Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Edited in collaboration with the Centre for Colonial and Postcolonial Studies, University of
Kent at Canterbury, this series presents a wide range of research into postcolonial literatures
by specialists in the field. Volumes will concentrate on writers and writing originating in previ-
ously (or presently) colonized areas, and will include material from non-anglophone as well as
anglophone colonies and literatures. Series editors: Donna Landry and Caroline Rooney.
1. Magical Realism in West African Fiction: Seeing with a Third Eye by Brenda Cooper
2. The Postcolonial Jane Austen edited by You-Me Park and Rajeswari Sunder Rajan
3. Contemporary Caribbean Women’s Poetry: Making Style by Denisede Caires Narain
4. African Literature, Animism and Politics by Caroline Rooney
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Related Titles:
Postcolonial Life-Writing: Culture, Politics, and Self-Representation by Bart Moore-Gilbert
The Postcolonial Gramsci
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Edited by
Neelam Srivastava and
Baidik Bhattacharya
The right of Neelam Srivastava and Baidik Bhattacharya to be identified as the authors of the
editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted by them in
accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any
form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented,
including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publishers.
PART I
Gramsci and Postcolonial Studies
1 Il Gramsci meridionale 17
ROBERT J. C. YOUNG
PART II
Gramsci and the Global Present
PART III
Epilogue
7.1 “You can travel around the world without leaving Beijing,” with
fictitious web path of the park’s website, from title sequence. 152
7.2 Old peasant man walking past with replica of Eiffel tower in
the background, from title sequence. 153
SPNB = Selections from the Prison Notebooks. Ed. Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey
Nowell Smith. London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1971.
We would like to thank Michelle Houston for her splendid editorial work in
preparing this manuscript for publication. We would not have been able to
complete this book without her.
Neelam Srivastava would also like to thank the people who read drafts
of this work and offered helpful and constructive feedback, especially Jim
House, Carolyn Pedwell, Eleanor Spaventa, Rajeswari Sunder Rajan, and
Robert Young. Many thanks also to Claudia Baldoli for her helpful advice
on Italian historiography.
Baidik Bhattacharya would like to thank Rajeswari Sunder Rajan, Udaya
Kumar, and Mallarika Sinha Roy for their help and encouragement at vari-
ous stages of the project. He would also like to thank Renish Abraham,
Loiya Leima Oinam, and Yamini Sahista for their editorial help.
And fi nally, we would like to thank all our contributors for their gener-
osity with time and resources—without which this volume would not have
been possible.
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Introduction
The Postcolonial Gramsci 1
This volume presents a series of essays that engage with the oeuvre of Antonio
Gramsci in relationship to the field of postcolonial studies. The importance
of Gramsci for the development of this school of critical thought can hardly
be exaggerated, and this book is the fi rst to offer a comprehensive overview
of how a number of leading postcolonial scholars have engaged with his
work. At the same time, the essays contained here draw on his thought to
understand the present moment of history that we inhabit, and suggest future
possibilities for research on Gramsci as a postcolonial thinker.
Over the past few years, there has been renewed academic interest in
Gramsci in the Anglophone world, which testifies to the continuing impor-
tance of his work for a variety of different disciplines, including politics,
international relations, globalization studies, and literary and cultural stud-
ies.2 Marcus E. Green, for example, in his wide-ranging edited collection
Rethinking Gramsci (2011), offers an overall reassessment of Gramsci for the
contemporary era within the context of a broader reevaluation of Marxist
thought today. In part, the recent emergence of this rich body of Anglo-
phone scholarship on the Italian thinker may have been prompted by the
publication of the fi rst three volumes of the complete English translation of
The Prison Notebooks by Joseph A. Buttigieg. The focus of our book, however,
differs from these recent studies. While many of the essays included here
fully engage with this new translation of the Notebooks, our aim is to examine
Gramsci’s legacy for postcolonial studies, and to revisit sites and ideas that
have been central to this exchange. As a Sardinian intellectual located in
the South of Europe, Gramsci’s “meridionalismo,” and his understanding of
subalternity as a concept that intersects nation, class, and race, continue to
offer productive lines of enquiry for postcolonial scholars.
As the essays in this collection testify, we are not aiming at an overall
reassessment of Gramsci’s work, and at the same time we are not restricting
him to certain available traditions of Marxist thinking that, quite contrary to
the spirit of Gramsci’s own writing, steadfastly offer a constrained framework
as the true context of his political writing. Our insistence on the postcolonial
is an attempt to mark our distance from such readings of Gramsci, and also
2 Neelam Srivastava and Baidik Bhattacharya
to stretch the possibilities of his texts beyond any restrictive geographical
boundaries.
Our contributors offer new interpretations of Gramsci in specific postcolo-
nial contexts, informed by an interdisciplinary thrust. Some essays examine
Gramsci’s relevance in the diverse geopolitical contexts of South America,
China, and India. Others revisit his legacy for the development of anti-colo-
nial and postcolonial theories, as we discuss in the plan of the book. We have
also strived to present a comparativist approach that links Gramsci’s position
in the complex debate on the role of the left in Italy, to his uses by scholars
in wider geographical and historical contexts. Timothy Brennan, in his 2006
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Gramsci on Gandhi
Writing in the late 1920s, and elaborating on the parallels and divergences
between political struggle and military war, Antonio Gramsci introduces a
curious detour in his Notebooks and talks about the Indian nationalist strug-
gle, especially under the leadership of Gandhi, against British colonial occu-
pation. The connection between politics and war is one of the central rubrics
through which Gramsci explores the much larger architecture of the state
and the civil society, and, being the astute philosopher of praxis that he is,
he stretches the connection beyond figurative analogies. The complexity of
political struggle, he suggests, can be grasped through a comparison with
“colonial wars” or “old wars of conquest” where military conquest is fol-
lowed by a prolonged resistance that may assume different forms and modal-
ities. The political struggle in India against the English (and he is quick
to signal other parallels: “Germany against France,” “Hungary against the
Little Entente”) is a paradigmatic case in one’s understanding of the politi-
cal struggle as it simultaneously assumes three different forms of war: “war
of movement, war of position, and underground warfare.” Gandhi’s “pas-
sive resistance” in movements like Non-cooperation that includes strategies
like boycotting of British merchandise and colonial bureaucracy, constitutes
a war of position; it often becomes a war of movement through strategies
like “strike” and at other times underground warfare through the “secret
4 Neelam Srivastava and Baidik Bhattacharya
preparation of weapons and combat troops” (Gramsci, SPNB 229). Gram-
sci’s elliptical passage on Indian nationalist struggle cannot be dismissed
as a mere marginal entry into an otherwise Eurocentric text because of the
importance he assigns to the colonial paradigm in thinking the contours of
political struggle in his contemporary world.4 What is more, this passage,
and several other similar passages across the Prison Notebooks, constitutes a
testimony not only to the international and connected histories he had in
mind while talking about contemporary political praxis, but also of a certain
version of history he privileged in his writing. It is the version of history
that takes sudden turns to explode national boundaries, in order to accom-
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The common man of the North could not understand why the South had not
managed to modernize after being liberated from the ancien régime, and after
becoming part of unified Italy. The only explanation available, then, was
that people from the South were biologically inferior and barbaric (Quaderni
2022). Recent scholarship has developed these reflections on the Southern
Question to demonstrate how racism in Italy was internalized within its own
borders. Jane Schneider has identified the contemporary persistence of the
Southern Question discourse in modern Italy as a series of racialized binary
oppositions between the “civic,” industrialized North and the backward,
“clientelistic” South, which helped to produce a “neo-Orientalist discourse
within Italy itself” (“Introduction” 8). In Italy “race was used to . . . explain
persistent differences within the nation, especially divergences between the
North and the South” (Gibson 100). Lenin’s Theses on the National and Colo-
nial Questions of 1920 also influenced the way Gramsci perceived the close
analogies between colonizer/colonized and what he called “the semi-colonial
relationship” between Northern and Southern Italy (Rosengarten 140).
bolstering up national unity (Liguori and Voza 143).7 Thus Gramsci sees a
close link between the Southern question and the question of colonialism.
His theory of Italian colonialism is linked to his interpretation of the Risorgi-
mento as a failed socialist, or even social, revolution, a thesis that would
have a profound and lasting influence on debates in Italian historiography,
as exemplified in the work of Rosario Romeo, and picked up by historians
such as John Davis.8
Gramsci’s views on colonialism differed sharply from those of other Ital-
ian socialists and Marxists. The poet Giovanni Pascoli, who had socialist
leanings, and the early Italian Marxist Antonio Labriola both supported Ita-
ly’s invasion of Libya in 1912. Gramsci develops his critique of the civilizing
mission by analyzing a comment made by Labriola on the idea of pedagogy
for “primitive” peoples. Labriola was asked how he would morally educate
someone from Papua New Guinea (i.e., a “native”). Labriola replied that
provisionally, he would enslave him, but he might then consider more mod-
ern forms of pedagogy for future generations. Gramsci denounces Labriola’s
remark as a form of third-rate historicism, an inadequate answer to the ques-
tion of whether “a nation or social group that has reached a superior level
of civilization can (and therefore must) ‘accelerate’ the process of education
of more backward peoples and social groups, universalizing and translating
in an adequate way their own new experience” (Quaderni 1366–7). He thus
likens the colonial question to the question of whether the ruling classes have
the “right” to dominate, both politically and morally, the lower classes. But
he emphatically disagrees with Labriola’s simplistic equation of the natives or
the people as “children.” He says that the enslavement of indigenous peoples
as a form of colonial pedagogy is in itself politically retrograde; “it is in fact
necessary that there be a struggle about this [slavery], and that this struggle is
precisely the condition through which the grand-children of the native from
Papua New Guinea will be liberated from slavery and educated to modern
Pedagogy” (1367). It is through anti-colonial/class struggle that men are edu-
cated into political maturity, argues Gramsci, not through the assimilation of
“superior” cultural and moral values of the colonizer (a point that is particu-
larly resonant in Frantz Fanon’s thinking). Further on in the passage, Gram-
sci suggests that the endorsement of slavery is the expression of a “universally
Introduction 7
immature condition” (1368). In a brilliant reversal, Gramsci demonstrates
how, far from slavery being a “necessary” condition for the entry of primitive
peoples into civilization, it is in itself uncivilized and uncivilizing.
Gramsci’s penetrating analysis of imperialism in its various guises shows
his sophisticated awareness of its role in shaping global politics between the
end of the nineteenth century and the interwar period. As Timothy Brennan
remarks, “Gramsci embodies his era’s anti-colonial energies” (Wars of Posi-
tion 233). In the next section, we will briefly examine some of the ways in
which postcolonial scholarship has drawn on Gramsci’s thought, and end by
presenting the structure of the book.
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the inspiration behind this revisionist history of South Asia (“Preface” vii).
In his contribution to the same volume, “On Some Aspects of the Histori-
ography of Colonial India,” Guha elaborates on the aspiration of the collec-
tive and defi nes the Gramscian notion of the subaltern as the autonomous
domain of the people that neither originated in elite nationalist politics nor
depended on it:
Guha also identifies several salient features of the ideology operative in the
subaltern domain of politics that are derived from his central theoretical
concern with subordination; the new historiography he proposes is designed
to recuperate this subaltern domain of politics, a subaltern consciousness so
to speak that remains vitally important for South Asian history and society
and yet receives little attention in available historiographies. The result of
the new historiography is to take stock of the historic failure of the nation to
develop this subaltern domain to achieve national liberation; Guha’s descrip-
tion here is strikingly similar to Gramsci’s account of the failure of the Italian
nation-state:
It is the study of this historic failure of the nation to come to its own, a failure
due to the inadequacy of the bourgeoisie as well as of the working class
to lead it into a decisive victory over colonialism and a bourgeois-demo-
cratic revolution of either the classic nineteenth-century type under the
hegemony of the bourgeoisie or a more modern type under the hege-
mony of workers and peasants, that is, a ‘new democracy’—it is the study
of this failure which constitutes the central problematic of the historiography
Introduction 11
of colonial India. (“On Some Aspects of the Historiography of Colonial
India” 7; emphasis original)
tive possibility to the neo-liberal and market-driven world order, and hence
the plausibility or otherwise of an organic intellectual within the ambit of
socialist structures holds tremendous potential for rethinking some of the
key political concepts in our contemporary times. The next chapter in this
section is by Rajeswari Sunder Rajan, who uses Gramsci’s writing on the
leadership role of the intellectual in order to question the caste politics in
contemporary India. She uses literary texts to argue that postcolonial nar-
ratives of social struggle are typically located in the space between subal-
ternity and citizenship, and the role of the intellectual becomes important
within this space. And it is within this context, and more specifically for
her purpose, within the caste politics in India, that the Gramscian notion
of the intellectual leading the society becomes problematic. Through close
reading of texts she interrogates the postcolonial trajectory of a key con-
cept in Gramsci’s thinking. In the fi nal chapter of this section Walter D.
Mignolo takes us to the South American context, and offers a thought-
ful parallel reading of Gramsci and the Peruvian intellectual-activist José
Carlos Mariátegui. Through this reading Mignolo elaborates on Gramsci’s
influence on radical thinkers in South America, and also redefi nes some of
the key concepts of postcolonial studies. His intervention is a much-needed
re-theorization of the field away from its familiar Anglophone context,
and also a reminder that Gramsci’s writing had unexpected reception in
unusual locations.
The fi nal section of this book, an epilogue, is an interview with Gayatri
Chakravorty Spivak. In this interview Spivak revisits her essay “Can the
Subaltern Speak” and reflects on the trajectory of the subaltern in her intel-
lectual career. Quite characteristically, she connects her interest in the work
of Gramsci with larger histories of the postcolonial world, arguing how one
can re-read Gramsci in politically enabling ways.
This volume is not intended to be an exhaustive survey of all the themes
that merit future research in relationship to Gramsci and the postcolonial.
For example, studies of gender and of education in Gramsci are both fertile
areas of future enquiry. However, we feel that the essays contained here offer
the fi rst opportunity for a more sustained and in-depth conversation with
Gramsci within the field of postcolonial studies.
14 Neelam Srivastava and Baidik Bhattacharya
Notes
1. Many thanks to Jim House, Eleanor Spaventa, and Rajeswari Sunder Rajan for
their very helpful comments on earlier drafts of this introduction.
2. Recent work includes the 2011 special issue of Journal of Modern Italian Stud-
ies dedicated to Gramsci and the memory of John Cammett; Mark McNally
and John Schwarzmantel’s Gramsci and Global Politics (2009); Joseph Francese’s
Perspectives on Gramsci: Politics, Culture and Social Theory (2009); San Juan, “Anto-
nio Gramsci’s Theory of the National-Popular and Socialist Revolution in the
Philippines” (2009); Peter Thomas’s The Gramscian Moment: Philosophy, Hegemony
and Marxism (2009). Within the enormous bibliography on Gramsci, it is also
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Part I
Gramsci and
Postcolonial Studies
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1 Il Gramsci meridionale
Robert J. C. Young
There has always been something postcolonial about Gramsci. In his life-
time, Gramsci had minimal effect on colonial struggle: his influence has
been felt almost entirely in the postcolonial era. Even José Carlos Mariátegui,
who left Turin in 1922 inspired by Gramsci, L’Ordine nuovo, and the Turin
1920 factory occupations, was technically a postcolonial activist-intellectual
(Young, Postcolonialism: An Historical Introduction 197–99). When Gramsci
was fi rst translated into English in 1957, the introductory blurb on the back
cover described him as a Marxist philosopher “little known in the West,” as
if he was an obscure East European communist or third-world revolution-
ary (Gramsci, The Modern Prince).2 Of course Gramsci was neither of those
things. Yet in a sense, he did come from a “Third World” country.
It is difficult now to imagine how poor rural Italy used to be, even as
late as the 1960s, when Tuscan peasants still ploughed the soil with oxen,
their bells jangling as they heaved and weaved in between the olive trees,
when dusty villages in the South lay half-abandoned by their inhabitants
who had left for the United States or Argentina in search of a better life
than the grinding poverty of the Mezzogiorno. How much more so in 1891
when Gramsci was born, not into the milieu of the relatively prosperous
Italian North, but in the South, in malaria-infested Sardinia, then a far cry
from the summer playground culture of tourism and dissolute Berlusconi
parties and even today still poor in the rural regions that lie away from
the coast. Sardinia had been a former colony of a whole series of imperial
dynasties—the Catalan kingdom of the Crown of Aragon, then Spain, then
18 Robert J. C. Young
Austria-Hungary under the Hapsburgs, before becoming the Kingdom of
Sardinia in 1814, prior to spearheading Italian unification under Cavour.
Sparsely populated, with three-quarters of a million inhabitants and a feudal
infrastructure still partly intact, the five major dialects of the Sard language
(a dialect of Catalan is also spoken in Alghero) were so diverse that a version
of Italian was used as a lingua franca of communication. 3 Gramsci would
always maintain an interest in minority languages as forms of popular cul-
ture, of subaltern knowledge and resistance.4 In Gramsci’s day Sardinia had
the highest crime rate in Italy; the reputation of Sardinians was such that in
1855 the American consul at Genoa raised the question of “objectionable”
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emigrants from Sardinia coming to the United States in a letter to the New
York Times. 5 Migration from Sardinia increased in the 1890s, with emigrants
moving to the Italian mainland, the US, Argentina or, after 1912, to Tunisia.
The situation of Italy in this period came closest to that of Ireland: between
1876 and 1970, an estimated 25 million Italians left Italy in search of work.
The bulk of these came from the islands and the South (Favero and Tassello).
Gramsci’s father worked as a registrar, or petty bourgeois official; in 1898,
when Gramsci was seven, he was accused of embezzlement and jailed, with
the result that the family was thrown into abject poverty. Gramsci, who had
had to leave school, eventually won a scholarship to study in Turin on the
Italian mainland in 1911.
His background as an immigrant from an impoverished peripheral island
with its own alien language would always mark his work with a perspective
that made it in some sense at odds with the Marxism that had been devel-
oped on the European mainland by intellectuals who were often, like Marx
or Lenin, countercultural bourgeoisie.6 It is for this reason therefore that in a
certain sense Gramsci came from outside “the West.”7 A native of the islands,
Gramsci was an intellectual from the peripheries, and in every sense “South-
ern.” He was a poor emigrant, an immigrant, and someone physically disabled
by accidental circumstance. Although in his day, emigration was primarily a
first-world issue (and immigration a problem for non-Western peoples), the
questions of minority existence—“assimilation, emancipation, separatism,
conversion, the language of state protection and minority rights, uprooting,
exile, and homelessness” (Mufti, Enlightenment in the Colony 2–3)—are those
of Gramsci himself. This was especially reinforced by his father’s immigrant
status in Sardinia, and his origins in the Italian colony (or variously semi-
colony) of Albania,8 a link that helps to account for Gramsci’s evident interest
in Albania and in Islam (between 40% and 70% of Albanians are Muslims).9
I
In Orientalism, Edward W. Said remarks in a footnote that the (then current
Gramsci 1971) English translation of Gramsci’s Prison Notebooks inexplicably
leaves out the fi nal sentence in the fi rst note to the “Preliminary Points on the
Il Gramsci meridionale 19
Study of Philosophy and the History of Culture”: “Occorre fare inizialmente
un tale inventario” (Gramsci, Quaderni 1376).10 The extraordinary inventory
of the textual fabric of European hegemony that Said made in Orientalism
was one product of Said’s reading of Gramsci, never before a reference in
his books. What was remarkable though was not that he had been reading
Gramsci, but that in a book concerned with the Orientalizing of the reality of
the East, he had spotted what got left out of Gramsci too. The early English
translations of Gramsci tended to Europeanize his work. The various selec-
tions leave the reader with little sense that Gramsci had any interest in the
world outside Europe, a perspective that reflects and illustrates the Eurocen-
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II
Gramsci’s interest in colonialism was derived directly from his early life in
Sardinia, from his personal experience of the Italian dialectic of coloniza-
tion and emigration, but was mediated intellectually by his membership of
the Comintern and the PCI. His major discussion of these questions from
an Italian perspective comes in his 1926 essay “Alcuni temi sulla questione
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This [work] is gigantic and difficult, but precisely worthy of every sacrifice
. . . on the part of those intellectuals (and there are many of them, more
than is believed) from North and South—who have understood that only
two social forces are essentially national and bearers of the future: the
proletariat and the peasants. (Scritti politici 3: 265; SPW 1: 462)
450). In the Prison Notebooks Gramsci offered what was in effect a critique of
the nationalist rationale of the Libyan and later colonial wars to facilitate
emigration. He argued that there was no necessary link between a colony
and emigrants from the associated metropole. With respect to colonization
the economic factor was always primary: it was not the export of people
that produced colonies, it was the export of capital (Gramsci, Quaderni 986;
Gramsci, Prison Notebooks 3: 279; Liguori and Voza 145). Certainly the fascist
Italian government invested a large amount of capital in Libya, but this was
largely in support of its role as a settler colony. Over the period 1912 to 1943
about 100,000 Italians emigrated to Libya, which by 1939 was officially des-
ignated as simply a part of Italy, its “fourth shore” (Quarta Sponda). Today,
of course, the flow has been reversed, but the boastful claims that Libya was
part of “Greater Italy” have been long forgotten in Italy, even if in certain
respects they still remain part of the Libyan imaginary.
The syndicalists, strongly influenced by the antimilitarism of Georges
Sorel, for the most part supported the general resistance on the left to the
Libyan war which began in 1911, and in the course of which Italy appropri-
ated three North African provinces from the Ottoman Empire. The most
vociferous of these was a socialist leader who rose to prominence on account
of his vociferous opposition to colonial warfare: Benito Mussolini. The Lib-
yan war, though popular in the South, did not transform Italy as a nation: it
was the Great War which Italy joined in 1915 on the Allied side, in the face
of sustained opposition from socialists and communists, that succeeded in
transforming the Italian political climate so as to produce a political and
ideological coalition of “national socialism” between the nationalists, who
were advocating a “proletarian nationalism,” and some of the revolutionary
syndicalists, led by Mussolini (Sternhell). In 1915 Mussolini had abandoned
his earlier position and began to advocate Italian participation in the war (as
a result of which he was fi rst, expelled from the Italian Socialist party, and
second, generously funded by the British MI5 [Kington]); by 1919 he had
founded the Italian fascist party, the Fasci di Combattimento. In the postwar
environment, the fusion of nationalism and syndicalism in fascism offered
a rival, and politically much more successful, response to the increasingly
chaotic political situation in Italy that began with the Biennio Rosso years of
26 Robert J. C. Young
1919–1920. For fascism succeeded in appearing to be at once elitist and popu-
lar, pro-capitalism and pro-workers and peasantry, modern and traditional,
totalitarian and anti-collectivist (Roberts).
By 1926, with Mussolini effectively dictator, and initiating agricultural
reforms, new model agricultural communities in Sardinia and Sicily, and
other measures such as government subsidies designed to increase agricul-
tural production and improve the lot of the peasantry, Gramsci’s political
and intellectual problem was fi rst that attempted solutions to the problems
of the economic and political disparities between North and South had been
a central focus in Italian politics for decades—his own analysis begins in
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This is true for some (the Leone and Longobardi circle in Naples), but
it does not take into account the role of the anarcho-syndicalism of the
Unione Sindacale Italiana (USI), which in many ways was to the left of
the PCI (Levy, Gramsci and the Anarchists). Gramsci describes the “essen-
tial ideology” of syndicalism as a “new liberalism,” but syndicalism was
really too diverse to have an essential ideology. In fact the USI itself did
not consider that the peasantry of the South constituted its support base,
and Gramsci was mistaken in supposing that this was the case (Roberts
53–54). Carl Levy observes,
III
The Southern Question is at once anti-colonial and colonial—about the colo-
nial submission of the South to the North, and associated emigration from the
peripheral parts of the metropole to another colony. The irony with respect to
Gramsci’s observation that the relation between the “nordici” and the “sudici”
was essentially a colonial relation was that this was a perverse state of affairs
considering that the South had formerly been part of the independent King-
dom of the two Sicilies. Until unification and the industrialization of the North,
the South was by far the richest of the Italian states. In the two Sicilies there
was extensive resistance to unification, with revolts (beginning in the 1860s)
and brigandage—brigantaggio postunitario—being heavily suppressed by the new
Italian state and continuing up to the time of Mussolini. Many in the South
certainly saw unification as a form of colonial occupation by the northern Pied-
montese, that is, by the Kingdom of Sardinia (“Regno Sabaudo” or “Regno
di Sardegna”). If the South was in a colonial relation to the North, then that
North included the “Southern” island of Sardinia that was nominally its cen-
ter. At this point, the degree to which Gramsci was not dealing with a simple
colonial relation vis-à-vis the Italian North and South becomes clear: if the
South had been an actual colony, the obvious solution would have been inde-
pendent sovereignty, and an attempt to develop national and economic auton-
omy—freedom—from the exploiting power. This would be the case for the two
Sicilies, which had formerly been a sovereign autonomous state. Unification
having been driven by the Kingdom of Sardinia, which formed the basis for
the subsequent Italian state, meant on the other hand that technically Sardinia
was the colonial not the colonized power—it was in the name of the Kingdom
of Sardinia that Garibaldi had led “the thousand” to conquer the Kingdom of
the Two Sicilies in 1860. On the other hand, within the Kingdom of Sardinia
it was also the case that since the incorporation of the Republic of Genova in
1814, and with the capital in Torino, Piedmont had become the centre of politi-
cal and economic power, with the result that the island of Sardinia became
increasingly peripheral, particularly after unification and the industrialization
28 Robert J. C. Young
of the North. At this point, a Sardinian nationalism developed seeking auton-
omy for the island—from the very united Italy that had originated in the King-
dom of Sardinia itself.15 For both Sardinia and the Mezzogiorno (formerly the
Kingdom of Two Sicilies), therefore, this new “colonial” relation with the North
was the result of the complex processes of Italian unification. Paradoxically
“colonial” oppression was instituted not by colonialism but by the creation of
the independent Italian state. Although early in his life, Gramsci had in fact
supported the nationalist movement in Sardinia, he rejects this explicitly in
“The Southern Question” on the grounds that it would perpetuate the current
structure of ruling-class exploitation. The only alternative solution therefore
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was not autonomy but more integration with the North. On this, at least, all
Italian political parties, whether of the Left or the Right, were agreed. The
claimed “solutions” to the Southern Question that had already been institut-
ed—the invasion of Libya and its creation as a settler colony, the development
of nationalist war—were both, as Gramsci points out in his essay, supported by
some intellectuals and even the peasantry of the South. His work, therefore,
was to develop an alternative socialist model in which the Southerners could
be led by the more politically progressive communist intellectuals and prole-
tariat of the North. The struggle was to produce a strategy that would produce
a counter-hegemony to that which had already been established by Mussolini.
The formation of that programme was essentially the task Gramsci undertook
in the huge—“gigantic and difficult”— project of The Prison Notebooks.
