Coloniality of Power and the Developmentalist State in Mexico

Rosalba Icaza

Is Mexico a developmental state? This question is a reasonable point of departure in certain approaches to political science concerned with the classifications and typologies of acts of governing. For example, in the context of Latin America, according to Schneider, el estado desarrollista – the developmental state – of the 1960-1970s in Mexico and Brazil was a nationalist project led by interventionist policies focused on  industrialization which were characteristically non-democratic.

The decades of 1930-1950s were known as the Mexican miracle due to fast state-led industrialization and sustained high levels of economic growth that financed the creation of the national social welfare institutions of the country. The beneficiaries of this project of nation and state building were far from being the originary owners of the lands called Mexico. Indeed, indigenous peoples were targeted by the state politica indigenista, as a set of narratives celebrating the indigenous past (deemed to be long-gone) and assimilationist policies enacted via the social welfare institutions of the country.

The 1910 Mexican Revolution’s goals of “Tierra y Libertad” – land redistribution and the overthrowing of Dictator President Porfirio Diaz – paved the way for the establishment of a constitutional republic. In this new regime’s constitution (1917) the Mexican nation’s right to rule and transform land property, including water and oil, for the fair and equitable distribution of public wealth was enshrined in Article 27 (Kourí 2017). Later, this article was reformed to establish legal protections to communally owned lands and the institutionalization of “Ejidos” – communal forms of decision making on land tenure and production – followed by massive land redistribution under the socialist presidency of Lazaro Cardenas (1934-1940).

As a developmentalist Mexican state was consolidated, so too was a corporativist centralist authoritarian regime.

As a developmentalist Mexican state was consolidated, so too was a corporativist centralist authoritarian regime. Indeed, since the consolidation of the revolutionary regime in Mexico, the prominent role of the state and its mechanisms of control, legitimisation, and political mediation (PRI and Presidency), extensively – although not entirely –shaped many aspects of social life in the country. Corporate and authoritarian practices of the PRI/Presidency/state complex in Mexico were legitimate as far as these were efficient (read wide-ranging) in the allocation of material and political resources among the different sectors of society (see: Icaza 2004). 

In the early 90s, the essay “Liberalismo Social, nuestro camino” – Liberal Socialism, our path – posited a new doctrine for the PRI. President Carlos Salinas de Gortari (1988-1994), a Harvard graduate in public administration and economics, justified state reform in Mexico away from developmentalism. In particular, he introduced guidelines for a re-interpretation of the Mexican Revolution’s social-welfare institutions and proposed their adaptation via a set of (neo)liberal reforms (see Aguilar 1996).

The new role of the Mexican state as a mediator of agreements between mostly transnational private actors in economic areas such as telecommunications, highways, ports, and so on was central in this adaptation. This was extended via a discursive shift from the duty of the Mexican state in providing access to land, education, health, housing, and so on towards their efficient and competitive delivery as ‘services’ (see: Icaza 2004).   

As a result, new corporate formulas coherent with the neoliberal economic reforms were implemented as official responses to re-establish political control and legitimacy. Some of these promoted the individual’s self-sufficiency to overcome socio-economic marginalisation, underscoring the central role of private actors in Mexico’s development, such as in the anti-poverty programmes: Solidaridad, PROGRESA and Oportunidades. These internationally praised initiatives, privileged a philanthropic approach to social rights while promoting the involvement of private intermediary organisations such as NGOs and private foundations to the detriment of class related or broad popular organisations (see: Icaza 2004). 

As the re-distributive social commitment of the developmentalist (revolutionary) state in Mexico shifted, so too did its traditional sources of legitimacy and power. Alongside this, laws also changed with important effects in society. Perhaps one of the most striking examples of the shifting mode of governance was the 1992 reform of Article 27. In that year, the agrarian reform officially ended, and the Mexican state was discharged from its duty of re-distributing land to landless peasant communities. Ejido, as a form of collective patrimony institutionalized after the Revolution, lost its legal backing at the same time (see: Torres-Mazuera 2013).The interest in the political economy of a shifting developmental state like Mexico is representative of a particular scholarship

The interest in the political economy of a shifting developmental state like Mexico is representative of a particular scholarship committed to a critical historical, sociological, political, and cultural revision of mid-twentieth-century state models of governance under neoliberalism. This scholarship has been particularly relevant for understanding the complex and wide effects of neoliberalism for Mexican society. For example, the state’s shift since the mid 1980s from being a provider of public goods to an actor safeguarding the free market and market mechanisms was marked by both, democratization, and authoritarian trends within the sphere of civil society (see: Olvera 2002, Icaza 2004).

… the scholarship critical of a neoliberal turn in Mexico’s political economy worked with a particularly uncontested idea: that Mexico was/is a nation

This same scholarship has also pointed at the convergence between corporatist authoritarian governing elites and liberal impulses from outside these same elites about the benefits of a less interventionist state for the efficient management of the national economy. Interestingly, the scholarship critical of a neoliberal turn in Mexico’s political economy worked with a particularly uncontested idea: that Mexico was/is a nation.

