Dalit Movements and Leadership in Tamilnadu.
In the past two decades, Dalit mobilisation in Tamil Nadu, has raised consciousness, challenged untouchability and forced Dalit issuesonto the political agenda. Although Dalit organisations are still marginal in the corridors of power, they have gained political recognition and a place within the coalition politics of the state. The two largest Dalit parties in the state are now regarded as acceptable, albeit lesser, alliance partners and have contested elections alongside both dominant Dravidian parties.
Dalit leadership has been pivotal to this Dalit assertion.In the late 1980s, Dalit youth, frustrated at the slow pace of change hero-worshipped firebrand leaders who indulged in isolated acts of violence against oppressor castes. Still today, the more overtly militant leaders retain a popular appeal. Tamil cinema is replete with bold, fearless and invincible action heroes who take the law into their own hands and exact revenge for social wrongs. It is into this mould that ‘Bomb’ Baikiaraj, and the young John Pandian fit. The intemperate rhetoric and actions of such leaders, however, prompted a dominant caste backlash that left rural Dalits particularly vulnerable to violence.
Over time, therefore, there has been a shift towards middle-class, educated and articulate leaders who promise to ‘hit back’ but also emphasise the painstaking processes of building an organisation and systematically resisting caste oppression. The Viduthalai Chiruthaigal Katchi (VCK - Liberation Panther Party) and Puthiya Tamilagam (PT - New Tamilnadu) - the two biggest parties in the state – follow this model. VCK leader, Thol. Thirumavalavan, studied law and had a job in a Government forensics department before he took on the leadership of the party. Dr Krishnasamy, similarly, was an established medical practitioner before becoming a full time politician.
In both cases the leadership is urban based
This echoes Gusfield’s (1966) observation that leaders must act simultaneously within the movement to mobilise participants and as a link to the wider society to whom issues and grievances must be articulated.Fulfilling both roles can be problematic and, as a result of such constraints, Robnett (1997: 22) shows that responsibility for ‘mobilizing and sustaining the movement’ fell predominantly on those termedbridge leaders.The notion of bridge leaders emphasises the significance of locally grounded activists for the maintenance of movement networks. Such figures assume greater importance in times of crisis when formal leaders may be absent (Robnett 1997: 20).
Accounts of leadership in Indiainvariably point to the authority structures of religion and caste as informing local mobilisation.
Such authority relations, Kakar (1971) argues, were reinforced from early childhood by means of the dominant stories and relationships depicted in school readers. His findings echo those of Arora (1967: 645) who found that Indian peasants are ‘socialised to accept not merely the authority of a recognised leader, but the collective authority of the group’. She highlights the continuing significance of caste and tribe clusters, noting that political responses tend to be groupbased. The result is that ‘national politics at the village level tends to be a matter of mobilising traditional groups rather than individuals’ (1967: 648).
Arora insists that the introduction of the franchise ‘should facilitate a weaning from traditional postures before outside authority to more independent, and meaningful, interaction’ (1967: 658).
Arora (1967: 648-50) introduces the particular cultural variants that recur in Indian literature: the concepts of the guru(religious teacher), and the darshan-seeker (supplicant seeking blessing). She notes that guru/disciple relations are typified by the latter’s surrender to the formers’ instruction. Darshan-seeking is most commonly associated with religious figures, but it has informed modes of political engagement. It results in a form of leader/led relations which are distinctly unequal. The follower will regard the ‘leader with reverence; revel in his very presence; ceremonially greet, praise, and touch him’, but rarely if at all engage with the leader’s ideological objectives (1967: 652).Both disciples and darshan-seekers are portrayed as responding ‘to the person and not the message’ (Arora 1967: 652, cf. Zelliot 1996: 225).
Mines and Gourishankar (1990) note that politics in South Inda focuses on a ‘big-man’ or kingly figure. Crucially, they highlight that the assumption that ‘big-men’ in India ‘can depend on ready-made caste and kin constituencies’ Is flawed. ‘The fact is’, they conclude, ‘that even hereditary leaders have few followers when they lack charisma and skill’ (1990: 762).
Mines and Gourishankar further point to the ‘institutionalisation’ of ‘big-men’ in the sense that organisational forms reflect the pre-eminence of the central figure and spiral outwards in such a way that the central leader is linked ‘to all members of his group’ (1990: 764). This can, however, only be accomplished through the means of able secondary, or bridge, leaders (1990: 772). This dynamic, they note, fostersa perennial tension that helps explain the frequency with which Tamil institutions split, re-form and fade away: Leader-centred groups, by definition, only have ‘room for one man at the top’ (1990: 773), with the effect that any secondary leaders who aspire to greater things must form their own groups. By the same token, the issue of succession is rendered problematic and contentious. Orderly transfers of power are nearly impossible when the group is so personalised and leaders gain power through personal connections or qualities rather than accountable processes.