As we have seen, Gramsci’s own position on the Southern Question had
changed and developed over the years. By the time of his 1916 essay, “Il Mez-
zogiorno e la guerra” (in Cronache torinesi 228–31) Sardinian nationalism had
been rejected in favor of the abolition of unfair trade tariffs (a widely favored
solution to the colonial market arrangements then in place), and a general
socialist transformation of Italian society as a whole. By 1920, in L’Ordine
Nuovo, Gramsci had developed the basis for his mature position that would
be nuanced, but not radically transformed in the 1926 essay:
The Northern bourgeoisie has subjugated the South of Italy and the
Islands, and reduced them to exploitable colonies; by emancipating
itself from capitalist slavery, the Northern proletariat will emancipate
the Southern peasant masses enslaved to the banks and the parasitic
industry of the North. The economic and political regeneration of
the peasants should not be sought in the division of uncultivated or
poorly cultivated lands, but in the solidarity of the industrial prole-
tariat. That in turn needs the solidarity of the peasantry. (L’Ordine
Nuovo 377; SPW 1: 148)
While in 1920 Gramsci still considered the proletariat the only political power
which could oppose the bourgeois state (L’Ordine Nuovo 473), here the major
question of how to effect a double solidarity, between proletariat and peasantry,
Il Gramsci meridionale 29
is already raised but characteristically left unanswered. In true international-
ist spirit, Gramsci seeks an alliance between the working class of the North
and the peasantry of the South, with the former the vanguard of the latter, a
position essentially compatible with the Comintern’s policy to be developed
for the colonies—while the Comintern supported their liberation, they were
always to be led by the working class of the North. The strategic difference
from the colonial scenario was that, since they all lived in the same country,
the value of the peasantry as pre-revolutionary agents lay in their sheer weight
of numbers which made it conceivable that they would be able to destroy the
military might of the bourgeois state and so facilitate the revolution of the
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workers in the city (L’Ordine Nuovo 474; SPW 1: 180). In the situation of 1926,
Gramsci’s strategy was to re-imagine the possibility of a productive solidarity,
intellectual and material, between proletariat and peasant, and to envisage a
change in the intellectual leadership of the South from conservative Southern
to revolutionary Northern intellectuals. In the “Southern Question” essay, so
far as it goes, Gramsci’s position, whereby the leadership would be delivered
by a Northern working class via the mediation of the intellectuals was, how-
ever, in its way somewhat colonial, since the peasantry is ostensibly offered
little agency or activity beyond political re-education that would help them to
abandon their folkloric beliefs—senso comune—for a properly scientific outlook—
senso buono. It is in this context that the development of the idea in the Prison
Notebooks of resistant “subaltern classes” beyond the narrow definition of the
(Northern) proletariat and the apathetic lawlessness of Southern sovversivismo
(Levy, “‘Sovversivismo’”)—marks a major move in Gramsci’s thinking. Much
broader than the peasantry, the idea of subaltern or subversive groups allows
Gramsci the possibility of thinking through how the necessary North–South
alliance could be formed beyond the narrow concept of a leadership of the
latter by the former. Having established the solidarity of different subaltern
groups, Gramsci’s increasing emphasis on the role of the intellectual was the
result of an increasing conviction that the radical hegemonic alliance of North
and South could only be produced through the mediation of “organic” intel-
lectuals. Gramsci speaks of solidarity, not of unity or homogeneity. He never
sought to resolve the differences between North and South other than the
economic ones. His emphasis on the importance of the continuing regional
fragmentation of Italy can be compared to the situation of many postcolonial
nations. For what was widely regarded as the central political problem for Italy
was that it had unified as a state, but remained disparate as a nation and as a
people, full of cultural and economic imbalances. As a communist, Gramsci
does not follow the nationalist idea of arguing for cultural or linguistic homog-
enization, but rather sees the economic disparity as the key and that imbalance
as a threat to the cultural autonomy of different regions whose differences,
beginning with his interest in Sard dialectics, he continues to support (Ives).
There is no mention of subalternity in Gramsci’s “Southern Ques-
tion” essay, only of different social strata. The concept of subalternity was
30 Robert J. C. Young
invented in the Prison Notebooks as a way of describing the operation of
different social strata or groups that had historically produced hegemonic
political formations (Gramsci continues to refer to the proletariat [“classe
operaia”]). Aside from Notebook 25, “Ai margini della storia (Storia dei
gruppi sociali subalterni)” (Quaderni 2279–94), there are only eight other
references to subaltern classes in the Prison Notebooks (Quaderni 328–32,
897, 1320, 1349, 1387–88, 1607, 1663–64, 1696).16 In Notebook 25, Gram-
sci uses the term to describe the lower classes in pre-capitalist societies,
and all classes that struggle against the state, including even the bourgeoi-
sie; elsewhere, at one point, “subaltern classes” includes all lower classes
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including the working class as well as the “most marginal and peripheral
elements,” groups who have not yet come to class consciousness (Quad-
erni 328–32; Prison Notebooks 2: 48–52); once Gramsci uses the term as a
description of the “humble” struggling against the “powerful” (Quaderni
897; Prison Notebooks 3: 197); at one point in general terms of dominant ver-
sus subaltern classes (Quaderni 1320); once to describe the popular masses
in general (1664); and once as a description of those classes “who have no
history” (1696). In a significant difference from the later Subaltern Studies
historians, Gramsci never uses the term in direct connection to, or as a
specific description of, the peasantry, who are always characterized simply
as “contadini.” Of course the peasantry would form part of the account
of the humble classes, but they are not foregrounded in any way in that
account, even if they are privileged in Gramsci’s own analysis of the con-
temporary political situation of Italy still caught up in the imbalances of
the Southern Question.
Gramsci’s idea of an alliance of the intellectuals and the peasantry, led
by the dirigente working class, brings home just how far the later Subal-
tern Studies historians shifted Gramsci’s formulations. Whereas Gramsci
sought to bring the proletariat together with the peasantry to educate the
peasantry out of the dominant ideology of nationalist narratives, Subaltern
Studies was written not only against dominant nationalist accounts but
also Marxist narratives of the role of the proletariat in Indian history. With
their Maoist/Naxalite genealogy, the Subaltern Studies historians sought
to establish not unity with the working class but a relative autonomy for
the peasantry—an autonomy that Gramsci by contrast never allows the
subaltern classes (Quaderni 2286). For Gramsci’s project was in a sense the
very opposite of that of the Subaltern Studies historians—his aim, made
very clear in “The Southern Question,” was precisely to bring the peas-
antry together with the proletariat into a mutual coalition for a Marxist
historical narrative that would effect social and political transformation in
the future, rather than to celebrate their independent political spontane-
ity or singular forms of resistance. Gramsci’s larger political aim mapped
out in “The Southern Question” forms the testimony of a man who envis-
aged the intellectuals, proletariat and peasantry working together to bring
Il Gramsci meridionale 31
about a fundamental political emancipation for the country as a whole.
There is something very “Southern” about that too.
than the Subaltern Studies group had already done. In a sense, it was Spi-
vak, not Gramsci, who invented “the subaltern.” The subaltern appears only
once as a singular figure (“il subalterno”) in the Prison Notebooks, where the
term describes someone who in historical terms was once an object but has
become a historical subject, a protagonist (Quaderni 1388).17 As an in many
ways fairly orthodox Marxist trained by the Comintern, Gramsci refers oth-
erwise to “classi subalterne” or “gruppi sociali subalterni,” subaltern classes
and subaltern social groups. In Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency, Rana-
jit Guha does use the term subaltern in the singular a couple of times when
he discusses ideas that apply to the peasant generically, but as Spivak points
out, the drive is not to retrieve individual consciousness but that of the class,
the peasantry as such. Spivak’s innovative move that created the singular
figure of the subaltern as an individual consciousness as well as being part
of a group, was allied to her other critique of the Subaltern Studies collec-
tive, namely, the absence of consideration of “the figure of woman” or “the
subaltern as sexed-subject” (Spivak, ”Subaltern Studies” 365, 357). While
in Marxism, it remains mandatory to analyze the class rather than the indi-
vidual, Spivak’s whole intervention with respect to feminism was that, when
put in an international frame, there is no such thing as women’s or woman’s
consciousness in general on the model of class consciousness; women are
politically heterogeneous and hierarchized across class, race, ethnic lines.
Gramsci does in fact consider explicitly whether women constitute a sub-
altern class, but though he acknowledges the similarity, he concludes that
“‘masculinity’ can be compared to class domination only in a certain sense;
it therefore has greater importance for the history of customs than for politi-
cal and social history” (Quaderni 302, 2286; Prison Notebooks 2: 24). By con-
trast, in “Can the Subaltern Speak?” (1985), Spivak defi nitively introduces
the singular figure of the subaltern woman. While the discussion of sati is
always generic, nevertheless the very theatre of immolation means that the
focus will always remain on the consciousness of the individual woman—we
cannot expect to fi nd a generic class consciousness among satis here. Yet Spi-
vak’s point is that in terms of her being impossibly placed between nationalist
and liberal colonial discourses, here it is the singular “figure of woman” who
disappears. The incarnation of the subaltern as a woman who individually
32 Robert J. C. Young
makes a choice—a choice of course enforced by her being a woman as
such—is then defi nitively engendered with the concluding story of the suicide
of Bhuvaneswari Bhaduri. With the haunting narration of Bhuvaneswari’s
death, the subaltern—the “historically muted subject of the non-elite (‘subal-
tern’) woman in the imperialist theater”—was produced for the fi rst time as
an historical agent (Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?” 120). At this point it
becomes clear that Spivak’s account in fact in a certain sense remains close
to the spirit of Gramsci’s single use of the term “subaltern” in the singular—
someone who in historical terms was once an object but has become a his-
torical subject, a protagonist—even if this singular figure has now begun to
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eclipse the idea of the subaltern as a class. Since Spivak’s intervention, the
subaltern has been transformed into a new and powerful paradigm for our
class-wary times, showing how subaltern singularity can enact a disjunctive
politics of belonging through its acts of insubordination and insurrection.
This contemporary emphasis on the subaltern has nevertheless come a long
way from Gramsci himself, who remains fi rmly anchored to the political pos-
sibilities offered by the construction of hegemony through the articulation of
the subaltern classes.
Notes
1. Gramsci, L’Ordine Nuovo 422, my translation. Citations to Gramsci’s works are
fi rst to the Italian edition, followed by the English translation, where available.
2. Gramsci’s The Modern Prince (1957) was the fi rst book by Gramsci to be published
in English. The fi rst translation into English was the single essay, “Benedetto
Croce and His Concept of Liberty. Notes on Croce’s History of Europe (Storia
d’Europa) taken from Prison Letters,” Science & Society 10.3 (1946), 283–92.
3. The Sardinian language was only officially recognized in 1999.
4. On Gramsci and the Sardinian language(s), see Ives 2004.
5. http://query.nytimes.com/mem/archive-free/pdf?res=F70B16FF3B59157493CB
A9178DD85F418584F9 [accessed March 23, 2011]
6. In his class background, and in his interests in the role of dialects and minor
languages in his own region, Gramsci had more in common with Joseph Stalin,
both of them marked by small physical stature and disabilities.
7. At the same time, it is clear that his knowledge of the world outside Europe
is sometimes limited. For example, he criticizes Aldous Huxley’s critique of
British educational policy in India where Huxley suggests that it was a mistake
to put all the effort into education addressed to Brahmin and Chattrya castes
rather than primary school teachers. Gramsci responds by saying that this intel-
lectual elite needed to be trained fi rst precisely so that primary schools could
be developed with suitable teachers. This would work as an idea for Italy, but
Gramsci evidently has little sense that few Brahmins would consider becoming
primary school teachers in India, especially public schools that would be popu-
lated by the lower castes (Gramsci, Quaderni 709).
8. Gramsci, Lettere dal carcere 506.
9. E.g., Gramsci Scritti politici 3, 261; SPW 2: 458. On Islam, see Gramsci, Quaderni
246–48, 621–23.
Il Gramsci meridionale 33
10. Said, Orientalism 25, 329–30. Said does not point out that the sentence, however,
was already present in the fi rst 1957 US translation of Gramsci, The Modern
Prince 59.
11. Translation, “The European war must soon be followed by the war of the
colonies.”
12. The two volumes of Gramsci’s Selections from Political Writings will hereafter be
referred to as SPW 1 and SPW 2.
13. This is not the place for a full discussion of the history of the Southern question
in Italy. For an extensive selection of writings on the topic, see Villari.
14. Compare, for example, Antonio de Viti de Marco, La questione meridionale (1903)
in Villari 343–53.
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The key elements of the partito nuovo of Togliatti, namely the acceptance of a
pluralist democratic system and the mass party, can be hardly brought back
to Gramsci’s thought or, at the very least, this requires a historicization of
his work on those subjects which have undergone significant shifts in time.
Gramsci had a Leninist view of the party and when he spoke of democ-
racy he did not refer to parliamentary democracy. But this same relationship
between Gramsci and Togliatti, presented as harmonious and inspired by a
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Togliatti was in Moscow and there he received the letter from Gramsci who
asked him to forward it to the Bolshevik party. But Togliatti did not share the
content of the letter; he personally spoke to some leaders of the Soviet Com-
munist Party and of the Third International, and decided to hold the letter
without making it public. He asked to review the whole matter at a meeting
of the Central Committee of the Italian Communist Party, where Jules Hum-
bert-Droz was sent as a delegate of the Third International. On October 18,
Togliatti wrote to Gramsci informing him that he did not forward the letter
because it was not appropriate in the phase of heavy confrontation within the
Russian party and was not sufficiently clear in the approval of the line of the
party majority (Stalin-Bukharin) and in the criticism toward the opposition.
The answer of Gramsci, on October 26, was very hard. He wrote, among
other things, “This mode of reasoning of yours has made a very distressing
impression on me” (qtd. in Daniele 437).12 Gramsci complained of the super-
ficiality of Togliatti’s analysis and considered the outcome of the confl ict
within the Bolshevik Party crucial for the fate of international communism.
He claimed that the unity of the communists was of vital importance and
38 Paolo Capuzzo and Sandro Mezzadra
criticized the attitude of the majority, which seemed to want to crush the
opposition. However, following the failed murder attempt of Mussolini on
October 31, fascist violence broke out, leading to several arrests and forcing
many leaders to go underground. Gramsci failed to reach that party meeting
in Valpolcevera (close to Genoa).13 There it was decided to accept Togliatti’s
proposal to suspend the forwarding of Gramsci’s letter, with the only opposi-
tion coming from Vernagoni, who belonged to the left current of the party
led by Bordiga. The evening of November 8, Gramsci was arrested. Gramsci
and Togliatti would never meet again and their last direct correspondence is
related to the clash of 1926. It is easy to understand that in order to build the
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and the PCI. The national and democratic strategy of Togliatti rested on that
tradition and with the reception of the Zhdanovian Socialist Realism would
have encouraged a moderate, passive, national and nostalgic portrait of the
“poor people” who lived in the Italian province and had no class connota-
tions. In this way, Togliatti developed a cultural policy consistent with the
populist political mythology he had placed at the base of the Party’s strategy
in the 1940s. Essential terms of this literary culture were its sentimental real-
ism and the research on social subjects often detached from specific socio-
historical contexts, who were peasants rather than blue collar workers and
were generally located in the South, paradigmatic site of a populist rhetoric
that in the 1950s was enriched by the works of Carlo Levi and Danilo Dolci.
The insistence on the national character of this tradition meant distance, if not
open hostility, to the great twentieth-century tradition of European literary
research. Gramsci, according to Asor Rosa, was a crucial element of media-
tion between the moderate tradition of populism and the strategy of the Italian
Communist Party. Thus Asor Rosa shared in Togliatti’s reading of Gramsci,
although in order to reverse its sign. Asor Rosa, against the sentimental evo-
cation of the people, argued for the political centrality of the working class
and against the national and provincial neorealism for the avant-garde and
its open European horizons. Asor Rosa took on theoretical innovation at the
historical-literary level where workerism was introduced in the Italian politi-
cal thought of the 1960s. In this sense it represented a major break and a radi-
cal critique of the strategy of the postwar Communist Party.
To reread them today, Asor Rosa’s pages on Gramsci appear to be ungen-
erous and substantially off-centered, but it is clear that Asor Rosa was not
interested in a close analysis of Gramsci’s texts, but rather to draw criti-
cism to a tradition that had been founded through Gramsci after the Second
World War. Not by chance Asor Rosa spoke more of “Gramscianesimo”
[Gramscianism] rather than of Gramsci. Asor Rosa was able to address a
sharp critique to decades of cultural backwardness of the Communist Party
with its distrust of the international avant-garde culture, ignorance of the
social sciences, and the inability to grasp the contradictions of an advanced
industrial society. For many young intellectuals this vehement complaint
against the national populist culture was certainly perceived as the shedding
Provincializing the Italian Reading of Gramsci 41
of an ideological cloak that compressed political energies rather than orga-
nize and mobilize them. However, this reading came to put a tombstone on
any possible alternative use of Gramsci’s work.
There are many criticisms that can be made of Asor Rosa’s reading of
Gramsci. Gramsci’s attention to the local and national level is constantly
placed in an international and global dimension. This is the framework in
which Gramsci’s thought makes sense, although he was nevertheless well
aware of the importance of nation building as a constitutive element of social
processes of modernity, such as wars and revolutions.20 The national dimen-
sion had to be carefully analyzed in order to avoid an abstract and schematic
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ence or came from the left of the Italian Socialist Party, such as the founder of
Quaderni rossi, Raniero Panzieri, as well as Antonio Negri. The Roman group
around Mario Tronti and the already mentioned Alberto Asor Rosa were an
exception in this regard, since they were part of the University section of the
Italian Communist Party. But in general the relation between “workerism”
and the PCI was from the beginning very tense and confl ict-ridden, and this
is easy to understand since workerism as a whole developed a radical critique
of the national hegemony project that had been elaborated by Togliatti in
the previous years. It is nevertheless worth recalling that both Mario Tronti
and Alberto Asor Rosa, as well as the younger student of Negri’s, Massimo
Cacciari (who was to become a well-known philosopher and later, the mayor
of Venice), decided to continue their political militancy in the Communist
Party after 1968, further elaborating the legacy of workerism in peculiar
ways that were quite influential for the cultural politics of the party in the
1970s and in the 1980s.
The birth of workerism in the early 1960s is a turning point not only for the
political culture of the left and for the development of critical theory in Italy,
it is also a crucial moment in order to understand the destiny of Gramsci in
his home country in the following decades. For instance, if one looks at the
history of the British New Left, at South America or India, it is easy to see that
Gramsci’s thought provided crucial tools that helped to break with Marxist
orthodoxy as represented by official Communist parties. This rupture must
be recognized as the point of inception of some of the most important and cre-
ative developments of contemporary critical theory, in which the reference to
Gramsci continues to be a defining theoretical element—from cultural to post-
colonial and the Subaltern Studies project. In order to understand the different
situation in Italy, one has to realize that the break with Marxist and communist
orthodoxy was indeed a break with Gramsci, meaning a break with the image
of Gramsci that took shape through the interpretation of his work within the
Italian Communist Party in the 1940s and 1950s and that we have tried to
reconstruct. And while for example, in Great Britain the basic critical move
was to disentangle the element of “workers’ consciousness” from an “objectiv-
ist” reading of capitalist development, in Italy the workerist engagement with
the reality of the Fordist factory immediately raised the problem of subjectivity.
44 Paolo Capuzzo and Sandro Mezzadra
Inhabited by what Tronti memorably termed the rude razza pagana, “the
rough pagan race” (that is, the new “mass worker,” young, and mostly South-
ern migrant workers), the factory, as represented for instance by the huge
FIAT plants in Turin, or by the emerging chemical industrial complex of Porto
Marghera (Venice) was, in the eyes of the workerists, eventually opening up
modernity in Italy. What Asor Rosa criticized, as we saw above, from the point
of view of literature, the sentimental and nostalgic longing for the “people”
of the province, became a kind of general cipher of an Italian provincialism
that the struggles of the working class were getting rid of. The workerists were
deeply convinced that Italy was becoming a very advanced revolutionary labo-
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ratory, and this meant that there was a need for a “philosophy”—or better for
a “science”—capable of interpreting such advanced struggles. Needless to say,
this could not be a “provincial” philosophy.
From this point of view, in order to understand the relation of the workerists
with Gramsci it is particularly important to read an essay published in 1959 by
Mario Tronti, “Tra materialismo dialettico e filosofia della prassi. Gramsci e
Labriola” [“Between dialectical materialism and philosophy of praxis. Gramsci
and Labriola”]. The importance of Gramsci is recognized from the first lines by
Tronti, who states that “the whole cultural world of his age is interpreted and
‘translated’ in his thought.” But this is precisely the key to an interpretation of
Gramsci that aims at locating his work within a history and a cultural constella-
tion that are “immediately behind us” and that build our “near past” (in Carac-
ciolo and Scalia 141). Even more relevant for our present discussion is Tronti’s
argument that Gramsci “is a typically, I would even say fundamentally Italian
thinker,” and that it would be a mistake to give him “a European range” (“Tra
materialismo dialettico e filosofia della prassi” 156). Revisiting through Gram-
sci the history of the debates on Marx and Marxism in Italy since the late 1890s,
Tronti argues that Gramsci himself remained caught within an interpretation
of Marx shaped by idealism and historicism—that means by the philosophical
interpretations provided by Giovanni Gentile and Benedetto Croce (“Tra mate-
rialismo dialettico e filosofia della prassi” 156–61).
One could say that the basic aim of Tronti and of most workerist theorists
in the following decade was to disentangle Marx from idealism and histori-
cism, and this meant to also disentangle him from Gramsci. Back to Marx
became the slogan of workerism, which led to a tight engagement fi rst of all
with Capital, volume 1 (especially with the chapters on “The Working Day”
and on “Machinery and Large-Scale Industry” 25 ), and soon afterwards with
the Grundrisse.26 And while Gramsci was a point of entry to understand the
past, Marx was to be read in the present: he must be confronted “not with his
age, but with ours. Capital has to be evaluated on the basis of contemporary
capitalism” (Tronti, Operai e capitale 31). In 1966, Mario Tronti summed up
the results of his engagement with Marx, publishing Operai e capitale, a book
that was to become famous for the thesis of the priority of workers’ struggles
with respect to capitalist development. 27
Provincializing the Italian Reading of Gramsci 45
At the same time, one has to keep in mind that the criticism of idealism
and historicism opened up the possibility of a direct engagement with sociol-
ogy, and especially labor and industrial sociology, that were in a way banned
in the 1950s (of course with some relevant exceptions) with a reference to
the authority of Gramsci and Croce, both from Marxist and from “liberal”
culture. Some of the most important Italian labor and industrial sociologists
of the following decades—from Aris Accornero to Giovanni Mottura—had
their training in such journals as Quaderni rossi and Classe operaia. These jour-
nals started to produce an accurate cartography of workers’ conditions and
struggles under the conditions of neo-capitalism, stressing the importance of
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does not mean anything more, or it takes up a totally alien meaning for
the working class as a partial subject. Culture in fact, like the concept of
Right, of which Marx speaks, is always bourgeois. In other words, it is
always a relation between intellectuals and society, between intellectuals
and the people, between intellectuals and class; in this way it is always
a mediation of confl icts and their resolution in something else. If culture
is the reconstruction of the totality of man, the search for his humanity
in the world, a vocation to keep united that which is divided—then it is
something which is by nature reactionary and should be treated as such.
(Operai e capitale 245)
Back Home
After the great rupture produced by the 1968 movement and by the dramatic
workers’ struggles during the fall of 1969, Gramsci was of course circulating
among the revolutionary groups of the Italian new left: the group of il Mani-
festo gathered around such important political and intellectual former leaders
of the Communist Party as Rossana Rossanda, Luigi Pintor, and Valentino
Parlato (they were expelled from the party after openly criticizing the USSR
intervention in Czechoslovakia), and took Gramsci’s writings on the workers’
councils as an important point of reference in the development of its reading
of the Italian situation in the early 1970s. Also to be mentioned here is the
Provincializing the Italian Reading of Gramsci 47
activity of the “Gruppo Gramsci” in Milan, in which important intellectuals
and political cadres such as Romano Madera, Luisa Passerini, and Giovanni
Arrighi were active. This experience—“a rarity in the extra-parliamentary
left,” as Arrighi himself retrospectively recognized—was meant in Gramscian
terms to forge “organic intellectuals of the working class in struggle,” whose
function was to help the class to develop its own “autonomy” (61–94, 66f). 30
Nevertheless, Gramsci did not play an important role in the debates of the
“new left” in the 1970s, while he continued to be at the core of the intellectual
discussion within the Communist party. Independently of an extraordinary
production of specialized scholarly works of heterogeneous quality, 31 at stake
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from a political point of view was a new reading of the concept of hegemony.
This new reading stressed the “organicistic” elements of Gramsci’s thought,
making him available for a legitimization of the new strategy of the so-called
“historical compromise.” The “historical compromise” meant the alliance
with the Christian Democratic Party in the perspective of a revival of the
founding spirit of the Republic after 1945, which the general secretary of the
party, Enrico Berlinguer, started to develop in the wake of his interpretation
of the 1973 coup in Chile and of the ongoing radicalization of social struggles
and movements in Italy. From this point of view, a lively discussion devel-
oped around the thesis presented by Norberto Bobbio, who emphasized the
“super-structural” elements of Gramsci’s concept of civil society and made
this concept itself an important political battlefield. 32 Bobbio’s reading was
rooted in the liberal reading of Gramsci that had its antecedents in Bene-
detto Croce and Piero Gobetti. But it resulted, on the one hand, in making
Gramsci even more distant from the intellectual references of the diverse
spectrum of the radical left, and, on the other, it attracted severe criticism
from intellectuals tied to the Communist Party. One could even say that Bob-
bio’s insistence on the cultural fabric of civil society anticipated some terms
of later Gramscian revivals.
After the electoral successes of the Communist Party in the mid-1970s,
it entered a phase of decline and the strategy itself of the “historical com-
promise” was a failure in the turbulent years that closed one of the most
important and confl ict-ridden decades in the history of the Italian Republic.
The 1980s were shaped by a confused search for new models and perspec-
tives within the Communist Party. In this search, Gramsci was progressively
marginalized from the intellectual debate, and one can say that the end of
the Communist Party after 1989 also marked the vanishing of a “cultural
industry” revolving around the name of Gramsci, an industry which flour-
ished for four decades, monopolizing the interpretation of his thought, surely
producing some important scholarly achievements but also radically limiting
the potentiality and reducing the openness of his work.
At the same time, an awareness of the existence of a different debate on
Gramsci beyond the borders of his native land started to spread in Italy.33
It was no coincidence that one of the fi rst points of crystallization of a new
48 Paolo Capuzzo and Sandro Mezzadra
interest for Gramsci (one which was nevertheless bound to remain quite
marginal in the Italian academic and intellectual life) was “Notebook 22,”
“Americanism and Fordism.” Giorgio Baratta, who would emerge as a cen-
tral figure in this new season of Italian Gramscian studies, organized a con-
ference on Gramsci’s critique of Americanism in 1987. It was an important
landmark in the process of “provincializing” the Italian discussion on Gram-
sci and recovering the global perspective inherent in his thought. 34 “Note-
book 22” presented moreover an analysis of the complex relations between
“culture” and production that were emerging as crucial, precisely in the crisis
of Fordism, as had already been stressed by the so-called French regulation
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school and would lie at the core of Stuart Hall’s controversial reading of
the New Times inaugurated by Thatcherism in the UK. 35 In the following
years, Baratta, who was also the founder of the Italian section of the Interna-
tional Gramsci Society, contributed to the reception of the most stimulating
readings of Gramsci developed especially in the Latin American experience
(especially Carlos Nelson Coutinho) and within cultural and postcolonial
studies (especially Edward Said and Stuart Hall).36 A conference organized
in 2007 in Rome titled “Gramsci, Cultures and the World” was a kind of con-
cluding step in this direction: after many travels around the world, Gramsci
was coming back to Italy in a quite different shape than the one that had
dominated the postwar era. 37
Rosengarten 2:80)
In this perspective, the nation itself becomes a specific historical actor, which
played a fundamental role in European modernity, but not the exclusive
semantic horizon within which Gramscian concepts are located. As Gramsci
wrote on August 8, 1927 in a kind of postcolonial mood to his friend Berti
commenting on Henri Massis’ Défence de l’Occident,
What makes me laugh is the fact that this eminent Massis, who is dread-
fully afraid that Tagore’s and Gandhi’s Asiatic ideology might destroy
French Catholic rationalism, does not realise that Paris has already be-
come a semicolony of Senegalese intellectualism and that in France the
number of half-breeds is increasing by leaps and bounds. One might,
just for a laugh, maintain that, if Germany is the extreme outcrop of
ideological Asianism, France is the beginning of darkest Africa and the
jazz band is the fi rst molecule of a new Euro-African civilization! (Gram-
sci, Letters from Prison, ed. Rosengarten 1:128)
ents itself now as a privileged field on which the crucial issue of the produc-
tion of subjectivity under the conditions of contemporary capitalism can be
critically analyzed. This critical analysis can fi nd in Gramsci’s answer to the
question “What is Man?” a surprisingly useful tool. It is worth rereading it
after the whole discussion on the crisis of humanism and post-structuralist
deconstruction of the subject: “[M]an must be conceived of as a historical
complex made up of purely individual and subjective elements on the one
hand, and on the other, of mass, objective or material elements, with which
the individual has an active relationship” (Quaderni 1338).