Mexico: A State, not a nation

In her pathbreaking essay Un Mexico sin Nosotros – Mexico without us – Ayuuk linguist Yasnaya Elena Aguilar Gil understands Mexico “as State, not a nation.” She further adds that “Mexico is a State that has encapsulated and denied the existence of many nations”. From this point of departure, Mexico as a developmentalist state reveals its violence also as a project of ethnocide. The denial of this sort of violence that pre-assumes Mexico as one nation was, and still is, characteristic of center-left progressive governments, including the current one led by President Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador (AMLO) and his Cuarta Transformacion (4T) – Fourth Transformation.

For President AMLO, the government is on the fourth major transformation in the country, that includes the Mexican independence of 1810, the country’s secular reform of 1857, and the Revolution in 1910. The 4T government has also been named as “the only peaceful social movement in Mexico and all its dissenters are deemed ‘conservatives” including right wing political parties, neoliberal technocrats, middle classes, but also environmentalists and radical feminists (See: Hernandez Navarro in Aguilar 2020).

The megaproject Tren Maya – Maya Railroad, one of the flagship programs of the 4T government is a good example of a current developmentalist state-led project aimed at ‘modernizing’ indigenous communities in the south of Mexico. The International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs (IWGIA) reported that Tren Maya’s patronizing undertones and openly non-democratic imposition has been rejected by numerous indigenous communities.

Tren Maya articulates how a progressive leftist government conceives a developmentalist state as the only possible horizon of political life after neoliberalism

Tren Maya articulates well how a progressive leftist government conceives a developmentalist state as the only possible horizon of political life after neoliberalism in Mexico. Interestingly, this horizon of possibility has been the predominant perspective among progressive leftist academia too who were primarily concerned with the social justice costs of the ascendance and consolidation of neoliberal state policies in Mexico since the early 1980s.

Mexico: an imagined mestizo nation then and now

On the 31st of December 1993, el Mexico imaginario, the imaginary Mexico, the Mexico of the 1%, went to bed dreaming about their country’s entrance to the exclusive club of developed nations. In the morning, the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) signed between Canada, Mexico, and the US would be officially inaugurated. This imaginary Mexico had embarked in a transformation of its political economic governance and of its own self-image: from a nationalist state to a nation open for business.

Nonetheless, the end of the dream for the imaginary Mexico started in the early hours of January 1st, 1994 when the Mexico profundo, the deep Mexico rose once more. The Ejercito Zapatista de Liberacion Nacional (EZLN) an army of mostly indigenous peasants of Maya descent took several cities in the southern state of Chiapas declaring war on the Mexican government.

The EZLN’s key demands included work, land, housing, food, health, education, independence, liberty, democracy, justice, and peace. The EZLN also demanded a country in which indigenous people, the original owners of the land called Mexico, wouldn’t ever be excluded from it again: “Nunca mas un Mexico sin nosotros”.

In the monocultural eyes of the neoliberal technocrats in power, a state like Mexico, the product of a social revolution that had constitutionally enshrined all of the Zapatistas’ demands as rights, their subsequent uprising seemed like an anachronism. In the monocultural eyes of a progressive left in power today, the Zapatistas’ rejection of Tren Maya and the 4T government are signs of its inability to understand that a developmental state has returned to power.

For mestizas like me, educated to accept the myth of Mexico as a nation, the Zapatistas’ uprising and its rejection of the 4T and Tren Maya, shattered the myth of one nation. It also revealed that the developmental state that has educated us and provided us with a sense of belonging exists thanks to its coloniality. Coloniality is a term coined by sociologist Anibal Quijano to delve into the nature of the nation-state and the role that race as a social classification plays in the establishment of modern institutions, including nations and states (see Gandarilla Salgado, Garcia Bravo and Benzi 2021) .

The EZLN uprising and rejection of state-led developmentalism are presented here as one of the many instances when Mexico profundo articulates the on-going violence of coloniality of the Mexican post-revolutionary corporatist and developmentalist state.

… the Mexican post-revolutionary project of nation and state emerged after 400 years of colonization by the Spaniards

To be more precise, the Mexican post-revolutionary project of nation and state emerged after 400 years of colonization by the Spaniards. This was followed by 100 years of civil war between liberal and conservative factions fighting for a model of governance like the United States federal republic or for a constitutional monarchy respectively. That post-colonial and post-revolutionary project of nation and state was mobilized by a small elite of highly educated and/or prosperous and powerful criollos (Spanish origin born in Mexico) and mestizos (mix of Spanish or criollos and local indigenous population).

In this process, a notion of an indivisible Mexican ‘nation’ was cemented as emerging from an exoticized but already disappeared pre-Hispanic past. Mestizaje was then a project of state led assimilation and ethnocide (see: Yasnaya Elena Aguilar Gil) that worked via developmentalist institutions that took mestizos’ lifeworld and aspirations as the norm. In this imagined mestizo nation, whiteness became an aspiration and a sign of betterment of the race (see: Monica Moreno Figeroa).

It is well documented how the publicly funded education system and the teaching of Spanish as the official language of the country worked to des-indianizar indigenous communities (undo their indigeneity) (Castellanos Guerrero 2000, Stavenhagen 2011). In this way, one of the pre-conditions for accessing the benefits of the Mexican state institutions was, as is today, the erasure of non-mestizo life worlds and politics. And under neoliberal restructuring, multicultural neoliberalism (see Hale 2008) policies and state institutions worked to include ‘minoritized’ people in Mexico but for Yasnaya Elena Aguilar Gil only as individual cultural representatives and not collective political actors.

