eve of his assassination. In this

remarkable document, Gandhi urged the Congress to disband as a political

party and to transform itself into a Lok Sevak Sangh, an association for

the service of the people; in other words, a constructive work

organization which should undertake the task of completing a nonviolent

revolution in such a way as to bring what Gandhi referred to as ‘real

independence’ to the masses of India, those who live in the villages.

Power-oriented rather than truth-oriented, the politicians retained the

Congress as a political party and proceeded to develop India as

conventional modern industrial nation-state, relying for its defense,

like other nation-states, on military force. Gandhi is still revered and

hailed as the Father of the Indian Nation, but, ironically, the central

message of his life has been largely ignored by most of those who have

given him this label.

One final point: From the perspective of political thought, Gandhi may

be seen as the polar opposite of Machiavelli, the thinker who ushers in

the period of modern politics. With his conception of real politik, his

notion of rasion d’etat, and his principle that the end justifies the

means, Machiavelli may be interpreted as insisting that the realm of

politics must be separated from the realm of ethics. Ethics has its

rules, but politics too has its rules, and they are very different.

Princes must bear this in mind and, as politicians, give precedence to

the rules of politics whenever they conflict with the rules of ethics.

Gandhi, quite explicitly, refused to make such a separation, insisting

that there is only one realm of reality, and that what is morally right

cannot be pragmatically wrong or politically wrong or invalidated on

grounds of apparent futility. However, it is a feeble interpretation of

Gandhi to see him as trying simply to put together again what

Machiavelli had so roughly torn asunder. Beneath the stark differences

in the thinking of the two men, there is an underlying common thought:

the practice of power politics cannot by any logic be reconciled with

the precepts of ethics. To this Machiavelli responds: So much the worse

for ethics! But Gandhi responds: so much the worse for power politics!

And he then proceeds to attempt to transcend power politics and to

pioneer a new kind of politics—the politics of truth and love. To

tough-minded politicians and to the hard-headed political scientists who

devote their lives to legitimating the ways of politicians, Gandhi’s

attempt appears absurd, a ridiculous and impossible enterprise. But to

such people Gandhi had an answer, which may contain much more insight

than the tired, trite formula that politics is the art of the possible.

“Our task”, he said, “is to make the impossible possible by an ocular

demonstration in our own conduct.”

EDITOR’S NOTE: Geoffrey Ostergaard (1926–1990) was Professor of

Political Science, University of Birmingham (England). He was a leading

member of the anarcho-pacifist movement, which rejected the use of

violence for social change, basing its social principles on the

communitarian theory of Kropotkin, Ruskin’s Unto this Last, and Gandhi’s

social reform principles. He was a prolific writer, contributing

regularly to the anarchist publications Anarchy and Freedom as well as

to Peace News. Among his many books we might cite as of importance to

nonviolence theory, Nonviolent Revolution in India (1985) and especially

The Gentle Anarchists (1971), co-authored with Melville Currell, a

definitive study of Gandhi’s social reconstruction principles and

movement, as mentioned near the end of the above article. We are very

grateful to Peter van Dungen for his assistance, and to Alison

Cullingford, Special Collections Librarian, University of Bradford

(England) for her advice concerning rights and permissions. Bradford

Library archive website gives further details about Ostergaard and their

holdings of his writings.