Another topic worth developing is Gramsci’s thought and his reflection
on language in general, and specifically on translation and translatability.40
“Notebook 29,” “Note sullo studio della grammatica” (“Notes on the study
of grammar”), the last “Notebook,” demonstrates this reflection. The distinc-
tion formulated by Gramsci between “normative grammar,” on the one hand,
and “spontaneous and immanent grammars,” on the other hand, seems to
be particularly promising, especially if we connect it with the defi nition of
“man” quoted previously. In a way, the “normative grammar” discussed by
Gramsci seems to be one of those “mass and objective elements” that make
up “man,” while “spontaneous and immanent grammars” (whose number
is “incalculable and theoretically one can say that everybody has his or her
grammar”) surely correspond to the “purely individual and subjective ele-
ments” (Quaderni 2343). More generally, Gramsci seems once more particu-
larly sensitive here to the mobility of languages and to the reality of power
relations that crisscross the processes of their formation and that shape their
relations—in other words, he was sensitive to an issue that is widely recog-
nized as crucial in our postcolonial world.
A very rich reflection on the issue of translation relates to this conception
of language in the Notebooks. It is worth emphasizing that the very root of the
problem for Gramsci is political, and he was already aware of that in the wake
of the Russian revolution. One of the most intense paragraphs on the problem
of translation in the Notebooks is introduced by a quote from Lenin, who said in
1921 that “we haven’t managed to translate our language,” meaning the revo-
lutionary politics of the Bolsheviks themselves, “into the European languages”
(Quaderni 1468). Starting from this very peculiar problem of “translation,”
Provincializing the Italian Reading of Gramsci 51
Gramsci developed a multi-scalar theory of translation (linguistic, scientific,
philosophical, popular, cultural, and so on) that although fragmentary, seems
to be particularly topical. In a way, it allows to combine and articulate, as a
kind of mobile and flexible platform, the interplay of the three previous points
that we briefly discussed: Gramsci’s “geographical materialism,” his “topologi-
cal” reflection on the cultural dynamics of hegemony, and his approach to the
issue of subjectivation. It is working from within this mobile and flexible plat-
form that we hope new Italian studies and scholars will be able to contribute
in an innovative and creative way to the ongoing transnational and transcon-
tinental conversation on Gramsci’s thought.
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Notes
1. See Tronti, “Tra materialismo dialettico e fi losofia della prassi,” 141–62. We
discuss Tronti’s essay subsequently (second section).
2. The analysis of the fascist movement as a “regime reazionario di massa” (reac-
tionary regime with mass support) was outlined by Togliatti in 1935 in a series
of lectures held in Moscow, but published in Italy only in 1970. These lectures
represented a very stimulating analysis of fascism and the awareness of the mass
character of fascist organizations influenced Togliatti’s project of the “partito
nuovo”; see Togliatti, Lezioni sul fascismo.
3. This book won the Premio Viareggio, a major Italian literary prize. In 1950 the
Fondazione Istituto Gramsci was founded, whose aim was to promote research
on Gramsci’s work and the communist movement. In the 1960s the Istituto
Gramsci acquired the letters and the notebooks of Gramsci.
4. This censorship was denounced by the socialist historian Salvatore Sechi already
in 1965; see Sechi, “Le ‘lettere dal carcere’ e la politica culturale del Pci” (1965),
now in Movimento operaio e storiografia marxista, Bari, De Donato, 1974. The fact that
Gramsci’s reception after the war was based on a heavy manipulation and some-
times falsification of his writings is nowadays recognized by scholars with different
orientations in the interpretation of Gramsci; see Vacca, “Togliatti editore delle Let-
tere e dei Quaderni del carcere,” in Vacca, Togliatti sconosciuto 123–69; Bermani 2007.
5. Palmiro Togliatti, Trenta anni di vita e lotte del Pci.
6. A substantial change in the historiography on the Italian Communist Party was
introduced by the huge work of Paolo Spriano, whose fi rst volume was pub-
lished in 1967; see Spriano 1967–1975.
7. Amadeo Bordiga was the leading founder of the PCd’I in 1921, his left-wing
positions within the communist movement had been attacked by Lenin already
in 1920 in Left-Wing Communism: An Infantile Disorder. In the following years
Bordiga maintained a critical position toward the development of the Bolsche-
vik Party in Russia and its leading role in the Third International, and he was
a prominent representative of the so-called left-wing communism so that he
was marginalized both in the Italian and international communist movement.
Bordiga was expelled by the Communist Party in 1930 and he never went
back. After the second World War he founded his own small revolutionary
party which did not have any significant role in Italian politics; on Bordiga
see De Clementi.
52 Paolo Capuzzo and Sandro Mezzadra
8. The fi rst edition of the Prison Notebooks was published by Einaudi (Torino) in
six thematic volumes between 1948 and 1951, edited by Felice Platone under
the supervision of Togliatti. The Selections from the Prison Notebooks, edited and
translated by Hoare and Smith, which shaped the discussion of Gramsci’s work
in the Anglophone world, was based on this edition.
9. Croce has been the most influential intellectual of Italian idealism in the twenti-
eth century. His work constituted the basis of the education of the liberal ruling
class in Italy. The Italian Communist Party aimed at refuting Croce, stressing
the role of the “common people” in nation building and in the development
of Italian modernity, but it shared with Croce a similar historicist-progressive
vision of history.
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10. In the 1970s, just in the phase of Fordism’s crisis, some scholars began to pay
more attention to “Notebook 22,” on “Americanism and Fordism”; see the spe-
cial edition of the Notebook edited by F. De Felice in 1978. Some papers pre-
sented at the Gramsci conference of 1977 have a focus on “americanismo e
fordismo,” in particular Bodei, Battini, Salvadori, Paggi, F. de Felice; see Ferri
1977. Within the workerist debate, Sergio Bologna recovered Gramsci’s thought.
In the following years, interest grew in “Notebook 22,” and the analysis of it
signaled the engagement with Gramsci of Giorgio Baratta, one of the most dis-
tinguished scholars of the Gramsci renaissance of the last twenty years. See
Baratta and Catone (eds.), Modern Times. A brilliant reading of the influence
of “Notebook 22” in postwar Italian debates on the left, “through and beyond
workerism,” has been recently provided by Boni 79–88.
11. “[C]i pare che la passione violenta delle quistioni russe vi faccia perdere di vista
gli aspetti internazionali delle quistioni russe stesse, vi faccia dimenticare che
i vostri doveri di militanti russi possono e debbono essere adempiuti solo nel
quadro degli interessi del proletariato internazionale,” Gramsci, letter of Octo-
ber 14. The correspondence of 1926 is now entirely published in Chiara Daniele
(ed.), Gramsci a Roma, Togliatti a Mosca. Il carteggio del 1926. In an essay within
this book, Vacca reads these letters within the internal debate of the Italian
Communist Party in those years, focusing on the confl icts between the political
strategies of Gramsci and Togliatti. The text of the fi rst letter had been already
published by Tasca in 1938; the answer of Togliatti was published in Rinascita
in 1964; the above objection of Gramsci was published only in 1970. It was
certainly not by chance that Togliatti published a part of the correspondence
just three months before his death at a moment in which, faced with the confl ict
between the Soviet Union and China, he was outlining a critical perspective on
the history of international communism.
12. An English translation of this letter can be found in http://www.marxists.org/
archive/gramsci/1926/10/letter-togliatti.htm.
13. Gramsci was stopped in Milan and sent back to Rome by the police. What
occurred in those days has been clarified by a letter of Tatiana Schucht discov-
ered only in 2008 and published in L’Unità on November 7, 2008.
14. Emblematic of this hagiography is the fi rst biography of Gramsci, by Lucio
Lombardo Radice and Giuseppe Carbone, Vita di Antonio Gramsci (1952). This
book contributed to consolidating the historiographical tradition discussed
above, i.e. a direct line which linked Ordine Nuovo, PCd’I (Partito Comunista
d’Italia), and the “partito nuovo” (the “new party”) bound by the relationship
Provincializing the Italian Reading of Gramsci 53
between Gramsci and Togliatti. This orthodox tradition eliminated every other
voice which had contributed to the history of the Italian communist movement,
labeling them as sectarians and heretics.
15. Ragionamenti was an innovative journal animated by young intellectuals clos-
est to the socialist party and was fi nanced by Gian Giacomo Feltrinelli; see
Colummi 31–56.
16. This rereading of Gramsci’s thought in the early 1920s was encouraged also
by Antonio Giolitti in the VIII congress (1956) of the PCI, which was the last
before his exit from the party. See Giolitti 1957.
17. Republished in Togliatti, Gramsci 193–212.
18. An exception was represented by scholars who considered Gramsci a man
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36. See for instance Baratta, Le rose e i Quaderni. Il pensiero dialogico di Antonio
Gramsci.
37. See the proceedings in Schirru (ed.), Gramsci, le culture, il mondo. A collection
of landmark essays in cultural studies on Gramsci has been edited by Vacca,
Capuzzo, and Schirru, Studi gramsciani nel mondo: gli studi culturali.
38. See for instance Burgio, Gramsci storico. Una lettura dei Quaderni del carcere;
Frosini, Da Gramsci a Marx. Ideologia, verità, politica; Liguori, Sentieri gramsciani;
and Guido Liguori and Pasquale Voza (eds.), Dizionario gramsciano.
39. Particularly important in this regard is the work done in Naples by Lidia Curti
and Iain Chambers: see for instance Chambers (ed.), Esercizi di potere. Gramsci,
Said e il postcoloniale.
40. There is of course a wide literature especially on the issue of translation and
translatability in Gramsci’s thought. Particularly important in the Italian debate
has been the work on Gramsci and language by Lo Piparo, Lingua, intellettuali,
egemonia. See also his recent essay, “Gramsci and Wittgenstein. An Intriguing
Connection,” in Capone (ed.), Perspectives on Language Use and Pragmatic: A Vol-
ume in Memory of Sorin Stati.
3 The Travels of the
Organic Intellectual
The Black Colonized Intellectual in
George Padmore and Frantz Fanon 1
Neelam Srivastava
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about his rejection of Eurocommunism than Fanon was. Both writers, while
acknowledging the profound epistemological and political influence of Marx-
ism on their elaboration of anti-colonial thought and history, also recognized
that Marxism had frequently let down black liberation movements and had
attempted to co-opt their struggles.
It might seem counterintuitive, then, to map out parallels between one of
Europe’s most important Marxist thinkers, one of the founders of the Italian
Communist Party, and Fanon and Padmore. But arguably Gramsci’s empha-
sis on the role of the intellectual both in history and in organizing political
activity valorizes the importance of culture in class struggle. This empha-
sis resonates interestingly with the centrality placed on culture in much
anti-colonial writing, especially that of Fanon, and is an aspect which was
generally overlooked in orthodox Communist assessments of the strength
of anti-colonial movements. 5 What brings together Gramsci, Padmore and
Fanon in this particular conjuncture of leftist thought is the attention paid to
the popular culture of the colonized subalterns as the authentic expression
of a national consciousness and as the essential cornerstone of a successful
program of political emancipation and liberation. In other words, we need to
examine the place of the black colonized intellectual in relation to this situ-
ation, and see how the two thinkers attempt to organize and think through
the “common, if dispersed and contradictory experience of both African and
diaspora responses to the taking away, repression and denial of collective
experience” (Idahosa 393).6
Of course, the word “authenticity” in the context of anti-colonial thought
is fraught with dangers and contradictions. We will examine its use more
carefully in Fanon’s essay “On National Culture,” and we will explore its
complex articulation as a position which owes little to folklore, ethnic nativ-
ism, or racial essentialism. It will be argued that Fanon’s emphasis on cul-
ture, together with his and Padmore’s interrogation of the role of the black
intellectual, represent important conceptual links with Gramsci’s organic
intellectual as he laid it out in his Notebooks, fi rst published in their entirety
in 1975. It might be useful to start with Gramsci’s defi nition of the organic
intellectual, in order to proceed with the startling similarities between his,
Fanon’s and Padmore’s thinking.
58 Neelam Srivastava
Gramsci thus immediately links the emergence of social class with the need
to establish functionaries who will articulate and propagate its position in
society and politics. In other words, the role of the intellectual is to help
establish the hegemony of that particular social class. Gramsci notes that the
role of the intellectual is a mediated role, because it is not directly concerned
with the means of production, but rather with the super-structure. Intellectu-
als have “organizing” and “connective” roles, both in civil society (roughly
corresponding to the private sphere), where hegemony is exercised as a form
of social control, and in political society (roughly corresponding to the state
or public sphere), where “direct domination” is exercised through the state
and government. Gramsci sees the intellectuals as “deputies” of the dominant
group, “exercising the subaltern functions of social hegemony and political
government” (SPNB 12). Here, as is often the case in the Notebooks, Gramsci
means “subaltern” in the military sense of “subordinate.” The deputy, that
is, the intellectual, functions as a subordinate “official” who carries out the
“orders” of the chief economic producer of his own social class, for exam-
ple the capitalist entrepreneur (Quaderni del carcere 1513).7 Dominant groups
tend to produce their own organic intellectuals who propagate their ideas
and worldview at a social and cultural level. However, certain oppressed
social groups, for example, the peasants, do not produce organic intellectuals
(Quaderni 1518). Gramsci saw the problem of the intellectuals as a specifically
Italian problem, which was linked to the uneven economic development of
the country. His new conception of the intellectual as “organic” meant that
this person stayed faithful to the interests of the class he belonged to and
was integrated into its specific cultural-political vision, and indeed helped
to establish it as hegemonic. The organic intellectual did not work to build
the hegemony of a superior social class, as was the case of what he calls “tra-
ditional intellectuals,” who tended to live in rural areas (Quaderni 1520–21).
These often came from the petty bourgeoisie or even the peasantry, but
served the interests of the landowners, and the cultural and social outlook of
the traditional intellectual was heavily influenced by the Catholic Church.
With this formulation of intellectual, Gramsci essentially redefi nes this
figure, and expands its remit far beyond the conventional understanding of
The Travels of the Organic Intellectual 59
someone who is dedicated to cultural, literary and philosophical pursuits.
The intellectual, in Gramsci’s formulation, has an inherently political func-
tion. However, he never divorces the intellectual’s political function from the
cultural function, in fact the two are always seen to be indissolubly linked
in his thinking. In a parenthetical note to his section on the intellectuals,
Gramsci remarks that his research “will not be of a ‘sociological’ nature, but
it will produce a series of essays on the ‘history of culture’ (Kulturgeschichte)
and on the history of political science” (Quaderni 1515). In so doing, Gramsci
democratizes the notion of intellectual, by seeing it as a function, rather than
as a figure: “non-intellectuals do not exist” (SPNB 9). Homo faber cannot be
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The mode of being of the new intellectual can no longer consist in el-
oquence, which is an exterior and momentary mover of feelings and
passions, but in active participation in practical life, as constructer, or-
ganizer, “permanent persuader” and not as a simple orator (but superior
at the same time to the abstract mathematical spirit); from technique-as-
work one proceeds to technique-as-science and to the humanistic con-
ception of history, without which one remains “specialised” and does not
become “directive” (specialised and political). (SPNB 10)
Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell Smith rightly note that this is a very
dense passage in Gramsci, one that contains in nuce a number of key con-
cepts. First, Gramsci is criticizing the notion of the Italian intellectual, who
in his opinion is still anchored to a belle-lettristic, rhetorical and sentimental
60 Neelam Srivastava
understanding of his role, and one that is completely divorced from the cul-
ture of the people. At the same time, however, Gramsci recognizes the fun-
damental importance of the historicist and humanistic approach in Italian
education in forming the “truly” directive intellectual. What we see here,
then, is a clear identification of the political with the cultural function of the
intellectual. Italian intellectuals have historically been “cosmopolitan” in a
negative sense; they have embraced an internationalist cultural dimension to
the detriment of their connection with Italian indigenous cultural traditions
and expressions, and have thus fatally impeded the development and con-
solidation of this popular-national culture. Fanon similarly remarks on the
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Padmore in London.
combination of force and consensus that balance each other out in vari-
ous ways, without letting force have the upper hand over consensus, but
on the contrary trying to make it appear as if force is supported by the
consensus of the majority, expressed by the so-called medium of public
opinion—newspapers and associations—which therefore, in certain situa-
tions, are artificially multiplied. (Quaderni 1638)
64 Neelam Srivastava
This passage obviously contains the more negative connotations of hege-
mony. Interestingly, hegemony in the capitalist countries is described by
Fanon, though not in so many words, as juxtaposed to the direct domina-
tion of colonial rule. The “language of pure violence” of the settler is a form
of domination without hegemony, as opposed to the creation of consensus,
through education, “the teaching of moral reflexes,” “aesthetic forms of
respect for the status quo,” in the colonizing country. “In capitalist coun-
tries a multitude of sermonizers, counselors and ‘confusion-mongerers’
intervene between the exploited and the authorities” (Wretched 4). On the
other hand, in the colony, the policeman and the soldier act as go-betweens.
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to align Padmore with a more elitist understanding of black politics, and begs
the question to what extent he really was an organic intellectual. Toward the
end of his life, he became Personal Advisor to Nkrumah in the newly formed
state of Ghana (Hooker 132ff). Azinna Nwafor, in an even-handed preface to
Pan-Africanism or Communism?, argues that Pan-Africanism strived to preserve
the status quo of the black political elites and did not serve the interests of
the African colonized masses. On the contrary, Pan-Africanists had chosen a
cooperationist, nonviolent form of anti-colonial action that would ensure the
extension of British interests in Africa, without direct colonial domination.
Nwafor’s words recall the savage attacks of Fanon on the nonviolent methods
of Pan-African socialism in his most famous essay “Concerning Violence.”14
But the Fifth Pan-African Congress held in Manchester in 1945 repre-
sented a turning point, in many ways, for the movement. Padmore indicates
that it seemed to signal a shift in policy from elite to more inclusive forms
of Pan-Africanism, with representation drawn from trade unions and grass-
roots political organizations:
A new militant leadership was reflected, closely linked with the popular
movements in the home lands. Earlier Congresses had centred around
a small intellectual élite. Now there was expression of a mass movement
intimately identified with the under-privileged sections of the coloured
colonial populations. (Padmore 139)
ism. Fanon and Gramsci’s writing displays some striking stylistic similari-
ties: like Gramsci, Fanon mixed political analysis with literary and cultural
criticism. This multidisciplinary form of writing suggests an emphasis on
culture and politics together.
Fanon dedicates the central part of the book to an analysis of the “intel-
lectuel colonisé.” Constance Farrington’s translation of The Wretched of the
Earth seems to have overlooked the wider meaning of Fanon’s choice of term
here, by rendering it as the “native intellectual.” But it is surely more accu-
rate to speak here of “colonized intellectual” (in line with Richard Philcox’s
more recent translation), where the defi ning condition is not so much race
or ethnicity, but colonialism. A translation of Fanon’s phrase as “colonized
intellectual” renders much more clearly the transformation that this figure
must undergo in order to become an organic intellectual, and also gestures
towards the possibility of transcending race. Indeed, the “intellectuel colo-
nisé” is someone who must abandon his Europeanized education, but also
any attachment to a racialist, essentialist identity (à la Négritude). Construct-
ing a real, authentic and vital national culture means eliminating colonialism
from one’s mental and psychological makeup through the war of liberation:
“After the struggle is over, there is not only the demise of colonialism, but
also the demise of the colonized” (Wretched 178). The colonized intellectual
will no longer exist in a postcolonial future in which the political and psycho-
logical effects of oppression no longer exist, and will be replaced by a “new
humanity” (Wretched 178). In order for this new humanity to be free of the
“cultural indecisiveness” that plagues many newly independent countries, it
must be entirely supported by the will and concerted efforts of the people.
Fanon emphasizes inventiveness, not a return to tradition, as constitutive of a
truly decolonized national culture (179). For Fanon, as for Gramsci, “authen-
ticity” does not consist of tradition.
Négritude’s essentialist conception of blackness “fi nds its fi rst limita-
tion” in the fact that racial identity is historically constructed (Wretched
154), as Fanon had already stated in Black Skin, White Masks. The prob-
lems that Richard Wright or Langston Hughes had to face were very dif-
ferent from those of Léopold Senghor and Jomo Kenyatta. Here Fanon was
referring to the debate between Wright and Senghor, which took place
72 Neelam Srivastava
at the First World Congress of Black Writers and Artists in 1956. Wright
felt Négritude represented an exclusionary cultural approach that didn’t
take into consideration Black Americans’ economic and social conditions
(Macey 286). Interestingly, Gramsci was more prescient than Senghor in
recognizing the impact that the advanced industrialization of America
would have in shaping the responses of African American intellectuals, as
I have discussed earlier.
At the same time, however, the colonized intellectual must immerse him-
self in the native culture in order not to become deracinated. If this tearing
away from colonial culture is not accomplished, the result will be “individu-
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only external relations to them (Les damnés de la terre, 268). This detached
and sentimental memorialization is profoundly reminiscent of Gramsci’s Ital-
ian cosmopolitan intellectual, who unconsciously adopts a paternalistic atti-
tude towards national-popular culture.
But then the third period begins, and here Fanon connects a revolutionary
approach to culture with national struggle. He defi nes the literary produc-
tion of this period as a “combat literature,” a revolutionary literature, which
for him becomes synonymous with national literature (Wretched 159). It is
here, however, that Fanon issues a warning to the colonized intellectual: he
must be wary of the methods he uses in his cultural operation. Fanon uses
terms that are strikingly similar to Gramsci’s: the “going to the people” that
Gramsci saw as key to the construction of a national-popular literature, is
rendered as the intellectual “returning to his people” (Wretched 160, “qui
revient à son peuple” in the original French, 269). The colonized intellectual
must be wary of the literary techniques and language that he uses for writing
a new national literature, as he runs the risk of exoticizing the very culture
and society he wishes to represent most faithfully and passionately. At all
costs, he must avoid acting like a foreigner, and he must go beyond a mere
superficial relationship to the constantly changing cultural parameters of the
people in the revolution.
The most innovative aspect of Fanon’s thought in these passages is his
understanding of the way in which national liberation struggles utterly trans-
form the culture of the colonized. Just like Gramsci, Fanon realized that
national culture is not merely a recuperative operation. There is no hidden,
ancient essence of the people that the intellectual must tap in order to pro-
duce national culture. On the contrary, Fanon stresses how the revolution is
transforming the culture of the people in its very making. To echo Cabral, the
people make their own history, but they also, constantly make their own cul-
ture: “a dense, subterranean life in perpetual renewal” (Wretched 160). Fanon
here makes an absolutely fundamental juxtaposition: culture versus custom.
“Culture has never the translucency of custom. In its essence, it is the very
opposite of custom, which is always the deterioration of culture” (Wretched
160). Fanon’s stark rejoinder to the proponents of Négritude (and by exten-
sion, Pan-Africanism) is never more evident than in this passage. Brilliantly,
74 Neelam Srivastava
Fanon rejects this cultural movement as containing all the perils associated
with nativism, including conservative forms of cultural revivalism and the
stolid defense of “native customs” against a true liberation of the indigenous
people from both colonial and pre-colonial oppression. The colonized intel-
lectual must avoid being hypnotized by the “mummified fragments” of native
culture, which are static and outworn. Fanon identifies true national culture
as being forged in the smithy of the revolution: “When a people support an
armed or even political struggle against a merciless colonialism, tradition
changes meaning . . . Traditions in an underdeveloped country undergoing
armed struggle are fundamentally unstable and crisscrossed by centrifugal
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The fossilized strata that reflect past conditions of life, and thus [are]
conservative and reactionary, and those that consist of a series of in-
novations, often creative and progressive, spontaneously determined by
forms and conditions of life in the process of developing, and which con-
tradict, or are merely different from, the morality of the leading groups.
(Quaderni 2313)
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Gramsci rejects the received notion of folklore as picturesque and quaint, and
instead emphasizes the active popular spirit inherent in it, which is clearly
distinct from that of the traditional intellectuals. Giovanni Mimmo Boninelli
comments that folklore in Gramsci has these two sides to it: on the one hand,
it has the negative connotations of being regressive, conservative and passive.
On the other hand, however, it “spontaneously produces positive, progressive,
innovative fragments, which are active among those sectors of the population
which are able to express their own ‘organic intellectuals’” (322). Boninelli
thus identifies in Gramsci a link between the producers of an active and inno-
vative folklore, and the creation of organic intellectuals, a position that is
echoed by Fanon’s insistence that the colonized intellectual gain access to that
“zone of hidden fluctuation” that is the true repository of national culture: a
dynamic, rather than passive understanding of this culture. It is only through
an active revalorization of folklore that the organic intellectual can act in
order to counter-act the social hegemony and consensus that govern that par-
ticular society (Boninelli 322).
For Fanon, as for Gramsci then, the intellectual’s true comprehension of
the “people’s culture” consists in demystifying it. Demystification is necessary
in the case of folklore, which is otherwise seen in a rather Orientalist light,
a form of self-exoticization and self-distancing. The real point of connection
here between Gramsci and Fanon is that both thinkers are addressing the
intellectuals of the same nation to which the people belong. In other words,
the process of reconnection and demystification must begin at home, a very
difficult operation that must discard most, if not all, of the previous intel-
lectual and cultural education received at the hands of the metropole. As
Fanon says, “A national culture is no folklore where an abstract populism is
convinced it has uncovered the popular truth” (Wretched 168). Moreover, the
birth of a true national literature signifies a change in readership: whereas
before the colonized writer produced work for the European oppressor, now
he “gradually switches over to addressing himself to his own people. It is
only from this point onward that one can speak of a national literature”
(Wretched 173). Gramsci also argued that the preference of Italian readers
for foreign popular fiction, rather than homegrown middlebrow authors, was
the most evident proof of a disconnect between the writers and the public in
76 Neelam Srivastava
Italy. Italians considered foreign literature more relevant and interesting to
them than their own national literature. This fact leads Gramsci to another
conclusion: that the literature of a people can come from a different national
context, in other words, a people can be subject to the intellectual and moral
hegemony of other peoples. Thus the very taste of a national readership is
intimately linked to issues of cultural, and thus political hegemony (Lettera-
tura e vita nazionale 98).
Fanon gives some examples in the text of what he means by an authentic
national literature, though he is remarkably vague as to which national con-
text he is referring to. His only example of “combat literature” is from the
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Guinean poet Keita Fodeba, and he also briefly mentions the evolution of
jazz. However Macey, in his excellent discussion of Fanon’s essay, offers some
suggestions of what Fanon may have had in mind. Kateb Yacine, Mouloud
Feraoun and Assia Djebar are some of the Algerian writers who began to
represent the Algerian war in fiction and poetry in new and experimental
ways (Macey 382ff). The use of vernacular languages or popular theatre
may also have been a way for colonized writers to reach a wider audience, as
colonialism had tended to defi ne the potential linguistic audience for culture
through its exclusive focus on literature in French, often consigning Algerian
production to “folklore.”
Fanon, throughout the essay, constantly insists that only the fight for nation-
hood can “unlock” culture; it is the “material matrix on the basis of which
culture becomes possible” (my own translation, 280 in the French original).
National Algerian culture, for example, gains consistency in the course of the
struggle, in the myriad sites of resistance: in front of the guillotine, in prison,
in every French outpost that is captured and destroyed. Thus it is the fight
for national liberation that opens to national culture “the doors of creation”
(Wretched 197). In short, the war of liberation itself is an expression of culture.
“We believe the conscious, organized struggle by a colonized people in order
to restore national sovereignty constitutes the greatest cultural manifestation
that exists” (178). As in Gramsci, the struggle for political leadership is iden-
tified with a struggle for cultural hegemony. Fanon, like Gramsci, assigns a
wide semantic field to the intellectual that extends from political activist to
writer and man of culture. But his achieved fusion with the subaltern group
he wishes to represent is essential for the success of the revolution.
Fanon is careful to distinguish his idea of national culture from that of
Négritude: “To believe one can create a black culture is to forget oddly
enough that ‘Negroes’ are disappearing, since those who created them are
witnessing the demise of their economic and cultural supremacy” (Wretched
169). Fanon’s dismissal of Négritude may have been linked to the fact that
this movement was largely irrelevant to the Algerian situation (Macey 378).
In fact, “Arab culture,” identified with that of the invading nomadic tribes
from the north, was regarded as suspect by Sub-Saharan cultural theorists.