Mexican developmental state: a monocultural project of destitution and erasure

Despite the land reform and redistribution of the 1930-1940s, land grabbing of the best indigenous owned lands remained endemic. Furthermore, the process of import substitution as a cornerstone of the 1950-1970s developmentalist strategy mainly served urban-centered modernization and growth. This strategy was in part subsidized by price controls of food products coming from the countryside and enforced by the state. Industrialization meant misery and poverty in the countryside and particularly among indigenous communities who as landless peasants ended up working for big plantations or never left the plantations and haciendas even after 1930s land reforms.

Meanwhile, the project of a unified mestizo nation enacted through state institutions and policies that reproduced infantilized representations of indigenous peoples as always underage persons in need of tutorship also worked to erase Afro-descendant populations. This is why mestizaje is also an anti-blackness project of the colonial and post-independence nation as argued by Monica Moreno Figueroa.

It is from the erasure of coloniality (of power, gender, knowledge) that the developmental state reveals its violence towards the non-normative other, named and represented as backward, underdeveloped, always lacking, racialized gendered “Other”. It is from coloniality that our willingness and desire to access, to be named, recognized, included, educated, healed, housed by the institutions of the state reveals how deeply implicated our lives are in the reproduction of coloniality as citizens of states that call themselves a nation.

Undoing erasures, undoing coloniality

As a child in the 1980s, history classes fascinated me. I particularly enjoyed the way I was told the story of the foundation of Mexico as a nation that was created by the fusion of two great civilizations: the Spanish and the Aztec civilization. As products of that fusion, we were mestizos who spoke Spanish but preserved Aztec names in our own cities, food, and even in our Catholic religious rituals characterizable as syncretic. We were told so many times this story until it became an unquestioned truth.

This contribution doesn’t tell a new story about the building of Mexico as a nation but tells it from a different angle: from what that unquestionable story erased

This contribution doesn’t tell a new story about the building of Mexico as a nation but tells it from a different angle: from what that unquestionable story erased. For some, this erasure is conceptualized as coloniality of power. More recent iterations of the notion of coloniality of power (gender, knowledge, being) not only point at what this term helps us to name – what modernity erases – but also that it emerges from within the margins of the epistemic territory of modernity (see Vazquez 2019) contributing to the undoing, unlearning and de-silencing of those erasures.

Perhaps telling the story from angles produced as non-existent, might help us to undo part of the damage done by their erasure. Perhaps.

Rosalba Icaza is a decolonial feminist activist-scholar of Mexican origin and Associate Professor in Global Politics, Gender and Diversity at the Institute of Social Studies, Erasmus University of Rotterdam. She is member of the Red Transnational Otros Saberes (RETOS), and co-editor in chief of the autonomous publishing house Editorial Retos. Rosalba collaborates with Suumil Mookt’an Tejiendo Saberes para la Vida Comunitaria, Sinanche, Yucatan, Mexico. Rosalba co-edited with Xochitl Leyva En tiempos de Muerte. Cuerpos Rebeldias Resistencias; a collection of essays in Spanish by women and non-binary people of color-academic-activists from across Abya Yala, Europe, the Caribbean and Australia. Her latest article ‘Decolonial feminism and global politics: Border thinking and vulnerability as a knowing otherwise’ has been re-printed in 2021 in a collection by Oxford University Press.

Header Image Credit: Author supplied image

TO CITE THIS ARTICLE:

Icaza, Rosalba 2021. ‘Coloniality of Power and the Developmentalist State in Mexico’ Discover Society: New Series 1 (4): https://doi.org/10.51428/dsoc.2021.04.0007

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The Quality of Empathy

Moushumi Bhowmik

I came to Ranajit Guha’s work only recently, late in my life. If I had been a first year at university then my teachers and peers would tell me what to read and how to read him. Now I must seek assistance in writings on Guha, from his readers, scholars and critics; in interviews and reminiscences.

The good thing about coming so late to someone’s work, especially to work as vast and deep as an ocean, is that by now I have a measure of my own self, I know that I have not learned to swim and I can’t even stay afloat, but barely dip my ankles in the water. I also know a thing or two about what I can take home after hours of sitting by the shore; some sand sticks to my feet, that I must  dust off before walking in through the door. But I keep with me the sights of the rising waves I have seen and their sound as they come crashing, ships which cross the horizon, small fishing boats, even drowning people I was unable to save.

It is with such sounds and sights and feelings that I tried to loosely sketch an impression of Ranajit Guha, translating what I have understood to be some of his lifelong concerns and questions, into song.   

On 20 October 2023, when we had gathered at the University of Sussex to remember Ranajit Guha, two weeks of systematic destruction of life in Palestine had passed, following the 7 October bloody Hamas operation against Israeli occupation. Is there no daya left in our hearts? Where is the quality of empathy? There was an all-pervasive feeling of helplessness, even on the faces of those who were courageously marching to stop the killing spree. 

Around 2008, Ranajit Guha had started to write a Bengali book entitled Daya: Rammohan Roy O Amader Adhunikata (Empathy/Compassion: Rammohan Roy and Our Modernity) which was first published in 2010. 