The second anniversary of the Melavalavu massacre was a momentous occasion for Dalit politics in TN. Leaders from all Dalit castes, parties and organisations gathered in the rural hamlet to commemorate the dead and address the crowds. Whilst some people remained constant over the course of the day, the choreography of the occasion – influenced by police concerns – seemed calculated to capture the fragmented and leader-centred nature of Tamil Dalit assertion. The event was so arranged that no two leaders shared a platform. Instead the various figureheads and their entourages arrived, paid their respects, made speeches from the platform and left in synchronised manner. The vast bulk of those pushing forward to hear each speech arrived in convoy behind their chosen leader, and left when he (there were no female leaders at this event) did.
As Thirumavalavan, the convenor of the Liberation Panthers (DPI - the largest Dalit movement in TN) wound up his peroration and moved through the crowd into a waiting vehicle there was a crush of people surging forward to shake his hand, raise an issue or simply get close to him. As his jeep nosed its way onto the road a woman forced her way up and thrust a young baby through the open window and into Thirumavalavan’s lap. ‘Please name him, annan (elder brother)’ she said. Thirumavalavan barely batted an eyelid. He picked up the child, asked if it was a boy and declared to all within hearing that he would, thenceforth, be known as Murugesan. This was relayed through the gathering as honouring the panchayat President whose death was being marked. The baby was returned even as the jeep picked up speed and followers clambered aboard their own buses, cars and vans to follow in its wake.
The devotion, dependency and trust invested in Dalit leaders are played out in this vignette. Leadership, it is clear, is not simply a matter of political representation but is a form of social relations that filters into everyday practices and concerns. Leaders name children, bless marriages and housewarmings, arbitrate between disputants, mediate between followers and the State, and act as brokers for a range of resources.
There is only room for one leader in the political lives of most Dalit activists. The majority of those encountered during my research into Dalit movements extolled the virtues of their chosen leader as explaining their decision to join one particular movement. The modes of expression establish the followers as subservient.
As Sunder, a Dalit activist in the Working Peasant’s Movement put it:
Now even Thirumavalavan, this so-called radical leader, when he takes decisions he takes them as an individual … There are no systematic organisations here. There are supporters, but no proper organisation. The majority of Dalit leaders – what they do is make decisions within a small circle. This is the general tendency (Interview 27/09/99).
The utility of the ‘Darshan model’ of leadership is suggested by the propensity of figures from established parties to prostrate themselves before the leader. Such actions, Chandhoke (1999) observes, symbolically deny the possibility of ‘cadre autonomy’ in these institutions. The example, above, of Thirumavalavan being asked to name a child and ‘grace’ nuptials, house-warmings and memorials all evoke the image of a benevolent being who blesses his supplicants. In Tamil political life, Dickey (1993: 350) avers, ‘the presence of the politician, or any respected person, also bestows honour on the ceremony or the occasion’.
Such analysis casts the leader as a wise guru guiding the actions of disciples, and it was easy to find evidence for this perspective. In hamlets 20 – 30 kilometres outside urban centres Dalits quoted Thirumavalavan as an authority and cited speeches or interviews as the source of their opinions. Movement events, furthermore, often resembled lectures with the leaders standing on podiums to address the throng and educate them on issues ranging across politics, history, women’s rights and the law. As Kandasamy opines: ‘in a state with pathetically low literacy levels, oral dissemination of ideology enabled even the unlettered rural people to become politically conscious’ (2004: xxii). Thirumavalavan’s speeches, she maintains, ‘have been the genesis for building the movement’ (ibid. xxiii).
This is not to dismiss the centrality of the leader. Bridge leaders gain credibility through sustained local activism but also because of their association with the leader. These links need to be reinforced to enhance the reputation and facilitate the work of the secondary figures. Consequently, the ubiquity of recorded speeches, photographs, and videotapes has ‘not obviated the need for the personal appearance and the personal favour’ from the figurehead(Dickey 1993: 353).Distant leaders perceived to have no connection to Dalit’s everyday lives are sidelined. Leaders who remain aloof, insulated in their Air-Conditioned cars, are mocked and depicted as self-interested.The preference for reliable people who will ‘be there’ when needed has propelled the move away from bombastic populists. The incendiary oratory of militant leaders such as Sathai Baikiaraj, the leader of the All India ParaiyarPeravai, meets with rousing applause, but there is growing awareness that isolated action cannot achieve a solution to the issues which Dalit movements are trying to address. Indeed, violence in the absence of strong organisation can prompt ‘extravagant revenge’ by Backward Caste groups (Mendelsohn and Vicziany 1998: 53). Even ‘Bomb Baikiaraj’, therefore, has adopted a more muted approach. The more popular leaders are expected to be radical, but considered and ‘professional’.