Négritude is seen as static and essentialist, whereas Fanon makes it clear that
The Travels of the Organic Intellectual 77
the condition of colonization is temporary, both for the colonizer and for
the colonized, and it does not establish immoveable racial identities. On the
contrary, the struggle for national freedom results in a tabula rasa regarding
previous culture and customs; “this struggle, which aims at a fundamental
redistribution of relations between men, cannot leave intact either form or
substance of the people’s culture” (Wretched 178). Thus, in a typically utopian
vein Fanon returns to the notion of a new humanity, which will be the end
result of the anti-colonial liberation struggle. This position also signals an
evolution from Black Skin, White Masks, in which Fanon had been so critical
of Sartre’s defi nition of Négritude as a “racist anti-racism.” In 1953, while rec-
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ognizing that black racial identity was historically constructed by the white
gaze, he also felt that it was nevertheless here to stay, at least until racism
existed (Bernasconi 107). In The Wretched of the Earth he is much more opti-
mistic. The disappearance of colonialism—understood as a psycho-cultural
hegemony as much as a political one—will mean the end of the colonized
man, and thus possibly the end of racial difference. Where for Gramsci the
new society of socialism meant the end of social classes, for Fanon it meant
the end of race, and its replacement by the nation, presumably in non-ethni-
cally exclusive terms. More realistically, Macey reminds us that after Alge-
rian independence in 1962, the FLN established Algerian nationality on the
basis of ethnicity and adherence to the Muslim religion (389).
That Gramsci and Fanon’s leanings toward utopianism were born out of
their conditions of exile and imprisonment is very possible. Gramsci devel-
oped his notion of the organic intellectual and his role in the creation of a
national culture, in the context of fascism, imagining the rebirth of an Ital-
ian nation that would overcome the failed revolution of the Risorgimento.
Fanon, on the other hand, and to a lesser extent Padmore, develop their
notion of the black/colonized intellectual and his role in anti-colonial move-
ments, in the context of colonialism, and they link it to the need to re-think
colonized culture as distinct from that of the colonizer.
My discussion of the intellectual in Fanon’s and Padmore’s writings has
left open the question as to whether they could be considered as organic
intellectuals themselves. In a way, that might lead us to ask whether Gram-
sci saw himself as an organic intellectual. He discussed at length the type
of cultural and political work an intellectual must undertake in order to
become “organic”; but did he recognize his own work and life in this set of
prescriptions? Perhaps we may perceive all three thinkers along the lines
of how Gramsci spoke of Niccolò Machiavelli. Gramsci found that Machia-
velli combined both the pragmatic and the philosophical aspects of politics:
he wasn’t only a political scientist, but a “partisan, a man of powerful pas-
sions, an active politician, who wishes to create a new balance of forces and
therefore cannot help concerning himself with what ‘ought to be’” (SPNB
172). One gets the impression that Gramsci may be thinking of himself here,
as someone who engages with effective reality, understood as a constantly
78 Neelam Srivastava
shifting, dynamic relation of forces, rather than something fi xed and static.
Machiavelli (and possibly Gramsci, Fanon and Padmore) could be described
then as “realistic” individuals—
realistic even if it did not in fact become direct reality, since one cannot
expect an individual to change reality but only to interpret it and to in-
dicate the possible lines of action . . . Machiavelli never says that he has
any thought or intention of himself changing reality—only of showing
concretely how the historical forces ought to have acted in order to be
effective. (SPNB 173)
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Notes
1. I would like to thank Jim House, Carolyn Pedwell, and Robert Young for their
helpful and constructive comments on previous drafts of this chapter.
2. Relevant to this discussion is the way Fanon took exception to Sartre’s critique
of Négritude as an “anti-racist racism,” in Black Skin, White Masks (132). Fanon
strongly contested Sartre’s easy dismissal of a cultural and psychological posi-
tion that “asks Blacks unilaterally to renounce the pride of their colour” (Berna-
sconi 108).
3. See especially Fanon’s essay “The Trials and Tribulations of National Con-
sciousness” in The Wretched of the Earth, where he examines the betrayal of the
newly liberated African masses on the part of élite middle-class nationalists,
in the wake of decolonization (97–98). Paul Idahosa also discusses how Fanon
and C. L. R. James tackled the difficult issue of how the black intelligentsia
could effectively channel the collective experience of racism, marginalization
and economic exploitation of blacks in the colonies and elsewhere.
4. Indeed, “moved by the words of the future author of The Wretched of the Earth,
the conferees passed a resolution justifying violence by nationalists when vio-
lence was thrust upon them” (Polsgrove 160).
5. Generally, the Communist Party had little comprehension for the strength of
cultural nationalisms in anti-colonial struggles. The CP tended to condemn
these nationalist parties as expressions of petty bourgeois and landed interests.
M. Thorez and Velio Spano, two Communist Party members who operated
in colonial Tunisia (Thorez would eventually go on to become the leader of
the French Communist Party), were scathing of the Tunisian nationalist party,
Destour, which refused any alliances with the CP, and accused it of privileging
their ethnic and nationalist particularisms over an alliance with the French pro-
letariat (Mattone 58).
6. As is obvious from this discussion, the debate on the black colonized intellec-
tual in the work of Gramsci, Padmore, and Fanon is entirely gendered. There
is almost no explicit acknowledgement of the fact that the intellectual is always
male in their discussions.
7. When possible, I use available English translations of the Notebooks. All other
translations from Gramsci are my own.
8. In what follows, I will be using Richard Philcox’s 2004 translation of The
Wretched of the Earth.
The Travels of the Organic Intellectual 79
9. See Perry Anderson’s “The Antinomies of Antonio Gramsci” for a thorough
discussion of the origin of the term in Russian Communism and its influence
on Gramsci’s elaboration of it. As Anderson remarks, hegemony “was one of
the most widely-used and familiar notions in the debates of the Russian labor
movement before the October Revolution,” and lived on in the documents of
the Communist International, which Gramsci was familiar with (17–18). Derek
Boothman also discusses the sources of the concept of hegemony in Gramsci
(2011).
10. Carol Polsgrove has an excellent discussion of Padmore’s career as a journalist
in her book Ending British Rule in Africa: Writers in a Common Cause (2009).
11. The applicability of the “passive revolution” to postcolonial transfers of power
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has been remarked upon most famously by Partha Chatterjee in his analysis of
Indian nationalist thought, Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World: A Deriva-
tive Discourse?
12. See Robert Young’s discussion of Fanon’s essay “On Violence” as a riposte to
the compromising strategy of certain Pan-Africanists, in Postcolonialism: An His-
torical Introduction, and in “Fanon and the Turn to Armed Struggle in Africa,”
Wasafiri 44 (Spring 2005): 33–41.
13. The French demographer and historian Alfred Sauvy is credited with coining
the phrase “Tiers monde” [Third World] in an article of August 14, 1952 for
L’Observateur. Sauvy locates the conceptual space of the Third World as equally
oppressed by capitalism and communism, echoing Padmore’s position.
14. Unsurprisingly, Nwafor’s preface to Padmore’s book was written in 1971, when
the relative failure of Pan-Africanism in decolonized African states had become
very evident.
15. Opoku Agyeman traces the history of this important association, and its ulti-
mate failure to establish a popular Pan-Africanism, in The Failure of Grassroots
Pan-Africanism: The Case of the All-African Trade Union Federation (2003).
4 The Secular Alliance
Gramsci, Said and the
Postcolonial Question 1
Baidik Bhattacharya
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The final link that explains the necessary subordination of the postcolonial
nation-state, however, is the global order of capital. The global capitalist
hierarchy that subordinates the formally sovereign nation-states within its
order is fundamentally different from the colonialist and imperialist cir-
cuits of international domination. The end of colonialism is also the end
of the modern world and modern regimes of rule. (Empire 134)
It follows from their argument that this new form of domination demands
new sociological description and political orientation. The vistas offered by
The Secular Alliance 81
postcolonial theory are not simply inadequate to address the newness of
empire/globalization, but are woefully outdated. What is even more danger-
ous, Hardt and Negri suggest, the mutated postmodern power—“imperial
sovereignty” in their words—actually thrives on the cherished ideals of post-
colonial (and postmodernist) theory: “[M]odern forms of sovereignty would
no longer be at issue, and the postmodernist and postcolonialist strategies
that appear to be liberatory would not challenge but in fact coincide with and
even unwittingly reinforce the new strategies of rule” (Empire 138).
The undemanding equation between postcoloniality and the postcolonial
nation-state in Hardt and Negri’s formulation is easy to detect; and this erro-
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major charges against postcolonial theory over the years. I also open this
essay with their account since it gives me the perfect opportunity to revisit
the influence of Antonio Gramsci on postcolonial critical thinking. The way
they formulate the multitude, and the way they set it beyond the pale of the
modern nation-state as a necessary precondition, one would have hoped that
they would at least acknowledge similar moves in the two branches of critical
thinking heavily influenced by Gramsci—cultural studies and postcolonial
theory—not so much as guiding templates but as cognate theoretical maneu-
verings. It is indeed a curious elision given the enormous scholarship in
both disciplines on the Gramscian notions of “nation-people,” “hegemony,”
the “subaltern,” and “passive revolution” that has been preoccupied with
the release of the “popular” from the strict conscription of the nation, and
that has been relentless in probing the coercive mechanism of the modern
nation-state. The suggestive split within the nation-people in Gramsci’s work,
and its re-appropriation within specific postcolonial locations, indeed can be
reworked to theorize an alternative genealogy of postcolonial critical think-
ing and its relationship with the contemporary phase of globalization.
In this chapter I offer a set of postcolonial speculations through the works
of Edward W. Said and Gramsci to break free of weary terms of the debate,
and also to suggest that postcolonial theory at its foundation and genealogy
offers alternative ways to think about the philosophical questions raised by
the contemporary phase of globalization. The arguments here are specula-
tive in nature not because they lack conviction, rather because they take
globalization as an unfolding saga and engage with it from a position of
contingency. This location of my arguments—that is, postcolonial and in-
globalization—I hope would lend them the spirit of, to quote one of Gramsci’s
favorite phrases from Marx, theory as “material force” (SPNB 333) as they
engage with an unfi nished structure and become part of a continuous and
oppositional critique of it.2 The speculative theories I propose here are based
on Said and Gramsci; the link between the two is obvious. Said has repeat-
edly cited Gramsci as one of the chief intellectual influences on his work,
so much so that Mustapha Marrouchi describes Gramsci as Said’s maître à
penser (39). My own reading here avoids the obvious connections between
the two, or the popular concepts on which they have been discussed together.
The Secular Alliance 83
Rather, in this chapter I follow two non-national and secular possibilities in
their respective works, and I try to show how at unexpected junctures they
often come together to think of a critical tradition whose vocation is worldly
as well as global. The point is worth repeating since despite their repeated
critique of the nation-form, the political discussion of Gramsci and Said have
often been reduced to two failures of the national project—Italy and Pales-
tine, respectively—and they have been portrayed as apostles of failed nation-
alities. In the following pages I do not try to summarize the globalization
debate through these two authors; rather I try to present possibilities in their
writing that may open up new horizons for the debate.
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History and literature played vital roles in such postcolonial and revi-
sionist projects, and Gramsci’s insights featured prominently. Let me begin
with Said’s elaboration on Gramsci in Orientalism, and how this can be used
as a thread through his critical oeuvre, most notably in his formulation of
“secular criticism” in the introduction to The World, the Text, and the Critic.3
It is important to note that Said invokes Gramsci at two crucial junctures in
Orientalism—fi rst to explain the stability of Orientalism (where he also names
Michel Foucault and Raymond Williams as possible theoretical allies) and
second to point out his own personal stakes in the project. Said’s debt in
the fi rst case is quite specific, as he invokes the familiar Gramscian concept
of “hegemony” to account for the “durability and strength” of Orientalism.
He also acknowledges that hegemony is “an indispensable concept for any
understanding of cultural life in the industrial West” (Said, Orientalism 7).
Alongside this quite impersonal working of cultural hegemony Said proposes
his own investment in the project through Gramsci by echoing the latter’s
point that the “starting-point of critical elaboration is the consciousness of
what one really is, and is ‘knowing thyself’ as a product of the historical pro-
cess to date, which has deposited in you an infi nity of traces, without leaving
an inventory”; the critical project for him is, as also was with Gramsci, “to
compile such an inventory.” Orientalism, Said suggests, is such an inventory
of his own history as a displaced “Oriental” subject:
cultural value is produced and distributed across the social field (leading to
cultural hierarchies), and also for the way individuals are placed within the
social field made of hierarchical structures. Said clearly wants to release this
description from the codes mandated by nation-states and further attempts
to articulate it at a global level for two reasons. First, secular criticism is
aimed at specific forms of cultural domination like Orientalism that stretches
across nations, and its critique, likewise, has to be rooted in non-national
spaces. In his introduction to Orientalism, he clearly signposts this:
For the general reader, this study deals with matters that always com-
pel attention, all of them connected not only with Western conceptions
and treatments of the Other but also with the singularly important role
played by Western culture in what Vico called the world of nations.
Lastly, for readers in the so-called Third World, this study proposes itself
as a step towards an understanding not so much of Western politics and
of the non-Western world in those politics as, of the strength of Western
cultural discourse, a strength too often mistaken as merely decorative
or “superstructural.” My hope is to illustrate the formidable structure of
cultural domination and, specifically for formerly colonized peoples, the
dangers and temptations of employing this structure upon themselves or
upon others. (Said 24–25)
tial space inside civil society, acting on behalf of those alternative acts and
alternative intentions whose advancement is a fundamental human and intel-
lectual obligations” (Said, The World, the Text, and the Critic 29 –30).6 If in
the earlier case he advocates a move beyond the nation-state, here he revis-
its the Gramscian distinction between civil and political societies to situate
both dominant cultural formations and its critical opposition in the former.7
This duality of criticism, that it is pitted against cultural formations that are
simultaneously larger and smaller than any given national culture, produces
its radical appeal—the radicalism lies in its “suspicion of totalizing concepts
. . . its discontent with reified objects . . . its impatience with guilds, special
interests, imperialized fiefdoms, and orthodox habits of mind” (Said, The
World, the Text, and the Critic 29). In short, criticism is most effective when it
is in displacement, when it is in opposition to various territorial categories
and thus rendered nomadic.
The exteriority of criticism indeed is the global dimension of postcolonial
theory. The fi nal gloss Said provides on secular criticism, about criticism
vis-à-vis what he calls “fi lial” and “affi liative” relationships, makes the point
clear.8 Cultural domination, he suggests, becomes effective with the pas-
sage from the fi rst to the second, with the naturalization of affi liative bonds.
Though the affi liative is initially conceived as an alternative to the fi lial—and
this is a point Said charts through some of the stalwarts of modernism—the
relationship, under rigorous inspection, turns out to be collusive and hege-
monic. The role of the critic is not to endorse the passage between two forms
of cultural association but to expose the way affi liative cultural forms become
legitimized by reproducing the frame of the fi lial. The critic, in other words,
is not simply a product of history, but is also a “historical and social actor”;
her position is prompted not by “conformity and belonging” but by “circum-
stance and distinction” that produces distance and the possibility of criticism
(Said, The World, the Text, and the Critic 15–24). The critic is equally situated
at the cusp of the two—between the “culture to which critics are bound fi li-
atively” and “a method or system acquired affi liatively” (Said, The World,
the Text, and the Critic 25). The displacement of criticism is a measure of the
oppositional relationship that the critic can maintain with the universalist
and naturalized claims of both fi lial and affi liative codes of a given culture.
88 Baidik Bhattacharya
The point is not a naive return to possibilities opened up by Enlightenment
or the liberal ideals of critique, but an endeavor to expose the mechanism
of cultural and systematic claims that are increasingly global. The nomadic
secularism of Said is indeed a contrapuntal point to the increasing homog-
enization of global cultural productions.
Humanism as Praxis
Said’s formulation of secular criticism as a non-national and indeed global
phenomenon, however, must not be taken as blind endorsement of elite cos-
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One should note that in many languages, “national” and “popular” are
either synonymous or nearly so (they are in Russian, in German, where
völkisch has an even more intimate meaning of race, and in the Slavonic
languages in general; in France the meaning of “national” already in-
cludes a more politically elaborated notion of “popular” because it is re-
lated to the concept of “sovereignty”: national sovereignty and popular
sovereignty have, or had, the same value). In Italy the term “national”
has an ideologically very restricted meaning, and does not in any case
coincide with “popular” because in Italy the intellectuals are distant from
the people, i.e. from the “nation.” They are tied instead to a caste tradition
that has never been broken by a strong popular or national political move-
ment from below. (Gramsci, Selections from Cultural Writings 208)
Gramsci makes it clear that this relationship is not a natural one but the prod-
uct of history—that is, in both cases where there is a perfect match between
the two (as in France) and where there isn’t any (as in Italy), the phenom-
enon should be seen as the result of concrete historical events. In Italy the
national was segregated and restricted, as its intelligentsia historically could
not develop a national-popular consciousness/collective will since the Renais-
sance (SPNB 113, 131), and eventually failed even to unite the popular with
the state. 9
In “Notes on Italian History” he observes that the chief failure of the
Italian national movement in the nineteenth century was its inability to
The Secular Alliance 89
transform itself into a popular one. Whereas France in the nineteenth cen-
tury could forge a genuine national-popular through both bourgeois revolu-
tion and cultural alliance, the national movement in Italy failed to extend
its sphere of influence beyond a select few (SPNB 52–54). The promises of
Risorgimento quickly faded into passivity (a “revolution without revolution”
or “passive revolution”) because of the central failure to bring the people in
its fold, and because of its inability to conceive of the national as coterminous
with the popular. Gramsci identifies two reasons for this historic failure: fi rst,
he points out that the “Italian bourgeoisie was incapable of uniting the peo-
ple around itself, and this was the cause of its defeats and the interruptions
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in its development” (SPNB 53). This was most notable in the Action Party’s
failure to effect a dialectical mobilization through rural classes, on the one
hand, and through the intellectuals from the “middle and lower strata,” on
the other (SPNB 54). In his opinion, such a dialectical move would have
been critical as a safeguard against the growing influence of the Moderates,
and also as a way of forging a national alliance across Italy. Along with this,
the Action Party also lacked a certain Jacobinism which Gramsci describes
as the “inflexible will to become the “leading” [dirigente] party” (SPNB 80);
in the absence of such a will to lead, the Action Party not only failed to give
birth to a Jacobin spirit (described as “audacious, dauntless” that would have
resulted in something like the French revolution, but also lost control over the
vast majority of the rural classes especially in the impoverished South (SPNB
84). The problem manifests itself at different moments in modern Italian
history: in the “immaturity and intrinsic weakness” of the educated class in
their historic failure to lead the “popular masses and develop their progres-
sive elements” (SPNB 90); in the aftermath of the Risorgimento, especially
through the rightists who “made the people-nation into an instrument, into
an object” and thus “degraded it” (SPNB 90); in the complex and unequal
relationship between the “countryside” and the “city” which not only rein-
forced the North–South divide in various combinations but even nullified
the vitally important “agrarian question” under the virtual domination of the
industrial North (SPNB 100–2).
For my purpose here the important point is Gramsci’s tracking of this com-
plex history through cultural artifacts, most notably narrative fiction. His
point of reference is a perplexing question, that despite the huge demand for
popular literature “why does the Italian public read foreign literature, popu-
lar and non-popular, instead of reading its own?” (Gramsci, Selections from
Cultural Writings 209). Newspapers catered to popular taste by regularly
serializing foreign and mostly French popular novels, the people seemed
to enjoy old novels like Count of Monte-Cristo instead of any modern Italian
novel, and the public literary discussions were imbued with foreign values
and norms. The result was that the Italian people became interested in a
“past that is more French than Italian”: “[T]hey know the popular figure of
Henry IV better than that of Garibaldi, the Revolution of 1789 better than
90 Baidik Bhattacharya
the Risorgimento and the invectives of Victor Hugo against Napoleon III
better than the invectives of Italian patriots against Metternich” (Gramsci,
Selections from Cultural Writings 216). To put it another way, barring a few
minor exceptions, Italian authors failed to connect with the lived worlds of
the people, to fictionalize their intellectual and emotional aspirations. It is
this gap between the national intelligentsia—whom Gramsci describes as
“something detached, without foundation, a caste and not an articulation
with organic functions of the people themselves” (Gramsci, Selections from
Cultural Writings 209)—and the people that was responsible for the absence
of popular literature of a national kind, something that would have been
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The lay forces have failed in their historical task as educators and elab-
orators of the intellect and the moral awareness of the people-nation.
They have been incapable of satisfying the intellectual needs of the peo-
ple precisely because they have failed to represent a lay culture, because
they have not known how to elaborate a modern “humanism” able to reach
right to the simplest and most uneducated classes, as was necessary from
the national point of view, and because they have been tied to an anti-
quated world, narrow, abstract, too individualistic or caste-like. French
popular literature, on the other hand, which is the most widespread in
Italy, does represent this modern humanism, this in its own way modern
secularism, to a greater or lesser degree, and in a more or less attractive
way. (Gramsci, Selections from Cultural Writings 211; emphasis added)10
There are two vital points in this quote that I wish to highlight at this
point. First, Gramsci’s formulation that “modern ‘humanism’” must be secu-
lar in nature is made within a specific historical context, and thus it invites
us to think about the meaning of history in the creation of such a spirit. He
of course makes the point that if the lay intellectuals failed to connect with
the masses the Catholics had hardly fared better. But the secular humanism
he proposes has larger historical milieu, and a more complex trajectory, than
this simple comparison with the church. I shall discuss some of the major
features of this history further and shall also suggest that this remains the
closest approximation to Said’s secular criticism. The second point I want
to underscore is the connection that Gramsci makes between this secular
humanism and popular culture. The gap between the intellectuals and the
masses is not caused by the absence of popular literature; neither is the secu-
lar humanism missing from popular culture altogether. The point rather is
that the “intellectual needs” of the people are being satisfied by non-national
The Secular Alliance 91
cultural artifacts like French novels that had served their purpose in their
own nations and now were playing a surrogate role in Italy.11 The real failure
of the Italian intelligentsia was their inability to dress the secular humanism
within a national garb, to unite the national-popular collective will with the
state; popular culture (or its absence) was the measure of that failure. Mod-
ern and secular humanism, then, is part of popular cultural formations and
is not necessarily restricted by national boundaries.
Gramsci’s rejection of the transcendent metaphysics of German philoso-
phy in favor of historicism or humanism is a topic of much debate. It is
worth noting, however, that in his discussion of Marxism Gramsci describes
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question. The common thread that runs through these two accounts of Said
and Gramsci is of course their emphasis on the possibility of non-national
critical thinking; but it should not be taken as a purely negative position, that
is, it should not be taken only as negation of the nation-state. In both cases
the philosophical position reformulates criticism itself as a social and secular
vocation. In Culture and Imperialism Said revisits Gramsci to make this point.
He reiterates the fundamental point I have mapped in Gramsci, that in spite
of an “irreducible subjective core to human experience” such experiences
are also “historical and secular”; the relationship between human experience
and history is that of mutual influence and not of exclusion. The historical
and secular aspect of this interaction cannot be “marked and limited by
doctrinal or national lines” and cannot be permanently restricted within
“analytical constructs.” Indeed the legacy of Gramsci is precisely to expose
the absurdity of such attempts to essentialize human experience and his-
tory according to doctrinal or quasi-religious authorities, or narrowly defi ned
dogmas or credos. If one believes with Gramsci, Said argues, that an “intel-
lectual vocation is socially possible as well as desirable,” then it is important
to recognize at the same time that such a vocation cannot be constructed on
“historical experience around exclusions” of any kind. Every doctrinal or
national claim, or every form of essentialization functions on exclusions—so-
cial, political, cultural, and so on—and the task of the secular critic is to think
beyond such strategies of exclusion, to make possible a form of thinking that
does not correspond to such strategies (Said, Culture and Imperialism 35).
Let me illustrate my point with an example from Culture and Imperialism.
The central point about modern imperialism according to Said is a very Grams-
cian one: “[H]ow the national British, French, American cultures maintained
hegemony over the peripheries. How within them was consent gained and con-
tinuously consolidated for the distant rule of native peoples and territories?”
To understand this imperial conundrum, he suggests, there are two critical
strategies—either one can read European cultural forms against their supposed
autonomy, and place them against the larger history of European imperialism
where they will show traces of their global genealogy. And second, a related
theme that Said describes as a “contrapuntal” reading strategy with a “simul-
taneous awareness both of the metropolitan history that is narrated and of
94 Baidik Bhattacharya
those other histories against which (and together with which) the dominating
discourse acts” (Said, Culture and Imperialism 59). Both these strategies are of
course examples of secular criticism; the central aim in both cases is a secular
unraveling of power and its ability to generate consent across territories. But
the secularism of these practices, especially the way I have elaborated it above,
needs some further clarification. In Culture and Imperialism in general, and espe-
cially here, Said’s argument takes a notably spatial turn as he translates impe-
rial culture into a “cultural topography” that spans across the imperial divide,
across metropolitan and peripheral territories, and allows the secular practice
of contrapuntal reading.13 Modern empires are marked by territorial expansion
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and control; modern imperial cultures are similarly territorial in their orienta-
tion. Though cultural productions are not always marked by any singular ter-
ritorial ideology of the empire, and though modern empires lack any such one
official ideology in the first place, cultural texts are often marked by this central
principle of representing cultural topography.
Said’s preferred example is a series of canonical English authors like
Spenser, Shakespeare, Defoe and Austen who consistently represent far-flung
territories that are connected with the British empire in various ways; the
consistency does not stop at mere representation, it is extends in the mode
of such representation of such distant lands as “desirable but subordinate.”
The point is not that all these writers were convinced about the greatness of
British empire, or that they participated in nefarious conspiracy to embolden
the overwhelming imperial project, but rather that their texts are “bound up
with the development of Britain’s cultural identity, as that identity imagines
itself in a geographically conceived world” (Said, Culture and Imperialism 61).
This is by no means is unique to British imagination either, as innumerable
similar examples from French and American cultures testify. What is unique
in this mode of representation across modern imperial cultures is the “way
in which structures of location and geographical reference appear in the
cultural languages of literature, history, or ethnography” that are not always
orchestrated as part of larger imperial designs (Said, Culture and Imperialism
61). Contrapuntal reading strategies can unearth the vast imperial archive
across genres to show how the hegemonic metropolitan cultures are actually
shaped by such cultural topographies.
The point I wish to highlight about the description of cultural topography
is its inspiration. In the pages immediately preceding this vital formulation of
contrapuntal reading Said tells us that Gramsci provides an “explicitly geo-
graphical model” to think about imperial culture; he is particularly suitable
for this since, unlike Lukacs, his focus is resolutely on the “territorial, spatial,
geographical foundations of social life” and that his oeuvre testifies to his inter-
est in conceptualizing “social history and actuality” in overtly “geographical
terms” (Said, Culture and Imperialism 57).14 The piece Said chooses to discuss
is “Some Aspects of the Southern Question” where Gramsci considers the vast
discrepancies between the industrial North and the agrarian South, and how in
The Secular Alliance 95
spite of its degeneration the South holds a key to understanding the problems
of the North. The text is situated between Gramsci’s journalistic writing and
Prison Notebooks, and as such can be seen as prelude to his extended reflection
on the failure of the Italian national project in the latter. I have already indi-
cated some of these concerns in the section on Gramsci; but what Said wishes
to highlight is the territorial underpinning of Gramsci’s argument. He points
out Gramsci’s remarkable detailing of the peculiar topography of the South,
and his fastidious attempt to relate this topography to the larger question of
national integration. Though Said does not say this explicitly, he almost wants
to recast Italian history after the model of imperial territorial domination,
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where the advanced Northern metropolitan centre controls the vast Southern
countryside teeming with poor peasants and cheap laborers, and at the same
time in important ways depends on it. Said’s reading of Gramsci’s text presents
it not only as an instance of secular criticism but as an exercise in contrapuntal
reading itself, displaying in this process how questions of culture and imperial-
ism necessarily cross borders.