‘We easily forget’, he wrote in its Prelude, which he subtitled ‘The Victory of Cruelty’. ‘If we couldn’t forget, then perhaps our very existence would be unbearable under the weight of remembrance. So, we need to forget. Even to those who witnessed Partition [of India] in their childhood and youth, that experience has faded now as [the colours and details] in an old scroll painting. The dust of Mahakal (Endless Time) falls on the past and everything fades away. Dust has begun to settle on the communal frenzy in Gujarat which happened barely seven or eight years ago. Which is why millions of people are unable to see in their minds’ eyes what they had actually seen. However, we know that the discipline of history and forgetting are sworn enemies. Hence, with my belief in justice [attainable through remembrance], I have picked up my pen to write about a much older time, to remind ourselves of 2002. [Lest we forget.]’ (Guha, 2021: 13; translation mine). 

‘Daya diye hobe go mor jiban dhute/Noile ki aar parbo tomar charan chhnute‘ (I must wash my life with daya/ How else can I touch your feet?) Rabindranath Tagore’s 1910 song rang in my ears. Ranajit Guha wrote extensively on Tagore and I wonder if this was one his favourite songs? His student, the historian Dipesh Chakrabarty, wrote after his death that in writing only in Bangla/ Bengali during the last decades of his life, Ranajit da was ‘returning home’.  In her memoirs Danube, Ganges, and Other Life Streams, Methchild Guha wrote: ‘Ranajit and I discussed many times what our roots were. He feels rooted in Bengali language and culture irrespective of where he lives, and, believing it crucial to maintain this sense of identity, he kept pressing me to similarly acknowledge the culture and language that had formed me,’ (Guha, 2014: 49).  

The Bengal of Ranajit’s birth is where I have travelled over the past decades, listening to songs and stories and making recordings of what may be considered ‘small voices’ of history, with my machine and in my memory. But ‘small’, says who? In the pouring rain of the monsoon month of Sraban, the women of Barisal are singing songs to the snake goddess Manasa; the song rises above the sound of the rain, then it drowns, and rises again–one female voice leads, others repeat the lines. I have heard them and imagine that Ranajit had also heard such sounds when he was a small boy, for Barisal was his birthplace. Perhaps this was also the language and culture that had formed him? Why did he not write about these little things of his own history? 

Ranajit Guha ‘turned down all requests to write an autobiography,’ wrote Partha Chatterjee. ‘He even did not want to give any long interviews on his life and work. He would refuse saying, “It is not possible to write the truth about one’s own life. Whatever autobiographies you read, know that they are full of lies.”” (Chatterjee, 2023: 86) But for some reason he did give Partha Chatterjee a long interview on 1 and 2 July 2018 in his home in Purkersdorf on the edge of the Vienna Woods; he was 95 at the time. They talked about books he read as a boy, the library at home, his grandfather, teachers, early friendships, introduction to communist ideology, Tagore, Bankim, his comrades, literature, politics, history-writing, subaltern studies and so much more, but not much about the interior of his childhood home and other realms of feeling. The conversation is marked by the stark absence of voices of women. There was an externality in that conversation, such as there is in Bengali male intellectual addas.

How to listen to that absence? How to interpret it? In The Art of Listening, Les Back wrote about the need for deep sociological listening, which is ‘tied to the art of [‘thick’] description’. (Back, 2007: 21). We must be able to listen to both the presence and absence of sound.

It is interesting that Ranajit Guha had opened up in a different way during another conversation that he had with the Bastar folklorist Harihar Vaishnav in Canberra in 1991. The master dhokra or bell metal sculptor Jaydev Baghel of Chattisgarh was also present in the room, along with anthropologist Chris Gregory. Ranajit Guha was talking in Hindi and this translation by Pritha Banerjee is from a  special volume  dedicated to him which was published after his death by Anushtup in Kolkata, edited by Simool Sen. ‘I am a Dukkhabadi (I incline towards sorrow),’ Ranajit had said to Harihar Vaishnav. ‘I see both happiness as well as dejection. I have seen both. But I perceive a sense of remorse in the unprecedented fate of mankind. […]  But the battle must be waged. It doesn’t matter whether you triumph or fail. The struggle must go on.’

Vaishnav then asked him if there was any one incident he remembered which gave him both inspiration and pain?  ‘I don’t know about any specific event,’ Ranajit said, ‘but there is one that I can recall. You people are all young, born after Independence. There is one event before Independence that has left a mark on all people’s lives — British Rule. Before our independence, the era of British rule was an era of humiliation. I cannot begin to tell you how deeply humiliating the situation was. An Englishman had the power to come to this country and demean its own citizens. My childhood was situated within this corridor of humiliation. My family was an elite, upper class family in Bangladesh. We were big Hindu landowners. When I was a child, I saw peasants being thrashed with shoes by members of zamindari (landowning) families like mine. There was a farmer who lived near my house. He was older than me. I used to call him Dada. Although I belonged to a wealthy family, he brought coconuts for me. When he went fishing in the river, he used to take me along in his boat. I saw my uncle and his servants in our zamindari family pummel him with shoes. One day, he was heartbroken and left his home and the village. He thought my family was affectionate towards him. But they beat him with shoes – that was sheer insult! He left in a small boat. My young mind was affected by this. This agony occupied my mind since childhood. This is a short anecdote. It’s not political. It is empathy. It is sympathy. My discernment, my anger come from that place.’ 