‘Educational capital’, as Morris and Staggenborg (2004: 175) insist, is a ‘key resource’. This is especially the case in less literate societies where leadership requiresmediation and the provision of information. In the Dalit context, however, education is insufficient. The significance vested in issues of representation and advocacy means that formal education must be supplemented by experience. The requirement for leaders to be ‘one of us’ translates into an expectation that they have experienced the hardships of caste discrimination firsthand.
Ignoring the unfair caricature, the crucial point here is the repeated assertion that leaders of Dalit movements should be not only Dalit, but Dalits who have experienced what it means to be untouchable, poor and ostracised. Communist parties have been rejected, in large part, because they did not elevate Dalits to positions of leadership, but political reservations have problematised the question of representation still further. Each political party now fields Dalit candidates in constituencies that are reserved for them. The recurrent refrain of Dalit activists, however, is that such figures merely toe the party line. Such concerns have prompted further introspection amongst Dalit activists over the question of leadership. The result has been a re-categorisation of Dalit leaders into Dalits (autonomous, radical militants), Scheduled Castes (institutionalised, dependent figures) and NGO staff (those who ‘use their name to make money and live off it’ (Ravichandran, interview 27/09/99)). As Ravichandran insists:
A Dalit worker has to take on board what it means: sleeping with Dalits, eating with them, only then can he become close to them and participate in many matters. At present many speak of Dalit organisations that spout about “Dalit Liberation” but come here and stay in five-star lodges (ibid.).
The logic which demands a Dalit leader for Dalit parties, however, increasingly stipulates that a leader should be from the same caste as most followers and fuels a trend towards caste-based mobilisation. The differential status, economic standing and level of organisation of each caste subsumed under the Dalit tag is advanced to legitimate the retreat to caste constituencies. Guruvijay Paraiyar:
In Ramnathapuram District, Pallars are the ones oppressing Paraiyars. We can join with Chakkiliyars, therefore, but not them. Pallars are developed … [nor can we] join with Backward Castes. Those speaking of Tamilian liberty are traitors to the downtrodden (Interview 10/10/99).
There is a distinction between those who seek Dalit unity and fail and those whose mode of operation is caste-based, but the distinction is a fine one whilst concrete steps towards the eradication of caste barriers (a systematic programme of inter-marriages and the promotion of people of all castes to leadership positions for example) are neglected. Thirumavalavan, by default, is the leader of a (mostly) Paraiyar party.
The experiences of the DPI and PT subsequent to their political initiation are instructive on the difficulties confronting Dalit politics and, more relevant for this paper, leadership. Both Krishnasamy and Thirumavalavan burst onto the political scene amid a welter of publicity which cast them as radical new actors. Their alliance in 1999 – when they joined a Third Front that was not affiliated to either of the main Dravidian parties – bolstered the impression that they would upset the equilibrium and reinvigorate political contest in the state. Recent elections, however, suggest that they have been co-opted. The initial appeal of both movements was that they would bring politics closer to the people as a consequence of their grassroots activism. It seems rather that political participation has drawn the leaders further away from their constituents.
These issues are also reflected in the trajectory of PuthiyaTamizhagam. The waning fortunes of PT are reflected in declining political returns and the search for distant allies. Whilst the PT’s attempts to forge closer ties with the UP based Bahujan Samaj Party (the most successful Dalit led Party in India) may be consistent with the ideological objectives of the movement, it ignores the fact that the BSP has little credibility in Tamilnadu. Few respondents in 1999 or 2002 were aware of the party and though movement speeches often referred to it as a forerunner it had little mass resonance. Both PT and the DPI came to prominence on the back of sustained campaigns on local issues that affected their constituents on a daily basis. The compulsions of political negotiation have intruded on this relationship.
Whilst they were the champions of an unrepresented and oppressed minority who looked to them to articulate grievances and redress wrongs, Dalit leaders could take their following for granted. The realisation that their mass appeal does not necessarily translate into votes has forced a reconsideration of the social relationships upon which leadership is built. ‘We must be with the people’, Thirumavalavan declared shortly after his entry into electoral competition. ‘Politics, by definition, means not being alienated from the people’ (Interview 03/11/99). The entry into politics, however, has altered the composition of the ‘people’ in question. Given that Dalits cannot win seats on their own, due heed must be paid to the votes of other constituencies. If this process results in the marginalisation of core supporters, however, then Dalit leaders may end up wearing ‘hollow crowns’ (Dirks 1989).
The prevailing tendency of social movement studies to prioritise THE leader needs to be redressed. Clearly, where leaders lose the trust of their followers, their leadership is destined to fail.
As important as educational capital, here, is social or experiential ‘capital’. A leader needs to be able to persuade people of their authenticity and Dalit-ness to gain support.
In the Tamil case, caste identity remains paramountand the thorny problem of whether Dalit mobilisation should attempt to eradicate caste or organise on that basis is omnipresent.