The next move in Said’s reading is also closely related to our concern here—
that is, the role of the critic and the functioning of secular criticism. He brings out
the importance Gramsci accords to Piero Gobetti and his work in connecting
the North and the South and in working out an exceptional model for this pur-
pose. Gobetti recognized the need to connect the two parts of Italy but did not
conceive such a connection through cultural homogenization or forced national
assimilation. Rather, Gramsci argues, his proposal was two-pronged—on the
one hand, he introduced the Northern proletariat to the Southern peasantry,
and on the other, he emphasized the importance of cultural organization in
bringing about such an alliance. In this radical rethinking of history Gobetti
was indeed a break in the Italian intellectual tradition—a decisive contrast to say
Croce or Fortunato—and a secular intellectual who understood the importance
of intellectual labor in its secular and worldly dispensation. Said, however, also
points out that Gramsci is particularly sensitive to the temporal structure of
such intellectual labor; he, along with Gobetti, recognizes the importance of the
break the latter provides and the cultural projects that need to be built on such
a crucial break, but also admits that, in Said’s words,
The longue durée of cultural practices are part of the secular vision I have
been charting through Said and Gramsci, and the very structure makes it
96 Baidik Bhattacharya
imperative that secular intellectual labor be part of it in at least two ways—in
the fi rst instance, in terms of political commitment, and in the second by
being itself the “link between disparate, apparently autonomous regions of
human history” (Said, Culture and Imperialism 58).
At this stage we may return to the debates with which I open this chapter—
the crisis of postcolonial theory and the rhetoric of globalization. The debate
has been concerned for too long with the question of the nation-state—that is,
whether postcolonial theory in its global ambition valorizes national culture
(since the outcome of decolonization was the nation-state) or whether it already
marks the advent of a global culture based on hybridity and difference. A clas-
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sic case in point is Simon Gikandi’s essay “Globalization and the Claims of
Postcoloniality.” Published in a special issue on postcolonial literature and glo-
balization, it starts with quite a few bold claims about the problematic at hand;
one of the most interesting arguments he puts forward is that there is a natural
link between the vocabularies of contemporary globalization and postcolonial
theory, making the latter particularly adept at discussing issues of global cultural
production. He makes a distinction between the earlier phase of globalization
that was dominated by the rhetoric of colonization and modernization and the
latter one that is built around postcolonial terms like hybridity and difference.
The result, Gikandi argues, is that a new grammar of globalization is at hand
that heavily borrows from critical terms made available by postcolonial theory.
After this elaboration, however, Gikandi surprisingly goes back to the history
of nationalism and its role in the making of postcolonial cultures; the claims of
the nation, he suggests, are still strong and it would be foolish to discard the
history of the nation in the production of modern cultural forms. This more
or less summarizes the central thrust in most accounts of the debate—the par-
ticipants have only relativized the question (how important is the nation after
all) or have sounded cautionary notes against various theoretical assumptions.
One of the central challenges for critical thinking I think is to move beyond
such exhausted paradigms of the debate, and to produce an organic break in
the intellectual tradition that both Gramsci and Said see as vital for intellectual
labor. The lead provided by both is a stepping-stone toward such a goal; the rest
remains to be worked out.
Notes
1. I would like to thank Neelam Srivastava and Rajeswari Sunder Rajan for their
comments on an earlier draft of this essay.
2. The reference is to Marx’s 1844 text “Towards a Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of
Right: Introduction”; the passage runs like this: “The weapon of criticism obviously
cannot replace the criticism of weapons. Material force must be overthrown by
material force. But theory also becomes a material force once it has gripped the
masses. Theory is capable of gripping the masses when it demonstrates ad hom-
inem, and it demonstrates ad hominem when it becomes radical” (34).
The Secular Alliance 97
3. Much of what Said says about “secular criticism” in his introduction to The
World, the Text, and the Critic, especially about its “oppositional” nature, Jona-
than Arac reminds us, can be traced back to his early works like Beginnings (56);
this is partly why I treat it as a theme running through his oeuvre.
4. “Secular criticism” is often a misunderstood concept in Said’s oeuvre and hence
needs careful elaboration (See Mufti 1998). Even an otherwise sympathetic com-
mentator like Abdirahman A. Hussein, for example, completely misconstrues
Said’s concept by describing it as one of the “age-old imperatives” that Said merely
wishes to re-introduce with a contemporary critical edge (Hussein 11–12).
5. This preoccupation with the question of minority also allows Mufti to develop
the notion of what he calls “critical secularism” or “a secularist critique of mod-
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Part II
Global Present
Gramsci and the
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5 The “Unseen Order”
Religion, Secularism and Hegemony
Iain Chambers
El Jadida. It is the hour that milk is delivered. The hour that I love the
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most in my city, peopled still only for an instance by those who have
to rise early: street cleaners, fi sherman, donut vendors, the devout,
vegetable sellers, the custodians of the public ovens. One after another
they wish me a “luminous day” while I wander the streets and alleys.
Come with me into the old Portuguese town where the past has been
restored in the smallest detail. In this space, the size of a public square,
there, flanking each other, is a mosque, a church and a synagogue.
What is this Islamism? This word does not appear in our dictionaries.
I learnt of its existence in the Western media.
—Driss Chraibi, “Extreme West”1
ister the violence of the political, juridical and cultural schemata that seeks to
reduce the world into neat, easily identifiable opposites. The problem is that
there does not exist a unique and homogeneous West or East; there is no such
thing as Islam, or Christianity. Over forty years ago, in his Islam Observed,
the anthropologist Clifford Geertz underlined, in their respective crossing
by local currents and conditions, the complex communality in difference of
Islam in then contemporary Morocco and Indonesia. In the Westernization
of the world, the tendency, on the contrary, is toward what Serge Latouche
refers to as the “standardisation of the imaginary” in the context of a “gen-
eralised mimesis.” At this point, the hegemony of the media has apparently
become the immediate measure of truth.
With this we arrive, with Gil Anidjar and the Catholic historian and scholar
of Arab philosophy, Rémi Brague, at the disquieting conclusion that Christi-
anity is in fact the name, acknowledged or not, of Occidental modernity and
globalization.6 Secularism is sustained by a disposition of belief: in the teleo-
logical redemption of time as “progress,” in the calling to redeem the planet
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in a unique image and impose a humanist mastery on the cosmos, in the “mis-
sion” to establish the exceptional state, or “city on a hill.” As Gramsci sharply
reminds us, the relationship between religion, the state and political forma-
tions in the West is indissoluble. “The principal elements of common sense
are provided by religion and therefore the relationship between common
sense and religion is much more intimate than that between common sense
and the philosophical systems of the intellectuals” (Quaderni 1396–97).
In the immediacy of inherited beliefs, popular sayings, superstitions, every-
day practices and local custom, that is, in commonsensical understandings
deposited in the textures of everyday life, the subaltern both recognizes herself
while finding there the ambivalent resources of her speech. For what comes
to be said may both confirm and modify, both sustain and subvert, the status
quo. Conjunctural forces, social crises and individual assessment can interrupt
the continuum of common sense, exposing its constructed and contradictory
nature. So, we need to ask ourselves, where do these popular beliefs come
from? How do they acquire coherence? As we have seen, Gramsci attributes
to religion the principal sources of common sense. Those whose conceptions
of the world are largely inscribed in the parameters of an everyday consensus,
for whom a critical education is socially and economically excluded, inevitably
tend to reproduce acritical meanings that sustain a narrative endorsed by reli-
gious finality. Here the Catholic Church reveals its syncretic mastery: combin-
ing religious dogma and peasant, stretching back to pagan, community rites in
a potent synthesis. It is precisely for this reason, as Gramsci argues, that intel-
lectual dissent and critical philosophies are invariably resisted. The tendential
disruption of the everyday world is considered the work of an external and
negative hegemony, seeking to limit the freedom of popular thought and render
it subordinate and marginal. This, of course, is a profoundly political problem.
How is the slippery coherence of common sense, secured in sedimented under-
standings of the religiosity of the universe, to be transformed? This takes us
into a further set of questions, but simply to consider the weight of the religious
underwriting of contemporary politics, in particular in modern occidental soci-
ety, is to register the disturbing heart of the question.
The secular West is sustained by the “unseen order” of religious belief
( James 53). In historical terms this argument would rarely be contested; just
The “Unseen Order” 105
think of the centrality of Christianity in its Protestant variants to the making
of English and British modernity as so meticulously traced by historians,
Catherine Hall and Carolyn Steedman. Yet, to insist on the contemporary
impact of this formation is usually to encounter an uncomfortable silence.
Surely in our modernity, religion is now elsewhere, back there and elsewhere:
the property and problem of someone else? As Leila Ahmed pointed out
some years ago, in their centuries-long struggle for greater freedom and
rights, no one ever suggested that Occidental women should abandon Chris-
tianity, yet it is precisely this option—the abandonment of Islam in order to
embrace modernity—that the West today desires of Muslim women (244).
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This, of course, is also to assume that Islam and modernity are separate enti-
ties, and not profoundly entwined and multiplied in both a European and a
planetary formation.
Religion lived as an unseen Occidental order today increasingly reveals
itself, for example, in the moment that Turkish membership of the European
Union is considered. In the end, the objections to Turkey come down to: reli-
gion and the fear of Islam—kebab shops are acceptable, but the idea of pin-
nacled mosques punctuating the skyline of European cities is another matter.
The fact is that secularism, spawned by the Occidental category of religion,
is also the means whereby inequality and hierarchies of racial, ethnic and
gender discrimination are sustained on a global scale. For it is a “discourse
of power that legitimates itself and presents itself as secular as if indifferent to
religion yet producing religion as a (generic) problem” (Anidjar 51). This brings
us to confront the racializing pedagogy of reason and religion: between those
who know and those cast out in ignorance, excluded and rendered inferior
in their religious bigotry and fundamentalism. This, as Gil Anidjar argues, is
to insist on recognizing (and resisting) the interlaced disciplinary procedures
and protocols of religion and race (17). Again, religion in its Christian variants
has been a part of the recent political landscape in Europe for decades—
for example, in the near hegemony of the Christian Democrat parties in
Germany and Italy—but any mention of politicized Islam, for example, in
modern Turkey, actually gripped in the military enforcement of secularism,
is considered an alien threat rather than part of a clearly differentiated but
shared modernity.
Prizing open the intricate interrelationship between occidental secularism
and religion might also allow us to begin to unpack the unexamined faith that
democracy and capitalism somehow coexist in a harmony, sustained by the
laws of the market and the theology of individual freedom. What if, on the con-
trary, they are actually deeply antagonistic? But more on this in a minute.
culture continues to remain “external” to the sense of street life and its moral
economy, and the rhetoric of the Catholic hierarchy remains largely unal-
tered, conditions have nevertheless changed. The worldly languages of the
mass media and metropolitan culture have truncated the ancient alliances of
popular superstition, clerical obscurantism, and the public authority of the
Church. At the same time, however, the legislative power registered in the
ubiquitous lexicons of Christianity and the television screen actually betray
far deeper currents, illustrating how the Church has adapted in molecular
ways to the media of contemporary culture, and the fact that Occidental cul-
ture is itself thoroughly Christianized. On this point, Gramsci quotes Croce,
“after Christ we are all christians” (Quaderni 1307). The news shot, the image
and the icon, the television screen and the figure of the Madonna, are deeply
embedded in each other’s agendas.
If to see is to believe, and the image is considered to be “factual” testimony
to the event, then the Occidental vision sustained in Christian iconography—
the whole history of Western art from the late classical period through to the
Baroque and beyond—has hardly been displaced or disrupted by secular moder-
nity. On the contrary, the faith in the immediate visualization of truth—from the
Crucifix, the image of the Madonna, and the subsequent plunge downwards
through TV reality shows to the digital framing of the aerial bombardment of
the not-yet-modern world—is firmly unshaken (Chow, “The Age of the World
Target”). Edward Said suggestively noted that this realism reaffirms Europe’s
historical trajectory; a realism that is sustained in a precise conceptual unity:
[T]he Church and the Holy Roman Empire guarantee the integrity of the
core European literatures. At a still deeper level, it is from the Christian
Incarnation that Western realistic literature as we know it emerges. This
tenaciously advanced thesis explained Dante’s supreme importance to
Auerbach, Curtius, Vossler, and Spitzer. (Culture and Imperialism 45)
If today the aura of the unique artwork fades into the multiplying flux of
the copy, the aura of a seemingly tangible and immediate reality, even if
mediated and manipulated (after all, it is an image, an inscription, a cultural
construction, a pixel configuration), remains undisturbed. “Nature,” the
The “Unseen Order” 107
“human” and “faith” are immediately present and simultaneously removed
from critical concern: they simply are. As Gramsci once suggested, only
a polemical relationship to such an inheritance and hegemony is possible.
Only a critical undoing and overcoming of common sense can lead to a “new
philosophy: this explains the necessity of a polemic with traditional philoso-
phies in the exposition of the philosophy of praxis” (Quaderni 1397).
What emerges clearly from this discussion is the primacy that Gramsci
gives to the generative role of culture in the critical understanding of the
political powers of a historical formation. Power is exercised—that is, it
is not merely applied as a direct force, but is practiced, performed, and
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While there is much talk these days of the relationship between democracy
and Islam, or of the problems facing Muslim women, we are completely
unaccustomed to posing those questions to Christianity. No one would pre-
sume to talk of women in metropolitan Europe as Christian women, or ask
of Christianity to account for itself in terms of democracy and gender equal-
ity, although in both historical and contemporary terms this is clearly a very
pertinent question (Lazreg 7). It is simply as though Christianity, democracy
and modernity are all one. To adopt for a moment a Durkheimian perspec-
tive, if religion is a symbolic system in which society becomes collectively
conscious of itself, then secular Europe is historically and culturally soaked
in Christian values and their associated belief system. Here it is also worth
recalling the sharp pertinence of Talal Asad’s criticism of Clifford Geertz’s
understanding of religion as a complex cultural system for overlooking the
dimension of power as being decisive for its affi rmation (Genealogies of Reli-
gion). Rather than insist on its historically hybridized realization, at this point
perhaps it might be intellectually and politically more significant to accept
the idea that Europe is fundamentally Christian in its formation; after all,
that is what it tends to believe. Then we can perhaps begin to think about how
to undo this formation. From this threshold it becomes possible to think the
The “Unseen Order” 109
limits of Europe and its religious infrastructure in a critical space that neither
has authorized.
To seek to change the languages of comprehension and (common) sense
is to disrupt an existing consensus and its accompanying order. It means to
rework an existing structural logic. In an altogether more fluid scenario, a
historical bloc cannot appeal to an autonomy unsullied by the forces and
currents that precede and exceed its attempts to grasp and transform the
world, but neither can it simply be construed as an abstract counter-power
located in the anonymous multitude that sustains First World desires for
radicalism. To seek in the external what is most profoundly internal—the
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Tied deeply into the largely unrecognized nexus between religion and secu-
larism as a historical and cultural formation is the question of tradition. This
is not to suggest the seemingly obvious idea of tradition as the source of
religious rites, customs and beliefs that survive and live on in the complex
currents of modernity, but rather to insist that in the narratives of continuity,
in the faith in the uniqueness of Occidental progress, in the narration of the
nation as the privileged locus of identificatory practices, a metaphysics of
belief, formed and disciplined by Christianity, remains unchallenged. Here,
of course, we are conversing with Friedrich Nietzsche and his acerbic critique
of the “slave mentality” of modernity, but we are also joined by Gramsci and
his insistence on the political function of Christianity in the manufacture of
common sense and a world outlook whose secular affi rmation is inextricably
bound to centuries of religious incubation. As an uncanny insistence, taken,
transformed and translated into secular visions, the continuing dissemina-
tion of a transcendental authority—from baptism to the cemetery—is undeni-
ably still fi rmly in place.8 As an integrating force, as a form of social glue
and cultural cohesion, the atemporal values of Christianity seemingly legiti-
mate a tradition (transformed, rendered modern) that is ours. Once again,
in a Durkheimian sense, this may well be its function. However, we also
need to critically prize open that seemingly neutral factor, and insist on the
more uncomfortable perspective that as a disseminated form of power, as a
molecularization of transcendental authority, Christianity continues to pro-
vide and legitimate the largely unquestioned and unseen order of the West.
To argue that people in the West feel the need for Christianity in order to
domesticate and make sense of the world may well be true, but it may also be
the case that such a need blocks other horizons of sense, obscures other, less
provincial and more beneficial, structures of belief. In this sense, Christianity
becomes the name of the pathology of the West. If, these days, public leaders
are increasingly arguing that Christianity should be formally acknowledged
in the founding discourse and identitarian touchstone of Europe and the
Occident (thereby excising the creolizing prospects of the pagan Greeks and
112 Iain Chambers
Romans, along with the heretical monotheisms of Judaism and Islam), then
Western modernity loses its exceptional secular state. It becomes coeval,
crossed, divided and contested by the very same forces—religion—that it
seeks to expel into the backward and underdeveloped margins of its empire.
To prize open this Occidental archive, and to dirty its shelves with these
heretical and unauthorized matters—paganism, Judaism and Islam—is to pro-
pose an altogether more unruly study of modern secularism. Restored to
its inconclusive becoming, as a complex and often indeterminate series of
cultural and historical processes that are currently underway, this heritage
incisively impacts on any critical understanding of the modern languages of
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The assumption is that whereas “the West” is greater than and has
surpassed the stage of Christianity, its principal religion, the world of
Islam—its varied societies, histories, and languages notwithstanding—is
still mired in religion, primitivity and backwardness. Therefore, the
West is modern, greater than the sum of its parts, full of enriching con-
tradictions and yet always “Western” in its cultural identity; the world of
Islam, on the other hand, is no more than “Islam”, reducible to a small
number of unchanging characteristics. (Said, Covering Islam 10 –11)
inevitably the most civilized and morally superior. Christianity, at this point,
is the moral adjudicator of modern (Occidental) civilization. Gramsci suc-
cinctly acknowledged such presumptions in his short comparative analysis
in the Quaderni del carcere of Islam and Christianity and their relationship
to modernity. In both, he notes that it is not religion per se that is unable to
molecularly adapt itself to modernity, but social and historical structures—
such as feudalism and cultural isolation—that create obstacles to that process.
Gramsci goes even further. He suggests that the absence of a massive reli-
gious hierarchy and the institutional powers of a Church makes Islam poten-
tially even more susceptible to eventual transformation and modernization.
He concludes: “Christianity has taken nine centuries to evolve and adapt,
and it has done so in small steps, etc.; Islam is forced into a headlong rush”
(Prison Notebooks 1: 333).
In an important, pathbreaking essay that opens up the critically intercul-
tural space within modernity, Armando Salvatore and Mark LeVine have
carefully examined the question of the public sphere and technologies of
power in modern Muslim majority countries. Considering the centrality of
the Islamic concept and legal method of Istislah for seeking the social good
through mediation, compromise and consensus as being central to a Mus-
lim understanding of the public sphere, they contrast this practice with the
abstract, universal categories of law and justice that sustain the conceptual
violence and frequently punishing modalities of reason in the West. Their
argument is that the public sphere, in its singular occidental abstractness,
excludes other kinds of reason, and cancels the understanding of its own par-
ticular historical formation. They then extend their analysis through a Grams-
cian reading, attentive to the historical textures and cultural sentiments and
formation of Islamic notions of custom, ‘urf, and habits or ‘adat, where ideas
such as the public sphere and justice are certainly not absent, but neither are
they simply poor copies of their Occidental counterparts. The very sense
of the public, for historical and cultural reasons, is figured differently. It is
neither transparent nor readily translatable to Western reasoning.11 As such it
marks not simply a difference but proposes a profound critical challenge.
What emerges most clearly from Salvatore’s and LeVine’s analysis is the
Occidental lynchpin of the private citizen who, after all, “is just one—albeit
The “Unseen Order” 115
historically powerful and largely hegemonic—practiced and theorized
approach to the public sphere” (7). In the manner in which the public sphere
is embedded in the dynamics of the modern Muslim world, “secularly ori-
ented rationality” is exposed to be not the only normative language for pub-
lic life (Salvatore and LeVine 7). All of this stretches and reformulates the
Gramscian understanding of civil society to include multiple social and cul-
tural articulations on which “alternative hegemonic configurations of pub-
licness in the Muslim majority world and elsewhere base their forces and
sometimes legitimacy” (Salvatore and LeVine 7). In this altogether more
complex conceptual mix, everyday practices and spaces receive and rework
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Notes
The fi rst volume of Subaltern Studies was published in 1982, twenty-five years
ago. I was part of the editorial group that launched, under the leadership of
Ranajit Guha, this critical engagement with postcolonial modernity from the
standpoint of the subaltern classes, especially the peasantry. In the quarter
of a century since then, there has been, I believe, a fundamental change in
the historical situation of postcoloniality. The new conditions under which
global flows of capital, commodities, information, and people are now reg-
ulated—a complex set of phenomena generally clubbed under the category
of globalization—have created both new opportunities and new obstacles for
postcolonial countries. The old idea of a Third World sharing a common
history of colonial oppression and backwardness is no longer as persuasive
as it was in the 1960s. The trajectory of economic growth taken by the coun-
tries of Asia has diverged radically from that of most African countries. The
phenomenal growth of China and India in recent years has set in motion
a process of social change that, in its scale and speed, is unprecedented in
human history.
It is now well known that Subaltern Studies was inspired by the prison writ-
ings of Antonio Gramsci in which he sketched a methodological outline for
a “history of the subaltern classes.” In these writings, Gramsci used the word
subalterno (subaltern) in at least two senses. In one, he used it as a code for the
industrial proletariat. But against the thrust of orthodox Marxist thinking, he
emphasized that in its rise to power, the bourgeoisie did not simply impose a
domination through the coercive apparatus of the state, but transformed the
cultural and ideological institutions of civil society to construct a hegemony
over society as a whole, even eliciting in the process the acquiescence of
the subaltern classes. In Gramsci’s analysis of capitalist society, the central
place is occupied by questions such as the relation of state and civil society,
the connections between the nation, the people, the bourgeoisie and other
ruling classes, the role of intellectuals in creating the social hegemony of the
bourgeoisie, strategies for building a counter-hegemonic alliance, and so on.
In the second sense, Gramsci talked of the subaltern classes in pre-capitalist
120 Partha Chatterjee
social formations. Here he was referring to the more general relationship of
domination and subordination in class-divided societies. But specifically in
the context of Southern Italy, he wrote about the subordination of the peas-
antry. Gramsci was very critical of the negative and dismissive attitude of
European Marxists toward the culture, beliefs, practices, and political poten-
tial of the peasantry. Positioning himself against this attitude, he wrote about
the distinct characteristics of peasants, the religious beliefs and practices,
language and cultural products, the everyday lives and struggles, and of the
need for revolutionary intellectuals to study and understand them. But he
also highlighted the limits of peasant consciousness, which was fragmented,
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significant for countries like India, where the life of poor peasants in rural
society is marked not only by the disadvantage of class but also by the dis-
criminations of caste, compared to which the sheer anonymity of life in the
city is often seen as liberating.
tal are completely unlikely to be absorbed into the new capitalist sectors of
growth. Therefore, without a specific government policy of resettlement,
the peasants losing their land face the possibility of the complete loss of
their means of livelihood. Under present globally prevailing normative
ideas, this is considered unacceptable. Hence, the old-fashioned methods
of putting down peasant resistance by armed repression have little chance
of gaining legitimacy. The result is the widespread demand today for the
rehabilitation of displaced people who lose their means of subsistence
because of industrial and urban development. It is not, says Sanyal, as
though primitive accumulation is halted or even slowed down, for primi-
tive accumulation is the inevitable companion to capitalist growth. Rather,
governmental agencies have to fi nd the resources to, as it were, reverse the
consequences of primitive accumulation by providing alternative means
of livelihood to those who have lost them.
We know that it is not uncommon for developmental states to protect cer-
tain sectors of production that are currently the domain of peasants, artisans
and small manufacturers against competition from large corporate fi rms.
But this may be interpreted as an attempt to forestall primitive accumulation
itself by preventing corporate capital from entering into areas such as food
crop or vegetable production or handicraft manufacture. However, there are
many examples in many countries, including India, of governments and non-
government agencies offering easy loans to enable those without the means
of sustenance to fi nd gainful employment. Such loans are often advanced
without serious concern for profitability or the prospect of the loan being
repaid, since the money advanced here is not driven by the motive of further
accumulation of capital, but rather by that of providing the livelihood needs
of the debtors—that is to say, by the motive of reversal of the effects of primi-
tive accumulation. In recent years, these efforts have acquired the status of a
globally circulating technology of poverty management: a notable instance
is the micro-credit movement initiated by the Grameen Bank in Bangladesh
and its founder, the Nobel Prize–winner Mohammed Yunus. Most of us are
familiar now with stories of peasant women in rural Bangladesh forming
groups to take loans from Grameen Bank to undertake small activities to
supplement their livelihood and putting pressure on one another to repay the
Gramsci in the Twenty-First Century 125
loan so that they can qualify for another round of credit. Similar activities
have been introduced quite extensively in India in recent years.
Finally, as in other countries, government agencies in India provide some
direct benefits to people who, because of poverty or other reasons, are unable
to meet their basic consumption needs. This could be in the form of special
poverty-removal programs, or schemes of guaranteed employment in public
works, or even direct delivery of subsidized or free food. Thus, there are pro-
grams of supplying subsidized food grains to those designated as “below the
poverty line,” guaranteed employment for up to a hundred days in the year,
and free meals to children in primary schools. All of these may be regarded,
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on; state control over the private manufacturing sector through a regime of
licensing; and the relatively greater influence of industrial capitalists over the
central government and that of the landed elites on the state governments.
Passive revolution was a form that was marked by its difference from clas-
sical bourgeois democracy. But to the extent that capitalist democracy as
established in Western Europe or North America served as the normative
standard of bourgeois revolution, discussions of passive revolution in India
carried with them the sense of a transitional system—from pre-colonial and
colonial regimes to some yet-to-be-defi ned authentic modernity.
The changes introduced since the 1990s, I believe, transformed this frame-
work of class dominance. The crucial difference now is the dismantling of the
license regime, greater entry of foreign capital and foreign consumer goods;
and the opening up of sectors such as telecommunications, transport, infra-
structure, mining, banking, insurance, and so forth, to private capital. This
has led to a change in the very composition of the capitalist class. Instead of
the earlier dominance of a few “monopoly” houses drawn from traditional
merchant backgrounds and protected by the license and import substitution
regime, there are now many more entrants into the capitalist class at all
levels and much greater mobility within its formation. Unlike the earlier fear
of foreign competition, there appears to be much greater confidence among
Indian capitalists to make use of the opportunities opened up by global flows
of capital, goods and services, including in recent times, significant exports
of capital. The most dramatic event has been the rise of the Indian informa-
tion technologies industry. But domestic manufacturing and services have
also received a major spurt, leading to annual growth rates of 8% or 9% for
the economy as a whole in the last few years.
There have been several political changes as a result. Let me list a few that
are relevant for our present discussion. First, there is a distinct ascendancy in
the relative power of the corporate capitalist class as compared to the landed
elites. The political means by which this recent dominance has been achieved
needs to be investigated more carefully because it was not achieved through
the mechanism of electoral mobilization (which used to be the source of the
political power of the landed elites). Second, the dismantling of the license
regime has opened up a new field of competition between state governments
Gramsci in the Twenty-First Century 127
to woo capitalist investment, both domestic and foreign. This has resulted in
the involvement of state-level political parties and leaders with the interests of
national and international corporate capital in unprecedented ways. Third,
although the state continues to be the most important mediating apparatus
in negotiating between confl icting class interests, the autonomy of the state
in relation to the dominant classes appears to have been redefi ned. Crucially,
the earlier role of the bureaucratic-managerial class, or more generally of the
urban middle classes, in leading and operating, both socially and ideologi-
cally, the autonomous interventionist activities of the developmental state has
significantly weakened. There is a strong ideological tendency among the
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urban middle classes today to view the state apparatus as ridden with cor-
ruption, inefficiency and populist political venality and a much greater social
acceptance of the professionalism and commitment to growth and efficiency
of the corporate capitalist sector. The urban middle class, which once played
such a crucial role in producing and running the autonomous developmental
state of the passive revolution, appears now to have largely come under the
moral-political sway of the bourgeoisie.
It would be a mistake, however, to think that the result is a convergence of
the Indian political system with the classical models of capitalist democracy.