I think it was a real political act on the part of Ranajit Guha to draw from the deep well of empathy and fight the battle ‘that must be waged’, throughout his long life. 

Here is a clip from my presentation at a memorial event for historian Ranajit Guha (1923-2023) at the University of Sussex on 20 October 2023. My presentation-performance was entitled ‘Some Small Voices of History: Listening after Ranajit Guha’. The composition I sing, first setting the context, is of the Bengali poet and composer Rabindranath Tagore, written in 1910.

References

Back, Les 2007. The Art of Listening (Oxford, New York: Berg)

Guha, Methchild 2014.  Danube, Ganges , and Other Life Streams  (New Delhi: Permanent Black)

Chatterjee, Partha ed. 2023 Ranajit Guha Sahityer Satya (Kolkata: Anushtup)

Guha, Ranajit 2021. Daya: Rammohan Roy O Amader Adhunikata (Kolkata: Adom)

Sen, Simool ed. 2023. Ranajit Guha Bishesh Sankhya (Kolkata: Anustup)

Moushumi Bhowmik is an Indian singer-songwriter, writer and researcher based in Kolkata.

Header Image Credit: The Travelling Archive

TO CITE THIS ARTICLE:

Bhowmik, Moushumi 2024. ‘The Quality of Empathy’ Discover Society: New Series 4 (1):

Property and the Political Economy of Colonialism

Gurminder K Bhambra

Ranajit Guha, as set out so clearly in the other articles in this issue, was a complex man. He was at the University of Sussex for close on twenty years and is most well-known for work that he did at the end of that period; that is, his work on historiography and the setting up of Subaltern Studies. My own initial encounter with Guha’s work was through these very studies. In particular, I was taken with the way in which he used historiography to investigate the exclusion of the subaltern from the structure of academic disciplines and thereby revealed the parochial and partial nature of the histories produced. Here, I want to return to his earlier work; to his first book, A Rule of Property for Bengal: An Essay on the idea of Permanent Settlement.

Guha had started work on this topic in the 1950s and it was published in 1963 by a French publisher around the time that Guha started as a lecturer at Sussex. By all accounts, Asa Briggs, then Dean of the Social Sciences, who would go on to become Vice Chancellor, had invited Guha to apply for the job on the basis of this work. Around the same time, Briggs was also involved in bringing the economic historian, Donald Winch, to Sussex. Winch’s first book, Classical Political Economy and the Colonies, was published two years after Guha’s and ostensibly dealt with similar themes. It was developed from his dissertation which dealt with ‘the optimal conditions for colonial economic development’ and was primarily focused on Britain’s settler colonies with only a brief discussion of India via the work of the Mills.

The overlap between their concerns is sufficient, however, for it to be a puzzle – at least ostensibly – as to why they never appeared to acknowledge the work of the other. Winch did reference Stokes’s The English Utilitarians and India, which had been published just prior to Guha’s book and with which it was often compared and addressed in tandem. One reason could be that provided by David Fieldhouse in his review of Winch’s book which notes that while Winch ‘is good on economic theory, … [he] is obviously less strong on colonial history’. However, this would be to point to an intellectual divergence that was confirmed only through Guha’s later work directly addressing the colonial context. A Rule of Property is as much focused on economic theory as is Winch’s text and I will discuss the implications of their similarity subsequently. First, to the text itself.  

A Rule of Property addresses the debates that took place between East India Company administrators in Bengal in the late eighteenth century around the status of land, how it was best to be managed, and the consequences of this for the possibility of colonial governance and deriving revenue over the longer term. The focus of the debates was the idea of a ‘permanent settlement’ or solution. The primary impetus was that a new way of organising the ownership of the land was required and that this would be best served by entrusting its care to ‘a class of native entrepreneurs who had solid interests in the land and were politically reliable’ (p9). That is, the proposals being debated were around establishing a right of private property in land. The security of landownership was deemed to be necessary for the creation of a sound administration.

It was acknowledged by the colonial administrators of the time that they held no good title to the land. Alexander Dow, for example, noted that while the provinces were held ‘in appearance, by a grant from the present emperor’, in reality, they were only maintained ‘by the right of arms’ (quoted in Guha p25). As such, what was necessary was to establish the legitimacy of dominion beyond that which was provided through the act of conquest. This was done by developing economic theories that saw the territory governed as if it were a Company estate. This estate could then be parcelled out to local zamindars who would come to own the land, permanently, as property and be made responsible for the payment of taxes on it, thus ensuring a steady stream of revenue for the colonial government. It was this separation of the right of ownership from the right to collect revenue that would establish the permanence of dominion.

Guha, impressively and rigorously – as Sanjay Subrahamyam notes in his obituary – ‘took apart the minutes, proposals and counterproposals that were presented and debated in the administrative councils of the time’. He set out their different economic premises – deriving from mercantilist, physiocratic, and classical political economy – and demonstrated that, despite their differences, they nonetheless shared a common political focus, establishing the permanence of orderly dominion. However, this political orientation, is much less a concern for Guha in A Rule of Property, rather, his focus is on the detail of the economic debates.