The critical difference, as I have pointed out elsewhere, has been produced
by a split in the field of the political between a domain of properly consti-
tuted civil society and a more ill-defi ned and contingently activated domain of
political society (Chatterjee, The Politics of the Governed 53–78). Civil society in
India today, peopled largely by the urban middle classes, is the sphere that
seeks to be congruent with the normative models of bourgeois civil society
and represents the domain of capitalist hegemony. If this were the only rele-
vant political domain, then India today would probably be indistinguishable
from other Western capitalist democracies. But there is the other domain of
what I have called political society that includes large sections of the rural
population and the urban poor. These people do, of course, have the formal
status of citizens and can exercise their franchise as an instrument of politi-
cal bargaining. But they do not relate to the organs of the state in the same
way that the middle classes do, nor do governmental agencies treat them as
proper citizens belonging to civil society. Those in political society make
their claims on government, and in turn are governed, not within the frame-
work of stable constitutionally defi ned rights and laws, but rather through
temporary, contextual and unstable arrangements arrived at through direct
political negotiations. The latter domain, which represents the vast bulk of
democratic politics in India, is not under the moral-political leadership of the
capitalist class.
Hence, my argument is that the framework of passive revolution is still valid
for India. But its structure and dynamic have undergone a change. The capi-
talist class has come to acquire a position of moral-political hegemony over
civil society, consisting principally of the urban middle classes. It exercises its
128 Partha Chatterjee
considerable influence over both the central and the state governments, not
through electoral mobilization of political parties and movements but largely
through the bureaucratic-managerial class, the increasingly influential print
and visual media, and the judiciary and other independent regulatory bod-
ies. The dominance of the capitalist class within the state structure as a whole
can be inferred from the virtual consensus among all major political parties
about the priorities of rapid economic growth led by private investment, both
domestic and foreign. It is striking that even the Communist parties have, in
practice if not in theory, joined this consensus. This means that as far as the
party system is concerned, it does not matter which particular combination
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tinctions between corporate and non-corporate forms of capital. But the key
distinction I wish to emphasize is the following. The fundamental logic that
underlies the operations of corporate capital is further accumulation of capi-
tal, usually signified by the maximization of profit. For non-corporate orga-
nizations of capital, while profit is not irrelevant, it is dominated by another
logic—that of providing the livelihood needs of those working in the units.
This difference is crucial for the understanding of the so-called informal
economy and, by extension, as I will argue, of peasant society.
Let me illustrate with a couple of familiar examples from the non-agri-
cultural informal sector and then return to the subject of peasants. Most of
us are familiar with the phenomenon of street vendors in Indian cities—they
occupy street space, usually violating municipal laws, they erect permanent
stalls, use municipal services such as water and electricity, and do not pay
taxes. To carry on their trade under these conditions, they usually organize
themselves into associations to deal with the municipal authorities, the police
and credit agencies such as banks and corporate fi rms that manufacture
and distribute the commodities they sell on the streets. These associations
are often large and the volume of business they encompass can be quite
considerable. Obviously, operating within a public and anonymous market
situation, the vendors are subject to the standard conditions of profitability
of their businesses. But to ensure that everyone is able to meet their liveli-
hood needs, the association will usually try to limit the number of vendors
who can operate in a given area and prevent the entry of newcomers. On the
other hand, there are many examples where, if the businesses are doing par-
ticularly well, the vendors do not, like corporate capitalists, continue to accu-
mulate on an expanded scale, but rather agree to extend their membership
and allow new entrants. To cite another example, in most cities and towns
of India, the transport system depends heavily on private operators who run
buses and auto-rickshaws. There is the frequent violation of regulations such
as licenses, safety standards, and pollution norms. Although most operators
own only one or two vehicles each, they form associations to negotiate with
transport authorities and the police over fares and routes, and control the
frequency of services and entry of new operators to ensure that a minimum
income, and not much more than a minimum income, is guaranteed to all.
130 Partha Chatterjee
In my book The Politics of the Governed, I have described the form of gov-
ernmental regulation of population groups such as street vendors, illegal
squatters and others, whose habitation or livelihood verge on the margins of
legality, as political society. In political society, I have argued, people are not
regarded by the state as proper citizens possessing rights and belonging to
the properly constituted civil society. Rather, they are seen to belong to par-
ticular population groups, with specific empirically established and statisti-
cally described characteristics, which are targets of particular governmental
policies. Since dealing with many of these groups implies the tacit acknowl-
edgement of various illegal practices, governmental agencies will often treat
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the strategy is to break up the benefit-seekers into smaller groups, defi ned by
specific demographic or social characteristics, so that there can be a flexible
policy that does not regard the entire rural population as a single homoge-
neous mass. The intention is precisely to fragment the benefit seekers and
hence divide the potential opposition to the state. One of the most remark-
able features of the recent agitations in India over the acquisition of land
for industry is that despite the continued use of the old rhetoric of peasant
solidarity, there are clearly significant sections of people in these villages
that do not join these agitations because they feel they stand to gain from
the government policy. Third, this field of negotiations opened up by flexible
policies of seeking and delivering benefits creates a new competitive spirit
among benefit-seekers. Since peasants now confront, not landlords or trad-
ers as direct exploiters, but rather governmental agencies from whom they
expect benefits, the state is blamed for perceived inequalities in the distribu-
tion of benefits. Thus, peasants will accuse officials and political representa-
tives of favoring cities at the cost of the countryside. Sections of peasants will
complain of being deprived while those from other regions, ethnic groups,
or political loyalties are allegedly favored. The charge against state agencies
is not one of exploitation but discrimination. This gives a completely new
quality to peasant politics, one that is completely missing in the classical
understandings of peasant society.
Fourth, unlike the old forms of peasant insurgency that characterized
much of the history of peasant society for centuries, there is, I believe, a quite
different quality in the role of violence in contemporary peasant politics.
While subaltern peasant revolts of the old kind had their own notions of
strategy and tactics, they were characterized, as Ranajit Guha showed in his
classic work, by strong community solidarity on the one side and negative
opposition to the perceived exploiters on the other. Today, the use of violence
in peasant agitations seems to have a far more calculative, almost utilitarian
logic, designed to draw attention to specific grievances with a view to seeking
appropriate governmental benefits. A range of deliberate tactics is followed
to elicit the right responses from officials, political leaders, and especially the
media. This is probably the most significant change in the nature of peasant
politics in the last two or three decades.
Gramsci in the Twenty-First Century 133
As far as peasant agriculture is concerned, however, things are much less
clearly developed. Small peasant agriculture, even though it is thoroughly
enmeshed in market connections, also feels threatened by the market. There
is, in particular, an unfamiliarity with, and deep suspicion of, corporate orga-
nizations. Peasants appear to be far less able to deal with the uncertainties of
the market than they are able to secure governmental benefits. In the last few
years, there have been hundreds of reported suicides of peasants who sud-
denly fell into huge debts because they were unable to realize the expected
price from their agricultural products, such as tobacco and cotton. Peas-
ants feel that the markets for these commercial crops are manipulated by
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large mysterious forces that are entirely beyond their control. Unlike many
organizations in the informal non-agricultural sector in urban areas that can
effectively deal with corporate fi rms for the supply of inputs or the sale of
their products, peasants have been unable thus far to build similar organiza-
tions. This is the large area of the management of peasant agriculture, not as
subsistence production for self-consumption, but as the field of non-corporate
capital, that remains a challenge.
It is important to emphasize that contrary to what is suggested by
the depoliticized idea of governmentality, the quality of politics in the
domain of political society is by no means a mechanical transaction of
benefits and services. Even as state agencies try by constantly adjusting
their flexible policies to break up large combinations of claimants, the
organization of demands in political society can adopt highly emotive
resources of solidarity and militant action. Democratic politics in India
is daily marked by passionate and often violent agitations to protest dis-
crimination and to secure claims. The fact that the objectives of such
agitations are framed by the conditions of governmentality is no reason to
think that they cannot arouse considerable passion and affective energy.
Collective actions in political society cannot be depoliticized by framing
them within the grid of governmentality because the activities of govern-
mentality affect the very conditions of livelihood and social existence of
the groups they target.
Interestingly, even though the claims made by different groups in politi-
cal society are for governmental benefits, these cannot often be met by the
standard application of rules and frequently require the declaration of an
exception. Thus, when a group of people living or cultivating on illegally
occupied land, or selling goods on the street claim the right to continue
with their activities, or demand compensation for moving somewhere else,
they are in fact inviting the state to declare their case as an exception to the
universally applicable rule. They do not demand that the right to private
property in land be abolished or that the regulations on trade licenses and
sales taxes be set aside. When the state acknowledges these demands, it too
must do so not by the simple application of administrative rules but rather
by a political decision to declare an exception. The governmental response
134 Partha Chatterjee
to demands in political society is also, therefore, irreducibly political rather
than merely administrative.
I must point out one other significant characteristic of the modalities of
democratic practice in political society. This has to do with the relevance of
numbers. Ever since Tocqueville in the early nineteenth century, it is a com-
mon argument that electoral democracies foster the tyranny of the majority.
However, mobilizations in political society are often premised on the strate-
gic manipulation of relative electoral strengths rather than on the expecta-
tion of commanding a majority. Indeed, the frequently spectacular quality
of actions in political society, including the resort to violence, is a sign of the
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ability of relatively small groups of people to make their voices heard and to
register their claims with governmental agencies. As a matter of fact, it could
even be said that the activities of political society represent a continuing cri-
tique of the paradoxical reality in all capitalist democracies of equal citizen-
ship and majority rule, on the one hand, and the dominance of property and
privilege, on the other.
But the underside of political society is the utter marginalization of
those groups who do not even have the strategic leverage of electoral
mobilization. In every region of India, there exist marginal groups of peo-
ple who are unable to gain access to the mechanisms of political society.
They are often marked by their exclusion from peasant society, such as
low-caste groups who do not participate in agriculture or tribal peoples
who depend more on forest products or pastoral occupations than on agri-
culture. Political society and electoral democracy have not given these
groups the means to make effective claims on governmentality. In this
sense, these marginalized groups represent an outside beyond the bound-
aries of political society.
The important difference represented by activities in political society
when compared to the movements of democratic mobilization familiar
to us from the twentieth century is its lack of a perspective of transition.
While there is much passion aroused over ending the discriminations of
caste or ethnicity or asserting the rightful claims of marginal groups, there
is little conscious effort to view these agitations as directed toward a fun-
damental transformation of the structures of political power, as they were
in the days of nationalist and socialist mobilizations. On the contrary, if
anything, it is the bourgeoisie, hegemonic in civil society and dominant
within the state structure as a whole, which appears to have a narrative
of transition—from stagnation to rapid growth, from backwardness and
poverty to modernity and prosperity, from Third World insignificance to
major world-power status. Perhaps this is not surprising if one remembers
the class formation of the passive revolution: with the landed elites pushed
to a subordinate position and the bureaucratic-managerial class won over
by the bourgeoisie, it is the capitalist class that has now acquired a position
to set the terms to which other political formations can only respond.
Gramsci in the Twenty-First Century 135
The unity of the state system as a whole is now maintained by relating
civil society to political society through the logic of reversal of the effects of
primitive accumulation. Once this logic is recognized by the bourgeoisie as
a necessary political condition for the continued rapid growth of corporate
capital, the state, with its mechanisms of electoral democracy, becomes the
field for the political negotiation of demands for the transfer of resources,
through fiscal and other means, from the accumulation economy to govern-
mental programs aimed at providing the livelihood needs of the poor and
the marginalized. The autonomy of the state, and that of the bureaucracy,
now lies in their power to adjudicate the quantum and form of transfer of
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tion in India lives outside the orderly zones of proper civil society. It is in
political society that they have to be fed and clothed and given work, if only
to ensure the long-term and relatively peaceful well-being of civil society.
That is the dilemma of political management on which the future of the pas-
sive revolution under conditions of democracy depends. We hope we have
better intellectual and political resources today to fight the forces of reaction
than we did during the life of Antonio Gramsci.
Notes
1. See Sanyal.
2. See Bardhan.
3. See Kaviraj, “A Critique of Passive Revolution” 2429–44.
7 Entering the World from
an Oblique Angle
On Jia Zhangke as an
Organic Intellectual
Pheng Cheah
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the ruined landscape of rapidly globalizing China and the plight of its masses
in the same way that Charles Dickens’ Hard Times or Elizabeth Gaskell’s
novels are novels of the English Industrial Revolution. Jia is an especially
interesting test case for evaluating the concept of the organic intellectual
because the PRC, one of the few remaining socialist states in the world, is
often considered by world systems theorists as a critical site for examining
whether there are alternatives to the social formations of capitalist market
economies.2 An organic intellectual of the masses would attempt to arrest the
slide of Chinese society into a post-socialist market system, to divert China
from being transformed in the image of neoliberal capitalism by returning
Chinese society back to critical elements from its socialist past so that its
political economy and society remains that of market socialism. But if this
critical task turns out to be implausible or even impossible, then the voca-
tion and function of the radical organic intellectual is no longer viable in the
contemporary world, which is thereby inevitably post-socialist.
the “for-the-sake-of-which” the social group came into being in the first place.
But such ends are also ideational forms that arrange the masses into relations
with each other such that they are members of a social group, thereby shaping
the social group by giving it its form. Hence, the organic form is also a techni-
cal power of organization, which Gramsci regards as synonymous with human
intellectual activity.4
This power of organization is not the unique preserve of those who have
the socially designated function of intellectuals. 5 It is already operative in the
economic sphere in the person of the capitalist entrepreneur, who
If not all entrepreneurs, at least an élite amongst them must have the ca-
pacity to be an organiser of society in general, including all its complex
140 Pheng Cheah
organism of services, right up to the state organism, because of the
need to create the conditions most favourable to the expansion of their
own class; or at least they must possess the capacity to choose the
deputies (specialised employees) to whom to entrust this activity of
organising the general system of relationships external to the business
itself. (SPNB 5–6)
The organic intellectual is the completion of the social organism. The social
organism is a fluid whole that maintains an internal fluidity in its constituent
processes despite the determinateness of its proper contours. The organic intel-
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lectual enables the social organism to be a whole in its very fluidity because
he facilitates the organism’s return to itself, thereby completing the form of the
social organism as a self-organizing being. This power of completion is vested
in an intelligible form, the conception of the world the intellectual articulates,
where technical knowledge (techne) directs practical activity and becomes
political. The geometrical figure, or concept-metaphor, for this completion of
the social organism qua power of self-return is the closure of a circle. This
figure governs all of Gramsci’s analyses and concrete prescriptions concerning
the health, vigor, and power of a social class seeking dominance and the gen-
eration of organic intellectuals as the stratum that completes the dominance of
its class through the securing of social hegemony.
For reasons of economy, I only mention four of the more important examples
of this figure of the circle. First, Gramsci argues that a social group seeking
dominance must assimilate traditional intellectuals by winning them over at the
level of ideology. But this appropriation, a process of ingestion that pulls what is
external or foreign into the circle—that is, an act of organization that remakes
the foreign in the image of the organism’s proper form—“is made quicker and
more efficacious the more the group in question succeeds in simultaneously
elaborating its own organic intellectuals” (SPNB 10). Second, the organic qual-
ity of intellectuals is figured in terms of the role they play in completing the cir-
cle of their social group’s exercise of power. This power is exercised through two
main superstructures, the state and civil society, which correspond to the func-
tions of domination and hegemony respectively. These functions are, Gramsci
emphasizes, “precisely organisational and connective” (SPNB 12; emphasis added).
Intellectuals are functionaries in the complex mediations between these super-
structures and the world of production. In performing this connecting task, they
“are the dominant group’s ‘deputies’ exercising the subaltern functions of social
hegemony and political government” (SPNB 12).
Third, the function of the political party in elaborating various types
of organic intellectuals such as political intellectuals and leaders in both
civil society and political life is another process of maintaining the circle
through the establishment of connections within civil society. This is seen
most clearly in the political party’s secondary function of “welding together the
organic intellectuals of a given group—the dominant one—and the traditional
144 Pheng Cheah
intellectuals” (SPNB 15; emphasis added). Fourth, the analytical distinction
between organic and traditional intellectuals is essentially one between a self-
completing circle and a broken circle where the capacity for self-return has
been obstructed because of the traditional intellectual’s lack of connection to
the masses. This is the most important circle in Gramsci’s writings because
it concerns the unity of theory and practice, now refigured as the need for a
more elementary unity between knowing and feeling, attitudes that Gramsci
initially attributes to the intellectual strata and the masses, respectively.
The popular element “feels” but does not always know or understand;
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the intellectual element “knows” but does not always understand and in
particular does not always feel . . . The intellectual can be an intellectual
(and not a pure pedant) if distinct and separate from the people-nation,
that is, without feeling the elementary passions of the people, under-
standing them and therefore explaining and justifying them in the par-
ticular historical situation and connecting them dialectically to the laws
of history and to a superior conception of the world, scientifically and
coherently elaborated . . . One cannot make politics-history . . . without
this sentimental connection between intellectuals and people-nation. In
the absence of such a nexus the relations between the intellectual and
the people-nation . . . are reduced to relationships of a purely bureau-
cratic and formal order; the intellectuals become a caste, or a priesthood
(so-called organic centralism). (SPNB 418)
global capitalist world system (Wang Hui 683 –700).12 In this context, the
organic intellectual’s task is to contest the hegemony of a bureaucratized
communist state that has become increasingly depoliticized as a result of its
amenability to global capitalist market imperatives. Such depoliticization,
Wang suggests, has transformed the PRC into a heteronomous body. To
counteract this depoliticization, a radically politicized popular vision of civil
society that retains socialist ideals is required. Insofar as Gramsci’s thought
is premised on the horizon of the realization of a communist society, the task
of the organic intellectual would now need to be re-conceptualized in terms
of a selective and critical inheritance and reincarnation of socialist ideals
that are viable in a post-socialist age instead of a dogmatic return to ortho-
dox forms of state socialism as exemplified by the PRC state. Rather than a
revival of already achieved forms of communism that have been rendered
effete in contemporary globalization, what needs to be envisioned is a form
of socialism that is a viable social, political and economic alternative today
for those sections of the Chinese population that have been marginalized by
post-socialist market economic development and its political administration.
These sections of the population are largely rural or provincial, including
a large floating population of migrant workers who moved to large cities in
search of work and economic prosperity. Hence, what needs to be envisioned
is a neo-socialism in a post-socialist world, so to speak, that can take root in
this part of the Chinese population. Furthermore, as Wang rightly observes,
in an age of globalization where the legitimacy of the PRC state is secured by
its acquiescence to and active accommodation of global or transnational cap-
italist market relations, counter-hegemonic struggles cannot remain merely
national or international in scope but must also have a global focus to match
the capitalist market system.
The articulation of a conception of the world through which the masses
of the PRC can map the PRC’s place in the global capitalist system and rec-
ognize the impact of these global market forces on the culture and social life
of the urban and rural population and on their daily existence is a crucial
aspect of counter-hegemonic work. This project of articulation is consonant
with the task of forging and developing a national-popular collective will
through culture that Gramsci attributed to the Jacobin forces in the case of
Entering the World from an Oblique Angle 147
the French Revolution, although it cannot carry the same radical revolution-
ary charge of overthrowing a political regime. In Gramsci’s words,
Jia Zhangke intends his fi lms to be a medium for a similar mode of self-
recognition for the masses that we may characterize as organic. If we are to
give credence to his comments about the subject-matter and documentary-
realist style of his fi lms, they are meant to be celluloid archives of popular
Chinese consciousness and its historical memories in the period of massive
social upheaval from the beginning of the economic modernization of China
to the post-socialist present. Commenting on his focus on the lives of young
people from provincial China (Fengyang, Shanxi province, where Jia was
born) as his subject matter in his Fengyang trilogy (Xiao Wu 小武, 1997),
Platform (站台, 2000), and Unknown Pleasures (任逍遙, 2002), he has said that
“the country scene is the background of China and of the Chinese people . . .
I am ready to admit my origins. I am proud of where I am from but I don’t
want to glorify it with lyricism. I just don’t want to break my link with the
earth” (“Director Jia Zhangke. True to Life”).
In his earlier films, the portrayal of grassroots Chinese life is facilitated by
a realist style, the main features of which are a quasi-documentary use of a
handheld camera, a use of long shots, and amateur actors with strong local
or provincial dialect accents and lots of background noise.13 Handheld cam-
era work conveys the sense of the immediate experience of an involved first
person observer, someone who witnesses the portrayed events on the spot in
the manner of a participant, because there is a rapport and even an organic
unity between the camera and the events that are captured as they unfold in
living time.14 The long shot likewise captures real time, but in a different, more
formalistic, aestheticized manner. The camera observes the characters from a
distance, thereby foregrounding the gulf between the human characters in their
daily experience of monotonous, meaningless time and the progress of histori-
cally significant time marked by the narrative.15 The desire to portray people
“in a very natural realistic state” also motivates Jia’s use of non-professional
actors from rural parts of China with strong local accents. Because of their
training, professional actors find it hard to “adapt their methods of movement
and speech to the kind of documentaryesque type of narrative film” and to fit
in naturally with the surrounding environment whereas amateur actors have
“speech and movements that are extremely natural” and understand what he is
trying to express with his script because they grew up in a similar atmosphere
148 Pheng Cheah
and they believe in the script and the characters and the world it evokes. They
have “a natural confidence and ‘at home’ feeling that professional actors can’t
compare with” ( Jia, “Capturing a Transforming Reality” 198).16
The thematic thread that runs through these comments is the connec-
tion between the fi lmic image, the various components and processes that
produce this image, and the Chinese people in an authentic state or original
condition of living reality (the referent or subject matter of the image). The
relation between the fi lmic image and the referent is that of truth and accu-
racy of representation. This authenticity must be present at every stage of the
production of the fi lmic image. Non-professional actors, by virtue of their
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lack of training and their personal experiences of rural and provincial life
similar to the social setting portrayed by the fi lm, have a closer connection
to the real life of the Chinese masses. The rapport and unity between the
camera work, the actors performing their scenes, and the referent of those
scenes indicates an authenticity in the aesthetic techniques. This is precisely
the circle of organic self-return articulated in Gramsci’s idea of the organic
intellectual, a fact made more patent by Jia’s repeated use of imagery of
organic unity and being at home in and having a natural connection to the
surroundings. Jia’s fi lms not only portray and express this natural connection
to the real life of the Chinese masses, but also (re)enable and (re)activate this
connection. They are organic and organicizing for they complete the circle of
organic self-return of the Chinese masses.
This ethical, vocational aspect of Jia’s films is most clearly evidenced in his
emphasis on the creative dimension of his films as narrative films. For him,
the cinematic image has two different origins: the referent and the director.
The image’s original vocation is to have a firsthand, unmediated or direct
relation to the masses through these two origins. The filmic image’s authen-
ticity lies not only in the accurate portrayal of the life of the Chinese masses
but also in the creative human life force unleashed within the director and
expressed in his films, a force that has been stifled by professional filming
techniques and commodity-market demands (Jia Xiang: Jia Zhangke 33).17 In
his well-known short essay “The Age of Amateur Cinema Is about to Return”
(业余电影时代即将再次 到来), Jia characterized this creative life force in terms
of the moral values of conscience (良知, liangzhi) and sincerity (真诚, zhencheng)
(in Jia Xiang: Jia Zhangke 33).18 This is the subjective aspect of a film’s authen-
ticity. Jia associates the earnest and responsible filmmaker’s attitude with “the
conscience of the intellectual (知识分子的良心, zhishifenzi de liangxin)” (34).
Its aim is not merely to accurately portray the life experiences of the Chinese
masses. It is also transformative. It seeks to strengthen the will of the masses to
live: to stimulate collective self-awareness in the intended audience and a sense
of fortitude and hope as a result of the knowledge of the human communality
of suffering, that my suffering is common to all human beings.
People are the same all over the world; they go through the same mo-
tions. They face the same spring, summer, fall and winter; the same
Entering the World from an Oblique Angle 149
birth, ageing, illness and death. I don’t know what this revelation does
to me exactly, but it seems to make me stronger. This personal experi-
ence strengthens me to endure the heavy stress in life. I feel that I’m
not alone. My humble experiences are not unique . . . By watching this
imperfect world, we can become stronger and more optimistic of change
. . . It’s not by shooting a luxurious and happy world that we can affect
the audience. It’s important to keep criticising culture and our society; it
provides a vivid description of human difficulties. I’m going to carry on
making this kind of fi lm, in the hope that audiences will be strengthened
to face daily life. ( Jia in Shih 53–58)
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Jia’s humble social background and the fact that he was initially an
underground fi lmmaker further strengthens the popular organic-intellec-
tual dimension of his fi lms, so much so that he has been characterized as
a “fi lm industry migrant worker” (电影民工, dianying mingong) who has a
special connection to the socially marginal characters he portrays, peo-
ple whose living conditions and experiences were not seen on the silver
screen although they make up a large part of the Chinese population (“Jia
Zhangke” 362).19 Indeed, Jia intends his fi lms to be counter-hegemonic
because they bring to view the life-experiences and memories of the
masses that have been occluded from sight by the official state picture of
China. Film reviewers and academic fi lm scholars have largely concurred
on the organic character of his fi lms. Jia’s credentials as an organic intel-
lectual have remained intact despite the fact that he is now no longer an
underground director but is actively courted by the state-run National
Film Bureau. 20 As one fi lm scholar puts it,
and this seems unique to the Chinese situation where extremely rapid mar-
ketization and economic hyper-development abruptly follow a long period of
isolation from the larger world (with the deprivation and repression of desire
this entails) and now coexists with state control, the Chinese masses have a
flawed and self-alienating conception of the world where they see themselves
as already modern and worldly people because of the intense social climate
created by hyper-development. 22 They seek to satisfy their longing for the
world through the materialistic consumption of transnational commodities
and its ersatz social forms (exemplified by the fake landscape of the World
Park) because in their conception of the world, being modern and being
worldly is precisely to be a savvy consumer of foreign objects. But such mate-
rialistic pursuit for illusory things does not lead to a genuinely fulfi lling life. It
is even a form of escapism from social problems because such pursuit inevita-
bly confl icts with the “traditional” values of provincial organic communities
that still exert a hold over the masses even if they are being eroded by rapid
modernization, labor migration, and consumer culture. In Jia’s view, this is
the predicament specific to the Chinese people’s “longing for the world.”
In Chinese society today there are a lot of moments where what’s going
on could be called a show. . . The economy’s doing very well, and every-
where you look you have these “shows,” sort of like economic bubbles,
fi lling up every sector of our lives . . . I think those sorts of environments,
those artificial landscapes, are very significant. The landscape in the
World Park includes famous sights from all over the world. They are
not real, but they still can satisfy people’s longing for the world. They
reflect the very strong curiosity of people in this country, and the inter-
est they have in becoming a part of international culture. At the same
time, this is a very strange way to fulfi ll these demands . . . [I]t makes
for a very sorrowful scene . . . Every time I went to one of the parks for
the shooting, I saw all the tourists and how overjoyed they were to be
there, and for me it was all very sad . . . This is what Chinese reality is
like. And so, in the fi lm, a lot of action takes place under the “Arc de
Triomphe.” Or in front of the “Taj Mahal,” or in “London,” or in “Man-
hattan.” Of course all of these landscapes are fake. But the problems our
152 Pheng Cheah
society faces are very much Chinese issues, and I think all of this is not
unrelated to that. We’re living in a globalised age, in a world saturated
by mass media, in an international city, as it were. But despite all that,
the problems we’re facing are our own problems. ( Jaffee, “An Interview
with Jia Zhangke)
What seems like an advertisement slogan for the World Park (“You
can travel around the world without leaving Beijing”) fl ashes across the
screen accompanied by the web path for the park’s fictitious website, with
the replicas of the Pyramids and the Sphinx of Giza in the background
(see Figure 7.1). The next shot is of the replica of the Eiffel Tower in the
background. An old peasant man, his back bent by a heavy sack prob-
ably fi lled with recyclable garbage slowly walks past. He turns to face the
camera and stares before turning away and making his way across the
screen as the fi lm’s title appears (see Figure 7.2). This sequence juxtaposes
globalization’s promise of illusory mobility with the real time of provincial
life and its hardship. The image of the old man roots the fi lm organically.