As an aside – as I was reading in preparation for this, I came across reference to a review of Guha’s book, by Sarvepalli Gopal, published in 1966, who regarded it primarily as an exercise in British intellectual history, with the implication being that it was therefore of little concern to historians of India. A Das Gupta similarly suggested that the book had little to do with India ‘because India existed beyond the thoughts of Englishmen’. Guha rebutted this critique in the 1981 preface to the second edition of his book (comment and critique took longer in the times before social media) by stating that if the historical origins of the concepts and theories underpinning the most important land reform introduced by the British in India, which led to the statute of permanent proprietary rights, wasn’t important to the study of Indian history, he didn’t know what would be. Nonetheless, there was something to the critique.

While the importance of Guha’s book appears clear, to me at least, I am interested in the place of colonial histories in the book, or, rather, their absence. It is obvious that Guha is not unaware of them and, given his subsequent work, he is alert to the relationship between power and knowledge in the construction of disciplines and the production of histories. So, what accounts for his failure to locate the discussions of the East India Company administrators within their colonial context and discuss the implications of their theories with regard to that? I suggest that this is where the overlap between Guha and Winch is perhaps more pertinent.

The illegitimacy of colonial rule may have been so obvious to Guha that it was regarded as otiose to even mention that this was the context in which he was working. However, another explanation could be that, as a Marxist – as he was then and later – he worked within a frame of political economy that regarded capitalism as the more significant historical moment. One whose unfolding through time and history had to be understood in its own terms.

In Guha’s presentation of the discussions that were happening among colonial administrators about how best to organise the ownership and distribution of the land under their control, there is no questioning of their right to do so. The act of conquest is seemingly naturalised and forms no part of the contextualisation of the subsequent discussions oriented to establishing a permanence of dominion. As Subrahmanyam notes, Guha also had very little to say about ‘the complex property regimes [of the Mughal period] that had been in place before Company rule’. Something that was not omitted by at least one of the administrators under discussion, Dublin-born Phillip Francis.

This flattening of history and elision of its complexities enables colonial conquest to be made subordinate in an account of political economy oriented around ideas of capitalist development. This is also enabled through the way in which the debates constructed Mughal rule as despotic or feudal, at the same time as establishing a neo-feudal settlement. The British established despotism in the provinces and then claimed that Oriental despotism was the reason that they were needed in order to bring progress and modernity to these benighted areas!

While Guha’s political commitment to Marxism shifted over time – with him coming to support the Maoist Naxalbari peasant movements in the 1970s – the refusal to consider colonialism as central to the emergence and development of capitalism perhaps blunted the force of his arguments. Even in the terms of his own book, A Rule of Property, the question of colonialism is central to the emergence of the very need, on the part of the colonial administrators themselves, for a Permanent Settlement and yet this context is relegated to a few paragraphs.

I remember giving a lecture that mentioned British colonial rule in India and a student coming up to me afterwards and asking, ‘but what were the British doing in India?’ ‘Well, quite,’ I replied.

What were the British doing in India? And under what authority were they seeking to determine the patterns of land ownership and distribution there? And further, how do their understandings of property in the colonial context continue to shape our understandings in the present and how are our contemporary understandings inadequate to the extent that we do not acknowledge the significance of colonialism to the emergence of the very idea of property?

Not taking colonial histories seriously in the development of economic ideas is a shared elision in the work of Guha and Winch. While their political orientations may well have been different – Winch identified strongly as working class, whereas Guha saw himself as belonging to the Third World – what they had in common was a failure to acknowledge the significance of colonial histories to the emergence of a global political economy.

Guha’s identification with the struggles of the peasantry in the 1970s no doubt went on to shape his reflections on history and historiography, even if he did not return to consider the implications for political economy. This was also a moment when, as Vinita Damodaran notes, postcolonial nationalism was beginning to devour its children. Fifty years on, as political figures in India seek to decolonize from the ‘double empire’, it would be a shame – to put it mildly – if postcolonial perspectives were mobilized in the turn to populist ethno-religious nationalism as opposed to being the counter to it. Guha’s political commitments would undoubtedly have been with the latter.

Gurminder K Bhambra is Professor of Historical Sociology at the University of Sussex. She is author of Connected Sociologies and the award-winning Rethinking Modernity: Postcolonialism and the Sociological Imagination. She is also co-editor of Imperial Inequalities and co-author, with John Holmwood, of Colonialism and Modern Social Theory.

Header Image Credit: Book cover

TO CITE THIS ARTICLE:

Bhambra, Gurminder K 2024. ‘Property and the Political Economy of Colonialism’ Discover Society: New Series 4 (1):

Ranajit Guha: An inspirational and challenging teacher

Adi Cooper

I had the opportunity to share my reflections regarding being taught by Ranajit Guha at an event at Sussex University celebrating his career on 20th October 2023. I have had, and continue to have, a very varied career – I am a long away from where I was in 1984 submitting my PhD on the tebhaga movement, the sharecroppers’ struggle that took place in Bengal in the late 1940s. I have worked in the charity sector, as a paramedic, as a qualified social worker, manager and senior leader in Adult Social Services. I continue to work in the specialist field of safeguarding adults in England. This may appear quite random but there is a connection between then and now. People requiring safeguarding are often the most marginalised and vulnerable in our society in England; sharecroppers were amongst the most oppressed and dispossessed in rural communities in Bengal.

Tebhaga

It is no exaggeration to say that Ranajit Guha changed my life; first in motivating me to undertake my degree in the School of African and Asian studies (AFRAS) in Sussex University, and then to undertake a PhD on sharecroppers’ struggles, particularly the tebhaga movement. In 1976, when I was choosing a subject for my PhD, no one had studied the tebhaga movement, which grew from a pre-history of peasant activism and was led by the Kisan Sabha, the peasant wing of the Communist Party of India.

Ranajit supported me to do my PhD in so many ways – significantly by advising me to do a PhD in the first place. I wanted to go to India after 3 years of studying Indian history and he said – ‘don’t go as a tourist but go as a scholar’, so I did. In Kolkata his connections sent me to the Centre for Studies in Social Sciences where I was supervised, befriended and supported by so many people through different networks, scholars and students. His name opened doors.

I had read – probably directed by Ranajit – Sunil Sen’s memoirs of being an activist in Dinajpur in the tebhaga movement. I wanted to know more: how, what, when and where the movement had taken place. I wanted to understand how marginalised and oppressed Bengali sharecroppers became the fighters, resisters, and activists in the tebhaga movement, demanding to keep a larger share of the crop, challenging the landlords and oppression in their lives. I wanted to record their history. I undertook conventional research and found written records in the Writers Building in Kolkata and government archives in Dhaka. I wanted to go beyond and behind these texts to find out from people who were still alive in the late 1970s what they remembered, and I was fortunate as so many people were able to tell me their stories.

I learnt Bengali before I left England and spent 2 years meeting and interviewing over 200 people who had been involved in the tebhaga struggles. I searched out people, followed up leads, used different networks to find them. I collected their memories, stories and songs. I spoke to so many different people, in towns and villages, young and old, men and women, in West Bengal and Bangladesh; landlords, sharecroppers and agricultural labourers, peasant activists and communists, including a Minister in the West Bengal CPM government. I travelled all over Bengal and then returned to England to write the PhD thesis. I tried to do justice to their experiences.

Studying the tebhaga movement was unconventional because it was about Bengal – both East and West Bengal, now Bangladesh and India. My privilege as foreign scholar was that I could do this, at that time, when local historians couldn’t cross the international border. This helped me with my own issues about being a white English woman doing this work. Local scholars assured me that in this way I could make a helpful contribution. In current discussions and debates about decolonising, I can frame this discomfort in a clearer way.

The post-colonial legacy of guilt haunted me even though my own family were immigrants to the UK, and anti-imperialists. They were communists. In this context I remember walking through some paddy fields with an interpreter (because my Bengali wasn’t adequate for understanding all the local dialects), in single file behind an elderly peasant activist who was walking ahead of us, whom I was going to interview, talking to himself. ‘What was he saying?’ The interpreter told me – ‘he was asking himself, ‘why has this English woman come all this way to speak to me. This because of international communism’. This has stayed with me for decades. There was some truth in his reflection because I had been brought up with an internationalist perspective in a communist family.

Studying in Sussex

Ranajit had been my tutor throughout my undergraduate course, as well as supervising my PhD. I had met him in 1972, arriving in Brighton after travelling overland from Pakistan. Coming back to Sussex I really wanted to know more about the history of the non-European world. A schoolfriend introduced me to Ranajit and I was inspired. I moved across to AFRAS and this changed the course of my life. University life in Sussex in the 1970s was very different to how I understand it might be now. Sussex had a radical reputation both academically and in terms of the student experience. The radical approach to learning was why I had applied to go there: the inter-disciplinary schools of studies and the more fluid approach to curriculum, with courses based on cross-cutting themes like ‘millenarian movements’, rather than historical periods. I was attracted to the radical political activism that Sussex was known for. I was already involved in the Women’s Liberation Movement, anti-Vietnam demos, school student radicalism in London. Sussex was perfect for me.

It was a privilege to be taught by Ranajit although I don’t think I recognised this at the time – you take for granted that your experience is normal when you are young and have little to compare it with. I have memories only of tutorials with 2 or 3 other students. Ranajit spoke about whatever the subject was – he was hugely knowledgeable, and there were discussions and debates. I remember him talking about the way in which Greek philosophers taught their students through discourse. So, his teaching methods did make sense. What was this like for students? Exciting and scary. Writing essays to explore ideas. Being pushed to think and consider different ways of thinking. Light bulb moments. Stimulating and intellectually challenging. Terrifying and I was always in awe of him. Our essays would be tightly critiqued with respect and ambition. Correcting our use of language. ‘Inspirational and challenging’ as I called this piece.

He was an intellectual giant – Anna (another student of Ranajit’s in the 1970s) reminded me that he learnt Gujarati to read Gandhi’s work. He referenced Marx, Lenin and Gramsci, structuralism and post structuralism, semiotics. We learnt how to deconstruct text – being able to read other stories from what was on the surface, to see through to what was behind and the stories that weren’t told. This was his biggest legacy. Anna reminded me of her arguments with him about feminism – would sexism fade away with capitalism as a relic of feudalism? And he always had the last word. Studying with Ranajit was never dull. He always went to what was most important – issues of justice and human rights, class analysis. He also said that history was the true and only worthwhile academic discipline. He was so astonishingly erudite; he would use literature and multiple cultural references; unapologetically an intellectual.