His quizzical stare summons and draws the viewer to follow him on his
path across this simulated landscape that allegorizes China’s entry into
the global capitalist system.
Figure 7.1 “You can travel around the world without leaving Beijing,” with fictitious
web path of the park’s website, from title sequence. The World (2004).
Entering the World from an Oblique Angle 153
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Figure 7.2 Old peasant man walking past with replica of Eiffel tower in the back-
ground, from title sequence. The World (2004).
The World portrays the state-sanctioned entry of China into the world
from the oblique angle of how the rapid opening up to flows of transnational
capital impacts the daily lives of the Chinese masses. The fi lm thus gives
a certain look of China to the world. It exposes to the phenomenality of a
wider gaze the lives of those Chinese people who are literally barred from
the world: the masses that desire globality but can only passively suffer its
consequences because they have no self-determined access to it. This the-
matic contrast between the real lives of the masses and the glittering façades
of globalizing post-socialist China runs throughout the entire fi lm. Its central
characters are migrant workers from the provinces who have come to Beijing
and fi nd themselves working in “The World,” a Las Vegas or Epcot® World
Showcase–style theme park.23
The gritty realism used to portray the workers in their dressing rooms
and their private lives is contrasted with the glitzy costumes they put
on as they assume the personae of people from other cultures and the
spectacle of simulated tourist landmarks from around the globe built to
scale with materials similar to those of the originals. As rightly noted, this
frontstage/backstage structure sets up a contrast between reality and spec-
tacle, truth and illusion that the fi lm proceeds to complicate (McGrath
221–22). 24 The park is clearly a synecdoche for the world globalization is
making in the PRC. One of the segments of the fi lm is wittily titled, “A
(New) World Each Day” (Yitian yige shijie, Everchanging world), and a
poster in the dressing room reads in Chinese, “I give you a world” (Wo gei
ni yige shijie). The World cogently captures the speed and intensity of the
flow of global capital through images and sounds of media connectivity
154 Pheng Cheah
and travel: cell phones, instant messaging, and fl ash animation graphics,
trains, planes, and cars, highways and rail tracks that connect Beijing to
the provinces, bringing in migrant workers, even as China is connected
to the rest of the globe and serves both as the source and destination of
clandestine transnational labor.
This world has a surreal quality to it: we see people whizzing around
or passing through this global landscape in a skytrain and other modes
of transportation. Indeed, the fi lm broaches the issue of the digitalization
of their lives by interspersing fl ash animation graphics that show them as
cartoons in cyberspace when they use their cellular phones. The repeated
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contrast between this speed and the relative immobility of the park’s work-
ers in their private lives indicates a complex layering of different worlds
onto each other. The viewer gets a sense of the corrosive alienation and
existential solitude that globalization causes by uprooting and driving
people to fi nd jobs in places without any sense of social belonging. The
world globalization creates is not a world in any genuine sense, a com-
munity of intersubjective relations in which one can have a meaningful
life and death. Globalization has made the characters of The World world-
less, or as Heidegger or Arendt would say, weltlos, without world. Here,
and even more so in Still Life, Jia portrays the integration of China into
the global capitalist system as the destructive creation of a ruined world,
a world that has been denuded by demolition, mass displacement, and
environmental pollution as a result of rabid construction in the service of
hyper-industrialization.
The contrast between the real lives of the workers and the simulated
world of the park is, however, not a simple opposition between truth and
illusion. The notion of true reality that underwrites The World far exceeds
any notion of veridical truth, truth as the faithful adequation of fi lmic
representation to the objective world, the principal axiom of cinéma vérité.
The mundane reality of the park workers’ lives faithfully represented by
the fi lm is not a true reality, a reality that has any truth in the ontological
sense. It is already a degraded reality, an alienated reality in the strict
Marxian sense of the word, where the workers have already been cor-
rupted by the consumer desires of capitalist commodification. Unlike the
old man in the title sequence whom globalization has left behind, the two
main characters whose tragic romantic relationship drives the plot, Tao
and Taisheng, are swept up in globalization’s path. They are incorporated
as migrant workers who help to build the new Chinese global dream of
market socialism.
If the park is a synecdoche for the world for local Chinese visitors,
Beijing, like other major Chinese cities such as Shanghai and Shenzhen,
are portals to and enclaves of globality for workers from the provinces.
Tao and Taisheng have their own Beijing dreams. In a scene in Taisheng’s
Entering the World from an Oblique Angle 155
hot and fi lthy lodgings next to the train tracks, typical of the places where
migrant workers live, he tells her that on his fi rst night in Beijing, he
vowed to make a name for himself in this city so that he can give her a
good life. But although they both pay lip service to the park’s promise of
a cosmopolitan experience, unlike the Chinese visitors to the park, they
sense its hollowness because the illusion they are fabricating contradicts
their private lives. This contradiction between their private and work
lives is not a splitting into true private and false public selves. They are
no more real in their private lives than the personae they project because
they also yearn for a fuller version of the global dream represented by the
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park, which they think can be achieved beyond the park’s boundaries,
in the aspiring global city of Beijing. In one of the visual set pieces of the
fi lm, Tao and Taisheng meet during a work break in the cockpit of an old
plane that has been turned into a theme park experience. Dressed in the
costume of a fl ight attendant, she tells him to take her outside the park
because she will soon turn into a ghost if she is stuck there all day (see
Figure 7.3). But the world outside the park is initially also a simulation:
Tao imagines herself as an animation fi gure who levitates in the air and
fl ies past Tiananmen Square with posters of Deng Xiaoping and Jiang
Zemin (the key political architects of the marketization of the Chinese
economy) before ending up in an outlying district as a real life person
(see Figure 7.4).
The park’s replicas are thus not false. They have as much truth as the alien-
ated reality of Tao’s and Taisheng’s lives. Even if Tao leaves the World Park,
in what more truthful reality will she end up? As the PRC state attempts to
Figure 7.4 Animation of Tao flying past Tiananmen Square. The World (2004).
make China attractive to global capital, many theme park-like global struc-
tures have sprung up in Beijing. They include highly visible public buildings
designed by rock-star architects such as the Bird’s Nest, the Water Cube, the
CCTV tower, and the National Center for the Performing Arts as well as pri-
vate residential villas replicating Versailles and the Louvre in the eighty-two
acre Palais de Fortune compound for China’s wealthiest CEOs and foreign
businessmen.25 A similar habit of consuming replica objects is found at the
lower levels of society. Qun, the woman with whom Taisheng cheats, owns a
tailoring workroom that makes knockoff designer clothes copied from foreign
fashion magazines. Imposter designer bags with fake logos are prominently
visible in her workshop. Throughout the fi lm, there are numerous instances
of the training of park workers, especially women, into modern consumers
who become service providers for the leisure consumption of others in order
to support their own consumption. The path of capitalist consumption is,
however, less salutary for the lower classes. One of the fi lm’s segment titles
is “Paris in a Beijing suburb.” Qun’s husband is an illegal migrant worker
who has lived in Paris for the past decade and she is applying for a visa to
visit him. When Taisheng asks her to visit the park to familiarize herself
with Paris before her trip, she grimly replies that the park does not have the
neighborhood where he lives, Belleville, which is Chinatown in a Paris sub-
urb. The inner truth or telos of “Paris in a Beijing suburb” is to become an
illegal worker in Belleville. 26 Tao has even less freedom of mobility. Not only
has she never been on a plane, she has never even seen a passport and can
only imagine traveling in her fl ights of escapist fantasy in the virtual world
of flash animation.
As we have seen, Jia critically denounces the equation of worldli-
ness with the consumption of foreign commodities as a hollow capitalist
Entering the World from an Oblique Angle 157
ideology. In a similar vein, although these virtual fl ights in Tao’s imagina-
tion provide her with temporary emotional excitement and comfort, they
are in the fi nal analysis symptoms of a false consciousness, or at least, the
masses’ ignorance and lack of awareness of the truth about their degraded
reality. Indeed, Tao herself seems to be naïve or dense about the oppres-
siveness of the working conditions in the park. She initially cannot or does
not want to acknowledge that Anna, one of the dancers brought from Rus-
sia to work in the park, has been forced into prostitution. The more fun-
damental sense of reality that underwrites Jia’s aesthetic—and what makes
The World an organic intellectual product—is that it points to different
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The power of the collective was extremely strong [when I was growing
up], and culturally speaking, we always had a lot of confidence. But the
younger generation are faced with a new kind of cultural oppression.
This is in part due to the lifestyles they hear and learn about through
the media—especially the Internet and cable television—which exist on
a completely different plane from their everyday reality. It is this radical
contrast between the reality of their environment and the picture of the
Entering the World from an Oblique Angle 161
world they get through the media that creates an enormous pressure in
their lives. (“Capturing a Transforming Reality” 193)
Tao’s digital fl ights of fantasy are illusory panacea to this loss of a world. Jia’s
attempt to fi nd a transnational space for creation beyond China puts him
in exactly the same position of the characters who leave the frame of The
World. But like them, it is highly doubtful that Jia can transcend the circuit
of commodification.
This is the aporia faced by the organic intellectual today and why I think
Gramsci’s concept needs to be radically rethought within the context of con-
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Notes
1. See also Ngugi Wa Thiong’o, Moving the Centre: The Struggle for Cultural
Freedoms.
2. For an elaborate argument about why the PRC can be seen as a world-historical
experiment in the socialization of a global market economy, see Arrighi, Adam
Smith in Beijing: Lineages of the Twenty-First Century.
3. I am using “formal” and “fi nal” cause in the Aristotelian meaning of the form
and the end of a thing.
4. Addressing the issue of whether members of a political party are intellectuals,
Gramsci notes that one is an intellectual if one’s function is “directive and orga-
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26. In the Chinese version of the DVD, Belleville is another segment title. Hence,
what was initially an invagination (the outside turned inward—Paris in Beijing)
is turned back outward.
27. On this point, see McGrath 156.
28. Cf. Zhang, “My Camera Doesn’t Lie?” 38–39, who questions the authenticity of
Jia’s fi lms.
29. See Derrida, Rogues: Two Essays on Reason, trans. Pascale-Anne Brault and
Michael Naas.
30. The pharmakon is an older name for autoimmunization (Borradori 124).
8 Questioning Intellectuals
Reading Caste with Gramsci in Two
Indian Literary Texts
Rajeswari Sunder Rajan
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dan. I shall leave implicit the intriguing parallels and differences between the
two texts—much more can be said obviously about the generic differences
between novel and play, and the contemporary versus historical settings of
each text—but their relevance for certain kinds of Gramscian analysis should
be obvious from this sketch of the arguments they propose.
Postcolonial narratives of social struggle are inevitably located within the
tension, if not actual contradiction, between subalternity and citizenship, 3 and
it is in this context that the role of intellectuals comes to be of central signifi-
cance. In the case of India, the implicit slogan “society must be led” became
the postcolonial bourgeoisie’s rationale for claiming a continuing centrality
for itself in the newly independent nation, constitutionally mandated to be a
democratic republic. Historically, it was the educated, urban, Hindu upper-
caste (and invariably male) leader who emerged from his involvement in the
anti-colonial nationalist struggles as the “voice” of the people. In literary texts
he becomes the focal point of consciousness.4 The Nehruvian state estab-
lished major developmental and modernizing agendas for the nation with
which educated (and especially bureaucratic) elites, in the decades immedi-
ately following independence, were closely associated. Post-Nehru, the belief
increasingly spread that the state had ceased to be the primary agent of social
change. The question of a civil society in India on the model of Western lib-
eral democracies—its constitution, its autonomy from the state, its conditions
of possibility, and the extent of its hegemony—has been widely debated since
then. Political analysts like Rajni Kothari have forcefully argued the need for
“grass-roots movements and non-party political formations” that will consti-
tute an “autonomous force of civil society,” in opposition to a state that came
to be perceived as “repressive and increasingly unrepresentative” (Chatter-
jee, State and Politics in India 43–44). 5 In her major book about the new
social movements in western India, Gail Omvedt celebrated the emergence
of new actors on the “stage of history” in the 1970s and 1980s. “For many of
India’s oppressed and low-caste poor,” she writes, “the aspiration and reality
of becoming historical actors was something new in their lives.” But at the
same time she identifies the limits of these new roles. Agency had to be medi-
ated and was sometimes usurped by their representatives (Reinventing Revo-
lution, 250–51). In particular, wherever or whenever “people’s movements”
Questioning Intellectuals 167
failed—either to materialize “spontaneously” or to sustain themselves at the
grassroots—they have been taken over by well-meaning elite “volunteers”6
acting in the belief that the people must be “mildly forced to be free.” Their
“evangelical impatience,” to borrow Sudipta Kaviraj’s ironic description of
middle-class leaders, is embodied perfectly in the character of Jagannatha,
the protagonist of Anantha Murthy’s Bharathipura (Kaviraj, “In Search of
Civil Society” 287–323, esp. 322).
Modern political democracy in India came into direct confrontation with
the institution of caste. It is not of course the case that constitutional equality
would, or indeed could, demolish caste-based hierarchy in a single stroke.
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What the confrontation meant was that the problematic was newly structured
by caste perceived as injured identity, pitted against the potential and limits
of political rights to address that condition (Rao). Opposed and diverse inter-
pretations of caste as the ideological product of religious doctrine, ritual or
belief, on the one hand, and as a socioeconomic material condition of pov-
erty, disprivilege, discrimination and occupational marginalization, on the
other, have generated multiple modes of caste struggle, led by both upper-
caste reformers and untouchable leaders with different emphases.
Caste, with its close parallels to race and ethnicity as a discriminatory
social system, its overlaps with class as an hierarchical division of labor, and
its inextricability from gender and sexuality, has been a potent field of hege-
mony’s operations in India in the past as well as the present, allowing us to
invoke Gramsci’s understanding of power, confl ict and counter-hegemonic
struggle productively in reading its narratives. Hegemony is a concept that
has considerable explanatory power for understanding the otherwise inex-
plicable millennial reign of upper-caste (specifically Brahmin) domination
that based itself on hereditary authority, cultural superiority, monopoly over
learning, economic power and rights of governance—an arrangement that
could not have been maintained without the consent of the subordinated.
(One of the few direct references that Gramsci makes to India is an allu-
sion to the caste system when he observes, “In both India and China the
enormous gap separating intellectuals and people is manifested also in the
religious field” [SPNB 23]). The hegemony of Brahmins has survived into
postcolonial modernity, thanks to a combination of factors: support from
colonial administration, the mobilization of the Hindu religious establish-
ment, upper castes’ opportunistic alliances with upwardly mobile lower
castes, and Brahmins’ selective appropriation of and successful adaptation
to aspects of modernity. Of course, it is not the case that it is only by consent
and moral suasion that caste hierarchy is maintained. Violence and coercion
are all too often resorted to as a means of controlling lower caste challenges
to the caste order. The narrative Gramsci offers of Jacobinism’s fortunes in
France following the Revolution into the “parliamentary regime” is appli-
cable with very few modifications to the narrative of caste struggles in India
from the colonial into the postcolonial period:
168 Rajeswari Sunder Rajan
The entire society was in a continuous process of formation and disso-
lution, followed by more complex formations with richer potentialities
. . . In this process, attempts at insurrection alternated with pitiless re-
pression, enlargements of political suffrage with restrictions, freedom of
association with restriction or annulment of that freedom . . . The “nor-
mal” exercise of hegemony on the now classical terrain of the parliamen-
tary regime is characterised by the combination of force and consent,
which balance each other reciprocally, without force predominating ex-
cessively over consent. (SPNB 80 fn49)
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ally tending to follow the variable and shifting dynamics of custom, caste
derives considerable sanction from divine ordination. This explains caste
hegemony as we saw. On the other hand, religion, in its heterodox aspects,
held the potential for radicalism. Gramsci’s interest in the Reformation in
Europe was prompted by the historical evidence that religious beliefs could
also be critically negotiated to produce an alternative and oppositional con-
sciousness, given the right circumstances.8 Buddhism in India, doctrinally
caste-free and gender-equal, arose as a challenge to Brahminism in the sixth
century BC, followed by the Reformation-like bhakti movement from the
twelfth to the fi fteenth centuries. In the present day, many dalits have refused
to be counted as “Hindu” and either resort to converting to another religion,
or insist on the separation and distinctiveness of their own religious culture. 9
In the two texts that I discuss in this chapter, caste struggle is located in the
historical example of lower castes’ attempts to enter the forbidden territory
of the upper-caste Hindu temple. The complex politics of this movement,
coded as simultaneously religious/iconoclastic and political/secular, raises
questions about caste’s relation to religion that are examined in more detail
in the discussion of the texts’ representation of temple entry.
Caste was given little prominence in the political schema of newly inde-
pendent India in Nehru’s regime. It was refused consideration even as a social
determinant of poverty, let alone as political identity. The caste dynamics
represented in these two texts from southern India reflect a significant shift
in the politics of caste that occurred in the 1970s, moving it toward a more
identity-based social movement. (There is a general pan-Indian dimension to
caste politics, although regional specificities are of significance as well.) The
Dalit Panthers movement in Maharashtra was the most significant indication
of this change. The radical dalit youth who constituted the movement drew
inspiration from the militant race struggles in the United States. Gopal Guru
and Anuradha Chakravarty describe their politics as representing a “Grams-
cian brand of Marxism” insofar as they focused their efforts in the cultural
sphere, contesting the “ideological, moral, and cultural superstructure of the
political-economic system.” “They missed, however, a key insight of Grams-
cian Marxism,” they regret. What was needed was a “degree of political
organization, the strength of political alliances, and the relations of force
170 Rajeswari Sunder Rajan
within a particular historical bloc of contention,” which they were not able to
muster (146–47). In particular, the Dalit Panthers, an urban working- class
movement, failed to mobilize untouchables in the rural areas, a failure that
is notably Gramscian in its diagnosis.
In Tamilnadu since the 1970s, dalits have adopted heterogeneous
modes of activism; forming NGOs that focus on promoting dalit educa-
tion, employment opportunities, and human rights; resorting to Com-
munist militancy (primarily over agricultural land issues); following the
path of Christian liberation theology; and allying with political parties to
capture power at local and regional levels. Jean-Luc and Josiane Racine
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Bharathipura
Bharathipura is a work of searing brilliance by one of contemporary Kan-
nada literature’s major figures. Asking how caste critique can be articulated
by a man belonging to the upper caste, and whether dalit revolution in the
form of temple entry can be led by a Brahmin, it engages these questions in
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The words that Jagannatha wanted to say stuck in his throat. In a sense,
he told himself, “This is fi rst matter, a mere stone. Touch this. I hold
my life in my hand in offering this to you. Touch this. The deepest part
of my inner being is invested here. Touch this. This is the propitious
hour of the evening prayers. Touch this. The eternal lamp is burning
in vain in the puja room. Touch this. My people at my back are pulling
at me, reminding me of a thousand obligations. What are you waiting
172 Rajeswari Sunder Rajan
for? Touch this. Understand what is happening here. By offering this as
a mere stone, I turn it into a shaligrama. The minute you touch this,
it turns into a mere stone for all these people. My anguish will then
become a shaligrama. Because I offer this to you, because you touch it
and because these people will witness this on this darkening evening, let
stone turn into shaligrama and let shaligrama turn into stone. You Pilla
. . . touch this and turn it into stone. After that, in a single step, crossing
the threshhold of the temple, centuries will be shaken. Touch this. Touch
it now. Touch, touch . . . See how easy it is! Touch!” (148)
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But the pariahs recoil in horror. Jagannatha tries persuasion, then great rage
overpowers him, and he “turned cruel.” “They appeared to him like dis-
gusting worms.” As he shouts at them, “Touch this, touch this, touch!” they
respond with fear, “the untouchables came forward mechanically, touched
with no feeling whatsoever what Jagannatha had extended to them and with-
draw swiftly.” The rest is anticlimactic.
ing his project in implicit opposition to the Gandhian forms of caste critique
and praxis (I have suggested that it is instead Fanonian in spirit). Gandhi’s
ethical address to the caste issue was an appeal to upper castes to transcend
caste consciousness; Jagannatha’s, as we saw, is an incitement of the “evil
passions of [dalit] men.” Congress-led temple entry had been prominently
practiced in the 1920s and 1930s in the Gandhian mode of satyagraha; Jagan-
natha instead envisages it in the independent India of his time as a storming
of the Bastille.
Temple satyagraha had been attempted by dalits in large numbers under
the leadership of the dalit leader, Dr. B. R. Ambedkar, but with different
ends in view than Gandhi’s. Ambedkar was at pains to provide a correct
understanding of this symbolic struggle under his leadership. Entry into
temples (as also taking water from temple tanks) staked dalits’ claim for
equal access to public spaces. It was emphatically not an expression of Hindu
devotion, but rather an expression of their claim to modern political rights.
As Ambedkar put it succinctly in a speech, “The issue is not entry but equal-
ity” (qtd. in Rao 85). Dalit demands were coded in the language of univer-
sal civic rights, and Hindu temples were re-designated by them as (secular)
public spaces. This was an idiom very different from Gandhi’s argument for
untouchable entry into temples that was targeted primarily at the reform of
caste Hinduism, to be achieved entirely by upper castes’ voluntary change
of heart. Gandhi castigated the independent initiative of dalits in starting the
temple satyagrahas since he held that they were incapable of conducting it in
the disciplined spirit of non-violence that he advocated (Rao 93–94).
Although Jagannatha, as a Brahmin himself, might be expected to sub-
scribe to the Gandhian credo, the emphasis on upper-caste reform and
non-violence that such an allegiance would require is conspicuously absent
from his arguments. The novel in fact gently satirizes a minor character
(Ananthakrishna, a Sarvodaya activist) for the Gandhian language he ban-
dies, even though he does support Jagannatha’s temple entry project. He
is shown to be more concerned about “the need for non-violence” while
staging the temple entry, and about the benefit a caste-reformed Hinduism
would gain from it (“the glory of Manjunatha would be enhanced by the
entry of the untouchables into the temple”) (Anantha Murthy, Omnibus 231).
176 Rajeswari Sunder Rajan
But Jagannatha neither takes recourse to the more advanced language of
rights nor challenges the so-called “private” terrain of the Hindu temple,
as Ambedkarite activists did. His reasoning most closely resembles instead
Ambedkar’s as expressed in the following letter he wrote:
I did not launch the temple entry movement because I wanted the De-
pressed Classes to become worshippers of idols . . . or because I believed
that temple entry would make them equal members in and an integral
part of Hindu society . . . [but] only because I felt that was the best way
of energizing the Depressed Classes and making them conscious of their
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may “erupt in violent revolt against the ‘gentry’ every now and then, but he is
incapable of seeing himself as a member of a collectivity (the nation for the
land-holders, the class for the proletarians), nor can he wage a systematic and
permanent campaign designed to alter the economic and political relations
of society” (in Forgacs, The Antonio Gramsci Reader 114).
At the same time Gramsci also took seriously as we know the “common
sense” of the peasant, gave credit to the “necessity” of his religion, and pur-
sued an interest in folklore. His suggestive observations about the role of
culture in shaping the revolutionary consciousness anticipate Fanon’s memo-
rable injunction to intellectuals participating in decolonizing movements: “It
is not enough to get back to the people in that past out of which they have
already emerged; rather we must join them in that fluctuating movement
which they are just giving shape to . . . It is to this zone of occult instability
where the people dwell that we must come” (The Wretched of the Earth 227).
Like Fanon, Gramsci was convinced of the need to involve the peasantry in
the revolutionary project and believed in their political potential.14 Note that
the passage cited above does not propose a reified peasant consciousness. On
the contrary it is a prelude to Gramsci’s optimistic observation that participa-
tion in the war of 1914 “radically changed the peasant psychology” (emphasis
added). The war opened up to the subaltern class a knowledge of the larger
world, forged solidarities among the soldiers, and fashioned a “common,
united spirit,” so much so that “a spiritual world emerged that was avid to
form itself into permanent and dynamic social structures and institutions” (in
Forgacs, Gramsci Reader 115).
It is this kind of understanding of subaltern consciousness, based on
a closely observed knowledge of the “totality of subaltern existence” that
Bharathipura also expresses—and being novelistic fiction is particularly fit-
ted to express.15 As in Gramsci’s writings, the emphasis in the novel is on
dalit potentiality, change and growth of political consciousness rather than
on the “autonomy” and “spontaneity” that invests subalterns with a spuri-
ous “agency,” or the kind of “respect” that would preserve them in their
immutable difference. Here for instance is a passage that expresses Gram-
sci’s faith in subaltern will and its capacity for transformation that resonates
closely with Jagannatha’s hopes for untouchable emancipation: “[B]asically
178 Rajeswari Sunder Rajan
if yesterday the subaltern element was a thing, today it is no longer a thing
but an historical person, a protagonist.” This quickly leads to the insight,
“But even yesterday was it ever mere ‘resistance,’ a mere ‘thing,’ mere ‘non-
responsibility?’ Certainly not.” Gramsci attributes the earlier condition to
“fatalism,” which is “nothing other than the clothing worn by real and active
will when in a weak position.” Intellectuals who subscribe to a philosophy
of such “mechanical determinism” end by making it a “cause of passivity, of
idiotic self-sufficiency” (SPNB 337).
Gramsci’s warning is useful to bear in mind when we turn to certain pop-
ular misconceptions about Jagannatha’s pedagogy. Like many other readers,
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While Gramsci sees the leadership of intellectuals as essential for the suc-
cess of a subaltern revolutionary movement, it is important not to conflate
these intellectuals with the middle class as such, as is the case in Fanon’s
180 Rajeswari Sunder Rajan
analysis. The “intellectuals” Gramsci has in mind are not, or are not in the
fi rst place, “traditional” intellectuals or intellectuals of the ruling class, but
rather those who emerge “organically” from within the group itself. Gramsci
is more interested in the formation of “homogeneous, compact social blocs,
which will give birth to their own intellectuals, their own commandos, their
own vanguard” (SPNB 205; emphasis added).19 His position is developed
through historical analysis and is primarily related to considerations of the
organization of the Communist party in Italy, not formulated as an abstract
ethical issue for the academic to ponder (SPNB 202–05, 310).
Therefore for Gramsci the key distinction would be between “intellectual
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elites separated from the masses” and those “conscious of being linked organi-
cally to a national-popular mass” (SPNB 204). Only the latter counts as the
organic intellectual. The question if applied to Bharathipura would be whether
Jagannatha succeeds in “shedding the false heroisms and pseudo-aristocra-
cies” that for Gramsci characterizes the déclassé or nomadic (in other words,
dilettantish) intellectual who enters the political fray (SPNB 204).20 Jagan-
natha’s caste identity as a Brahmin marks him as intellectual by tradition,
an identity further reinforced by his modern education. His voluntary, exis-
tentially mandated entry into social activism in his native Bharathipura is by
itself of course no guarantee of Gramscian organicity (or “authenticity” as it is
termed in the novel). What matters is that despite his long stay abroad in Eng-
land and the modernity toward which he ideologically leans, Jagannatha is no
outsider to the region, nor is he alienated from its people and politics. Instead
he cultivates a unique double perspective, which is also a source of confl ict
(the mark of the postcolonial intellectual). In his introduction to Bharathipura
Nagaraj has made it a point to draw attention to Anantha Murthy’s own famil-
iarity with locality, his intimate connection to place, and his political activism
and commitment, which are similar to Jagannatha’s in the novel.
Gayatri Spivak’s clarification that “organic intellectual is not a concept of
identity but a . . . function,” can help us to understand how the move into
organicity is made from both sides, the subaltern’s as well as the intellectual’s.
She reminds us that “the word ‘class’ loses its lineaments” in Gramsci’s defi ni-
tion of organic intellectuals in terms of a formation that is to be found in every
class (“Translator’s Preface” 209). The leadership of intellectuals, we noted,
would have to be provisional and coalitional. Obviously there is a sense of
temporality operative in judging the legitimacy and effectiveness of the role
played by the “voluntary” leader in subaltern movements: just as there is a
period when particular groups will need the support of leaders, the time will
also come when the latter’s uses will cease and their presence will become
irksome. A Brahmin-led caste movement today would not only be highly
unlikely but also far more politically problematic than in the rural Karna-
taka of the 1960s in which Bharathipura is set. To recognize and acknowledge
subaltern autonomy—and announce its own demise at the precise point of its
attainment—is the Gramscian task of the historical vanguard.