AFRAS had a very strong identity – we learnt about imperialism and post-colonialism from radical scholars. So different to history in school. It was a great place to be and learn. Ranajit was part of that – he had his own style and brilliance. Additionally, it was special but not unusual to be invited to academics’ homes to meet other students. I did feel privileged but a bit overwhelmed to meet the scholars that Ranajit brought together. It was helpful to know that there was a community of interest, in which he was the centre. The connections were helpful when I went to India and in validating what I was doing, which always felt niche and isolated, particularly when I was in England.

When I came back to England in 1979, I experienced serious culture shock on re-entry. Looking back, I think Ranajit’s high standards of scholarship and his critique of my writing triggered a writer’s block and I made the very difficult decision to change supervisor. I moved to work with Terry Byres at SOAS, who helped me through this. I completed my PhD on sharecroppers struggles and sharecropping in Bengal in 1930s and 1940s. It was published in Kolkata and part translated into Bengali and published in Bangladesh. I was driven to ensure that at least there was a record of what I had been able to find out. I owed it to all the people that I had met. Decades later I emailed Ranajit, prompted by Shireen Huq, a mutual friend who visited him in Austria (she also studied with Ranajit in the late 1970s). I said what I’d been doing over the many years and got a lovely response from Mechtild Guha; there was closure.

Remembering those years, I want to also reflect on our politics at that time. We were intellectually and academically applying a Marxist lens and critiquing it – so my PhD was about the economic history of sharecropping as a semi-feudal mode of production, as well as a political history of a peasant struggle. Ranajit introduced us to what was happening in Indian communism at the time, including the Naxalite struggles. This had significant personal resonance for me; coming from a communist family, as a child living through the 1950’s Cold War backlash of anti-communism, parents who had been deported from America due to McCarthyism. This was another connection. I had a tutor who could make some sense of that. Researching a peasant struggle led by communists was amazing on a personal level. I was in West Bengal when the CP(M) came to power after Indira Gandhi’s Emergency Rule: this was an extraordinary experience for me. All the hammer and sickle graffiti on the walls and communist red flags waved in demonstrations on the maidan. This was incredible for someone whose grandfather, a Polish tailor, had heard Lenin speak in Paris. In India and Bangladesh, my communist party family identity was an asset, not something to hide. People trusted and helped me in my research because of it. As the elderly peasant activist said – I had come to speak to him ‘because of international communism’.

Postscript/legacy – some final words

Looking back, I just feel very grateful to have had the experience of being taught and inspired by Ranajit. In subsequent decades I have randomly come across people who knew his work, so belatedly I have understood that during those years he was developing his subaltern studies approach. It is always such a surprise and a gift to have those conversations. I have continued to utilise the skills I learnt, and I have always maintained my values and commitment to supporting people who are most marginalised and excluded. For the last 15 years as a social work leader this has taken the form of transforming the ways vulnerable adults are safeguarding in England.

I ceased my academic career once my PhD was published, although have developed one in social work. But I have come back to this part of my life. An American professor sought me out a few years ago; I showed her the notebooks recording the interviews that had been kept in the loft, unopened for 25 years. She wrote a blog about the encounter. That was a key turning point. Subsequently Dr Layli Uddin contacted me and with her encouragement and support, I have been transcribing the interview notes. I want to place the transcripts in archives so others can access them, reflect, analyse, and learn from these stories.

This is also part of Ranajit’s lasting influence. I still believe that this work is so important – there is an ongoing interest in subaltern studies; in the histories of people, seen to be at the margins but really at the centre. There is so much richness in these recollections of their experiences, their memories. This is a legacy that I want to pass on to others. A legacy that wouldn’t exist, if not for Ranajit Guha.

References

Adrienne Cooper Sharecropping and Sharecropper’s Struggles in Bengal 1930-1950, K.P.Bagchi, Kolkata, 1988

Sunil Sen Agrarian Struggles in Bengal 1946-47 P.P.H. Delhi 1972

The full text of the presentation is in the upcoming volume:

Ranajit Guha (1923-2023): Bishesh Sankalan (Ranajit Guha (1923-2023): A Special Commemorative Collection). Edited by Sourav Chattopadhyay, Kolkata: Alochana Chakra, 2024. ISBN: 978-93-83208-15-9.

Adi Cooper OBE is a Visiting Professor at the University of Bedfordshire, Independent Chair of two Safeguarding Adults Boards in London and Adviser for safeguarding adults (Partners in Care and Heath). She is a Non-Executive Director of Social Work England. She also works as a safeguarding consultant and has published books and articles on safeguarding adults. She is a qualified social worker and worked in Adult Social Care for over 30 years, including as Director of Adult Social Services, Housing and Health for nine years. Her PhD thesis about the tebhaga movement was published in Kolkata on ‘sharecropping and sharecroppers struggles in Bengal 1930-50’ and she studied as an undergraduate and post-graduate with Ranajit Guha at Sussex University. Twitter @adi_coo

Header Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons (government open data licence, India)

TO CITE THIS ARTICLE:

Cooper, Adi 2024. ‘Ranajit Guha: An inspirational and challenging teacher’ Discover Society: New Series 4 (1):