Questioning Intellectuals 181
Indira Parthasarathy’s Legend of Nandan, to which I shall now turn, pres-
ents us with a different phenomenon: the emergence of the organic intellec-
tual from within his own social group. While sidestepping questions about
“authenticity,” the play reveals how his leadership is nevertheless fraught with
contradictions and existential pain. And the specter of failure haunts both
works, a matter for the concluding discussion.
in Tamil, 1978) is a more overtly polemical text about caste politics in south-
ern India.21 In this play Indira Parthasarathy, an established Delhi-based
Tamil scholar, dramatist and novelist associated with a broad left radical
political activism, rewrites the seventh-century figure of an untouchable field
laborer, Nandan, who has been transformed into a saint and is celebrated in
the legend and myth of the Tamil country for his bhakti (religious devotion).
Parthasarathy seeks to expose in this sharp, swift-paced, explosive drama
the ploy of the upper castes to halt Nandan’s rise as a caste leader by plotting
his death.22
This version of the legend has wide currency to this day and Nandanar,
as he is known, is a venerated saint in the canon of Tamil bhakti figures. In
the nineteenth century the story was revised by the poet Gopala Krishna
Bharati, and made to serve as a pointed critique of Brahminism, which Indira
Parthasarathy further sharpens in his own revisionary work. Parthasarathy
makes clear at the outset in an Author’s note, that he will refer to his hero as
plain “Nandan,” forswearing the widespread form “Nandanaar” because the
“‘—aar’ is not an honorific but a cross to bear” (2). He thereby makes clear
his refusal of the ideological and instrumental elevation of the untouchable
into sainthood. The play exposes the Brahmin conspiracy to destroy Nandan
and quell the untouchables under his leadership. More ambitiously, Indira
Parthasarathy’s robust Marxist demystification of the meaning of Nandan’s
life is meant to contest the upper-castes’ historical victory in establishing
the “legend” of Nandan in their own chosen terms, that is in terms of his
transcendent religious devotion alone, an emphasis which ignores his tragic
death and their own role in bringing it about.
Parthasarathy’s interest in the play is divided between showing the sin-
gular development of Nandan’s consciousness as a lover of Beauty and the
devious cunning of Brahmins and other upper-castes (merchants, land-
lords) who plot his downfall. Nandan worships the beauty of God (who
is a Brahmin God), the arts, music and dance through which this God’s
greatness is celebrated, and the beauty of (a) woman, the temple dancer,
who represents all of these. His desire is invested with the kind of political
force that Jagannatha had intuited was necessary for the awakening of dalit
consciousness in Bharatipura. His constant reiteration of what constitutes the
182 Rajeswari Sunder Rajan
“human”—significantly, in terms of the experience of the aesthetics of plea-
sure, desire and transcendence—leads Nandan to criticize the untouchables’
life-world and propels him into a romantic and ideological alliance with the
dancer, Abhirami. Not content with self-reformation, in the characteristic
way of the organic intellectual he seeks to persuade his fellow-pulaiyars (the
untouchable caste of field-laborers) to follow him into the new way of life he
envisages as their salvation.23 (Note that this detail about pulaiyar mobiliza-
tion under Nandan’s leadership is Parthasarathy’s own contribution to the
historical account.) At this point the upper castes step in to manipulate both
Nandan’s newly enlarged sphere of consciousness and his growing constitu-
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ency. It is they who bring him into proximity with Abhirami so as to arouse
envy among his fellow pulaiyars; they who divide him from his community
and its norms; who convince him of dreams, voices, and visions purport-
edly coming from God himself; deceive him with manufactured miracles;
and endow him with dubious religious powers. And fi nally it is they who
persuade him to walk into the purificatory ritual fi re with Abhirami as a
way of cleansing himself of the dross of his caste-being and achieve rebirth.
The play ends with the sound of the victims’ “non-human wails” as they
burn. Even as the Vediyar exclaims on the “wonder” of their martyrdom,
the Udaiyar asks the watching crowd, “Are there any more paraiyans who
desire to become paarpaans? . . . come, come! If you take a dip in the fi re
. . .” (ellipses in original). The concluding stage directions: “Exit the parai-
yans running for their dear lives” (49).
Parthasarathy admittedly uses exposé as the blunt weapon of demystifica-
tion. The play is not without its contradictions and ambivalences, however: it
conveys as well more profound complexities about the nature of individual
and collective social resistance. Critics of the play were quick to note, for
instance, the writer’s uncertainty about how to develop Nandan’s character.
C.T. Indra cites the Tamil critic Uthirapathi who observed that “while in
the beginning he [Nandan] is seen as governed by the reason and thinking
that marks any ideologue, he later rather naively succumbs to the ploy of the
upper castes and accepts the commands of an allegedly astral voice which
is heard by some of the characters” (xix). There is a suggestion all the same
that Nandan is never entirely taken in by the status transformation he under-
goes, but is instead overwhelmed and overpowered by the public image he
has to live up to—which of course, only makes him even more the puppet of
the Brahmins who fi rst created and then exploited the image.
An extension of the characterological question leads to the central and
unresolved dilemma of the play: how to expose the Brahmins without simul-
taneously reducing Nandan’s status to that of a simpleton and dupe. The divi-
sion in the representation of Nandan between autonomous, even subversive
intellectual development and leadership, on the one hand, and his victim-
hood and defeat at the hands of his caste enemies, on the other, is symptom
of this deeper aporia. Nandan is the celebrated untouchable subject of bhakti
Questioning Intellectuals 183
in the medieval literary tradition. When he is rescued from that apotheo-
sized representation it is only to be revealed as dupe and victim—the mere
object—of Brahmin conspiracy. The mainspring of Nandan’s agency lies in his
caste-transcendent bhakti. By making Brahmin manipulation rather than this
autonomous devotion the cause of his death, Parthasarathy undermines Nan-
dan’s agential motivation and initiative. The untouchable devotee becomes
primarily a bone of contention between opposed literary-political interpreta-
tions. Whether the point that Parathasarathy is attempting to make is that
religion itself—all religion—is a delusion, or whether he means to suggest that
Nandan’s coming under its sway as an untouchable intellectual, is a political
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the puliyars is not limited to being a cultural movement. It has its material
aspects as reflected in agricultural labor and class relations. The landlord
and merchant upper castes in the play are profoundly worried about the
neglect of the harvest and other menial tasks that the pulaiyars and paraiyars
are exclusively assigned to do, according to a permanently entrenched divi-
sion of labor. Equally, the untouchables opposed to Nandan fear the loss of
their wages and punishment by the masters. While caste is not reducible to
class, the class aspect of caste formation cannot be long overlooked. 25
At the play’s opening, the four vediyars (brahminical Vedic scholars,
priests) assemble to discuss Nandan’s threat in a series of quick exchanges:
Nandan is carrying on a “campaign” among the pulaiyars; he is “trying to
turn the paraccheri (untouchable neighborhood) into an agraharam (Brahmin
neighborhood)”; he advises the people “to give up the paraiya God” and
embrace “the paarpaara God” (6). What does Nandan’s campaign entail?
“I am bringing around the folks of my cheri to my way of thinking. I shall
bring a few of them [to the temple] . . . those who wallow in squalor wor-
shipping the palla deity should know what a paarpaara deity is like,” he tells
Abhirami (10). He is angry with his people for indulging in mere drinking,
dancing and eating, and for the mindless labor they perform. In argument
with them, he denies that caste is “a loss which one suffers at birth.” “No,
it’s a law made by the rich.” It is a thing of the mind, “Half of it is just what
the upper castes say. The rest of it is what we think ourselves.” He speaks to
them of “Beauty,” which consists of “being human”: “we’re beasts, we must
become human” (12).
The play consequently shows untouchable life as brutal and bestial. Nev-
ertheless, even in the face of such a representation, the paraiyas are able to
defend their way of life with arguments built on a powerful sense of auton-
omy, coupled with a critique of Brahminical life. Nandan’s own repudiation
of his stigmatized culture, origins and people, and his desire for the “other,”
remain unalterable. It is seemingly the tragic price the untouchable intellec-
tual pays for his caste-consciousness. D. R. Nagaraj observes how frequently
“the birth of the modern individual in the humiliated communities is not
only accompanied by a painful severing of ties with the community, but also
a conscious effort to alter one’s past is an integral part of it” (7–8).26 Here
Questioning Intellectuals 185
Indira Parthasarathy stages one of the central debates relating to modern
dalit cultural politics. Nandan is one in a long line of caste leaders, dalit as
well as savarna (upper caste), who have propagated the reform of untouch-
able customs and manners so total as to threaten to undermine dalit identity
itself.27 That there are serious and long-lasting implications to this reformist
pedagogy has since come to be recognized.28 Interestingly however, the pos-
sibility of such self-alienation is not an eventuality that Gramsci takes cogni-
zance of in urging the emergence of the organic intellectual into leadership.
In the teleology of history we do often fi nd that in the liberatory move-
ments of stigmatized groups self-transformation and radical reform precede
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great masses have become detached from their traditional ideologies, and
no longer believe what they used to believe previously etc,” writes Gramsci.
This moment then is an “interregnum,” harboring revolutionary potential
(SPNB 276). Like Gramsci, the two writers I have discussed in this chapter
also read history as a process rather than in terms of a single, defi nitive and
conclusive event. While as literary texts these imaginative reconstructions of
subaltern insurgency may not be able to entirely avoid narrative telos, their
formal open-endedness allows us to glimpse a future beyond the closing
verdict of failure. The reading of these texts as representation of an “inter-
regnum” fi lled with uncertainty and potential is made possible, in my view,
by Gramsci’s analysis of subaltern history.
Notes
I am grateful to all those who read various drafts of this essay and offered
their comments and suggestions, especially the editors of this volume, and
Toral Gajarawala, You-me Park, and Kaushik Sunder Rajan.
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9 Mariátegui and Gramsci in
“Latin” America
Between Revolution and Decoloniality 1
Walter D. Mignolo
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Introduction
For this volume I was asked for a contribution on Antonio Gramsci in
Latin America. To focus on Gramsci without examining the intellectual
and political environment in which he was translated, read, used and
discussed would be a sort of anti-Gramscian endeavor. As I understand it,
Gramsci would have not written about Lenin in Italy without examining
the situation in Italy that may have or have not made Lenin relevant. In
that regard, and for reasons that will be clarified in the following pages,
it is necessary to start by examining in parallel and in contrast both Peru-
vian José Carlos Mariátegui (1894–1930) and Sardinian Antonio Gramsci
(1891–1937). The two great thinkers have been placed in relation several
times. The general tendency is to underline the influences of Gramsci on
Mariátegui. There are a few who have doubts about it, although they do
not radically contest the idea. The assumption here is that Gramsci could
have influenced Mariátegui; never that Mariátegui could have influenced
Gramsci. And the underlying presupposition under the assumptions is
that “influence” goes from the center to the periphery of the modern/
colonial world, never the other way around. I will come back to this issue.
In the meantime, I invite you to think about it: they were almost the same
age, three years difference. When Mariátegui was in Italy, he was about
twenty-four and Gramsci was twenty-seven.
Gramsci was very influential in Argentina and Brazil (particularly since
1960).2 The young Marxist generation found in Gramsci’s writing a breath
of fresh air and the opportunity to break away from the institutional Marx-
ism-Leninism that emanated from Moscow. Later on we found Gramsci in
México (because of the Argentine émigrés in the mid-1970s) and his impact
can be traced today in several places and disciplines. But it is obvious and
necessary to remember, Gramsci was influential within Marxism mainly. For
the contemporary debates in Latin America of the 1960s, like dependency
theory, philosophy of liberation and Indianism (as voiced by Bolivian Fausto
Reinaga), Gramsci was not a necessary reference.
192 Walter D. Mignolo
At the beginning of the 1970s in Argentina the military dictatorship ended
and the path toward democracy opened up; in the mid-1980s, the émigrés
to México returned to the country—and with them Gramsci. The historical
situation has changed radically in relation to the conditions that in the 1960s
and the 1970s made Gramsci necessary for certain sectors of the left. This
volume focuses also on Gramsci and the postcolonial. And Gramsci and
the postcolonial in “Latin” America is an empty category. Consequently, I
will slightly deviate from the topic and address instead “Gramsci and the
decolonial,” and will be putting Gramsci in conversation with the decolo-
nial in South/Central America and the Caribbean, a sphere of political and
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Gramsci and Mariátegui run parallel lives. Although “influences” of the former
on the latter have been suggested, as I just mentioned, it is quite unlikely, unless
the precocity of Gramsci’s writing met the precocity and voracity of Mariáteg-
ui’s reading habits. Mariátegui was well acquainted with Marxists of Eastern
Europe (Rosa Luxembourg [1871–1919], George Luckàcs [1885–1991] and with
Antonio Labriola [1843–1904]), but Gramsci seems to have been as unknown to
Mariátegui as Mariátegui to Gramsci. Or they probably met when Mariátegui
was in Italy, but there is no correspondence that will tell us that the meeting was
the flashing light for Mariátegui or that Gramsci noticed the similar concerns
in this young Peruvian intellectual. The influence of Gramsci in Mariátegui
seems to be more the wishful thinking of Mariátegui’s followers than a his-
torically documented event. What is undeniably true is that both Gramsci and
Mariátegui were facing and living in a similar “colonial” situation: the internal
colonialism in the history of Southern Italy and the external colonialism in the
history of the Andean region (Perú, Bolivia, Ecuador).
Gramsci presented the dilemma of the “Southern Question” in free indi-
rect style and faced the Southern subaltern with two options: either be with
the local elite or with the workers of the mainland. The “colonial question”
was connected to the “industrial question” Gramsci reports addressing an
audience in these terms:
The dilemma: Are you, poor Sardinian devils, are you for a bloc with
the gentry of Sardegna, who have ruined you and who are the local over-
seers of capitalist exploitation? Or are you for a bloc with the revolution-
ary workers on the mainland, who stand for the abolition of exploitation
and emancipation of all who are oppressed? This dilemma was rammed
into the head of those present. (The Southern Question 38)
For Mariátegui, the dilemma was the long-lasting colonial legacies in South
America and the peculiarity of not having a bourgeoisie and, therefore, a
proper working class in the sense Gramsci was talking about:
The agrarian problem is first and foremost the problem of eliminating feu-
dalism in Peru, which should have been done by the democratic-bourgeois
Mariátegui and Gramsci in “Latin” America 195
regime that followed the War of Independence. But in its one hundred years
as a republic, Peru has not had a genuine bourgeois class, a true capitalist
class. The old feudal class—camouflaged or disguised as a republican bour-
geoisie—has kept its position. The policy of disentitlement, initiated by the
War of Independence as a logical consequence of its ideology, did not lead
to the development of small property. The old landholding class had not
lost its supremacy. The survival of the latifundistas, in practice, preserved
the latifundium. Disentailment struck at the Indian community. During a
century of Republican rule, great agricultural property actually has grown
stronger and expanded, despite the theoretical liberalism of our constitution
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In sum, the colonial conditions of the rural South and of the industrial North
are quite different from the colonial conditions of the ex-colonies in South
America, where there is no equivalent to the Italian industrial North.
Once in a lecture I mentioned this topic, I was asked during the Q&A
period what I thought about the fact that Gramsci may have suffered more in
prison under fascism than Mariátegui under internal colonialism. I politely
responded that it was a moot point from a political perspective. It may be
important in a discussion about Christian institutional morality (not even for
Theology of Liberation). The problem is of course not who suffered more (for
indigenous and enslaved Africans and their descendants in the New World
suffered more than Gramsci and Mariàtegui together), but that Gramsci was
in prison because of Fascism and Mariàtegui because of internal colonialism
and his confrontation with the dictatorship of Augusto B. Leguía. The prob-
lem is that you cannot expect to solve Peruvian problems based on Gramsci
suffering more under Fascism than Mariátegui under internal colonialism
and Leguía´s dictatorship during his early years of critical journalism. The
problem of the question was the presupposition of one single story. Let’s
take two paragraphs to illuminate the point I am trying to make. The fi rst
deals with the Southern Question and the other with the indigenous prob-
lem. For Gramsci, “The question in Italy is historically determined,” it is not
the “peasant and agrarian question in general.” In Italy, the peasant question
has, given its specific Italian tradition, assumed two particular typical and
peculiar forms, the Southern question and the Vatican question (Gramsci,
The Southern Question 32). For Mariátegui, instead, the assumption that the
Indian problem is ethnic is sustained by the most outmoded repertory of
imperialist ideas.
The concept of inferior races was useful to the white man’s West for
purposes of expansion and conquest. To expect that the Indian will be
emancipated through a steady crossing of the aboriginal race with white
immigrants is an anti-sociological naiveté that could only occur to the
196 Walter D. Mignolo
primitive mentality of an importer of merino sheep . . . The degenera-
tion of the Peruvian Indian is a cheap invention of the sophists who serve
feudal interests (Mariátegui, Seven Interpretative Essays 25).
Mariátegui has laid out in his treatment of the “Indian Question” the
epistemic and political foundation of the project modernity/(de)colonial-
ity, which is the perspective that nourished these pages. I am not just
reporting on Gramsci in “Latin” America from a neutral disciplinary per-
spective, but in dialogue with the adaptation. The point is not Gramsci’s
work but its uses in the Southern Cone. So I am not saying that Gramsci
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Both also were facing the quarrel between colonial legacies and nation
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building (Italy united in 1861 after being torn apart by Spanish, Aus-
trian, and French colonial expansion in Europe; Peru began the process
of nation building in 1821). Mariátegui lived through the second presi-
dency of extreme right-winger Augusto B. Leguía (1919–1930) and Gram-
sci through Benito Mussolini (1925–1943). Both, in their singular local
histories, traced parallel trajectories of epistemic disobedience, indepen-
dent thoughts and decolonial freedom. Although the term “colonialism”
is frequently used in Gramsci’s Notebooks it is not one of his keywords.
Gramsci has been seldom quoted for giving the term “colonialism” a
theoretical meaning, as he is quoted for his concept of “hegemony” and
“subalternity.” “Colonialism” instead is one of Mariátegui’s key concepts.
As a matter of fact, Mariátegui’s use of colonialism is the forerunner of
“coloniality.” “Colonialism” was an historical concern for Gramsci, as it
is clear when he addresses the Southern Question. But Gramsci’s colonial
experience was very different from Mariátegui’s. However, an important
consideration for both of them is that they are thinkers who developed
their thought from their historical and personal experiences rather than
from previous theories.
Both Mariátegui and Gramsci were voracious readers; they knew and
pondered coexisting theories. Because they grounded their theorizing in
their geo- and body-political location they remain exemplary intellectual
guides and they are irreducible to one another. As original thinkers, they
confront theories with phenomena to be accounted for and confronted
existing theories that were derailed in relation to what they were per-
ceiving. Both, in their own local histories and from them, confronted
the limits of Marxist theories of their time as well as many others one
can fi nd in both thinkers. Thus, while Gramsci provided a wealth of
concepts and insights to the renovation of the “Latin” American left of
Marxist persuasion, Mariátegui provided the conditions for the advent
of the concept of coloniality (and hence, decoloniality) introduced by
Peruvian sociologist Aníbal Quijano at the end of the 1980s.7 Decolonial-
ity since that moment meant “epistemic decolonization” and delinking
from Eurocentrism. 8
198 Walter D. Mignolo
In a related issue, one of the evaluators of this article noted that Gram-
sci in several opportunities commented on the situation in South America
and on the question of “Latinity.” But in the same fashion, Mariátegui has
countless comments on Europe, on Italy, on the Communist Party, and
so on. However, this article is not about what both authors said about the other
author’s history and location but the uses of Gramsci in South America mainly. For
it would be unfair and totally colonial to only consider what Gramsci has to
say about South America without paying attention to what Mariátegui has
to say about Italy and Europe. It will mean to follow the same self-colonized
logic of the South American and Caribbean intellectuals who put Gramsci
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fi rst and Mariátegui second. This article is an effort to shift this colonial
geography of reasoning and to decolonize the epistemic racism implied in
such hierarchy. 9
In his critique to Lamberti Sorrentino’s book Latinitá dell´America,
Gramsci opens the paragraph by asking, “Are Central and South America
Latin?”; he is asking the question to prepare the Italian reader to his cri-
tique of Sorrentino (Prison Notebooks 3: 11ff). He is not addressing South
and Central Americans for whom the question is not asked because they
knew that they were not Anglo or Slavic or Chinese or Indians from South
Asia. Intellectuals certainly knew that the population of European descent
in South and Central America did not come from Germany (although
there were a few) or England (although there were a few) but that their
ancestors came from Spain, Italy or Portugal. In the second paragraph of
the same entry, Gramsci observes,
Gramsci is telling this to the Italian reader. Leaving aside the question
of the passivity of the Indians (which was the landowner mythology
in South and Central America), we cannot assume that he was telling
this to Peruvians and other South and Central American countries.
Mariátegui, who died the same year as Gramsci, wrote the preceding
observations in 1930 when he published Seven Interpretive Essays along
with many articles that were overwhelmingly answering the questions
Gramsci was asking and correcting the mistakes he had made. This is
not a critique of Gramsci. This is a critique of those who expect that
because Gramsci wrote about South America, what he wrote was relevant
for South Americans who were living the experience he was describing
from Italy.
Mariátegui and Gramsci in “Latin” America 199
Now, regarding Gramsci’s assessment of South and Central America as
well as his assessment of the intellectuals in these locations, his views are
certainly very limited. He seems to have in mind the “organic intellectu-
als” and completely ignores some of his contemporaries, like Mariátegui
himself or the Cuban José Martí (1853 –1895), who died when Mariátegui
was still a child. I do not have time here to explore the dissident thoughts
that include not only Creole and Mestizos, but also Indians and Afri-
cans in South America. In this regard, Gramsci’s views are limited to the
European perspective, while Mariátegui offers a corrective to this type
of comment that prevails today in Le Monde Diplomatique, for instance. I
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Where Mariátegui and Gramsci run at the same speed and in the same
direction is on the colonial and the Southern Question, respectively.
However, the emphasis varies. In Mariátegui’s work, the colonial lega-
cies in the Andes are as central as is hegemony for Gramsci. If the future
for Gramsci was how to build socialist hegemony, for Mariátegui it was
how to decolonize and delink from colonial legacies. If at that point
Mariátegui was still thinking within a socialist future horizon, he was
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To speculate about the clergy and the intellectuals in Latin America from
the background of the clergy in Italy may have been significant in Italy,
but not in Latin America. There is of course much more to say about the
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question of the clergy, the intellectuals, and the local histories of Italy and
Peru. I hope these few indications help to understand that we are facing
crossing gazes when Gramsci talks about Latin America and Mariátegui
about Italy and Europe. They were both concerned with and theorizing
from the irreducible difference of their local history. However, they were
located at different points of the colonial matrix of power: Gramsci in
the South of Europe, a degraded part of Europe since Kant and Hegel’s
writing, while Mariátegui was located in the Andes and South America,
a degraded part of the world in Hegel’s philosophy of history. Located
at different points of the colonial matrix, Gramsci and Mariátegui were
responding from their own locations to the imperial universality of liberal-
ism, Marxism, and Christianity.
If we now turn the table around and attempt to understand the South-
ern Question and Gramsci’s take on it from the history of Peru, we would
fi nd out that Italy and Peru in the twenties were going through simi-
lar situations at two different ends of the colonial matrix spectrum: two
different manifestations of internal colonialism, one in the very history
of Europe and the other in the history of European colonial expansion
and domination.
Looked at from the standard perspective of Western universal history
to which local histories are appended, Italy and Peru have nothing to
do with each other. But if we look at them from the perspective of the
colonial matrix of power that emerged in the sixteenth century and is
still alive and well, then Italy and Peru are at the time two clear cases
of re-articulation of the internal and external colonial differences. The
colonial matrix is, in a nutshell, a structure of management and control
upon which the modern/colonial world and, in the last analysis, West-
ern civilization rests (Gramsci, Southern Question 171–85). It was put in
place by actors and institutions on a set of assumptions and categories of
thought and knowledge that made it possible to build and maintain the
interrelations between four basic spheres—authority (politics), economy
(including land as private property and natural resources), gender and
sexuality, knowledge and subjectivity—as a single, although transformed
202 Walter D. Mignolo
through the century, matrix. It is the enunciation, in other words, that
made and makes possible to maintain the consistency and coherence of
the colonial matrix. The point I am driving at is that the matrix was
built, on the one hand, by delimiting a series of domains (just mentioned)
and, on the other, by securing the locus of enunciation for the manage-
ment and control of those domains. Thus in the process of building and
managing the colonial matrix, it was necessary to create a series of “dif-
ferences,” colonial and imperial, of which I would only here refer to the
“colonial differences.”10
Colonial differences were established vis-à-vis the non-European popu-
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lation (e.g., Indians and blacks in the sixteenth century) and vis-à-vis the
European population (e.g., Jews and Roma in the same period). In the
eighteenth century, when the control of knowledge, and consequently the
management of authority and the economy moved to the North of Europe
(Germany, France, England), a new dimension of the difference appeared:
this time, the imperial difference in the history of Europe itself. To control
knowledge means to control the enunciation and by so doing to be able
to classify without being classified, to be able to degrade other forms of
knowledge, to demonize what is not sustainable according to the domi-
nant locus of enunciation. To control knowledge is not to control content
(the enunciated) but to control the logic that organizes the content (the
enunciation).11 The idea of “the South of Europe” was put in place with
all its transformations, internal structuring and consequences. Gramsci,
as a Southerner himself, lived in different places but his dwelling was
Southern memories, while Mariátegui was experiencing the legacy of the
external colonial difference that put him in the very notable situation of
being neither European nor Indian, but feeling the consequences of the
colonial difference.12
Now, the point is that in countries with colonial legacies, the intellectual tra-
dition rooted in the history of the region has to coexist with the importation
of the last ideas being debated in Europe. Coloniality of knowledge works
in the entire spectrum and impinges on the right, the left and the center.
Gramsci, and European intellectuals in general, do not have to worry about
the debates going on in the colonies. The differential of epistemic power is
engrained in the colonial difference in all its facets and faces.
José Aricó, in his classic book on Gramsci in Latin America—a book
that is the product of his research, of course, but also of his engagement
with Gramsci and as an activist and political analyst—devoted a chapter
to the following question: “Why Gramsci in Latin América?” (34ff). What
were the circumstances and the needs that led to the incorporation of
Gramsci’s thoughts? For Aricó, Gramsci entered at the junction of two
key moments: the illusions awakened by the Cuban Revolution in 1959
and, by 1970, the moment of crisis of the Cuban Revolution coincided
with the repercussion, in Latin America, of the world crisis, the end of
the welfare state and the initial moment of a series of dictatorial regimes
(Pinochet in Chile, Videla in Argentina, the infamous “Operación Con-
dor,” etc).17 In the 1970s and 1980s the attention devoted to Gramsci by
the Latin American intelligentsia was increasing. In the context that Aricó
is describing, the concept of “hegemony” was the most helpful. As the
debates in the late 1970s were moving from dependency to transition to
democracy, the question of the State, central for Gramsci in his struggle
with fascism, was paralleled in Argentina and in “Latin” America. On
the question of the State, Gramsci offered an outlet to the indifference of
Marxist international thinking. His distinction between civil and political
society, next to that of hegemony, provided a concept of the state that was
alien to the orthodox Marxist thinking which saw in the State a bourgeois
institution to be superseded by the dictatorship of the proletariat and the
internationalization of the revolution. In South and Central America the
question of the State became central during the period of dictatorships in
Argentina, Chile and Brazil, and so Gramsci provided basic tools. How-
ever, in Bolivia, René Zavaleta Mercado was moving away from Gramsci
and rethinking the State in relation to the national-popular.18
206 Walter D. Mignolo
From a decolonial perspective one of the most interesting aspects of
Gramsci’s reception was his distinction between the “Occident” and “Ori-
ent.” For decolonially, decolonially, the main problem was not so much class
struggle or the State but the West (Occident) in which both class struggle and
the (modern) State originated. The issues were already framed in indigenous
thinking to which of course the Gramscian left was blind. Political thinking
scould only come from Europe; no original thinking could exist beyond the
Western tradition.
José Aricó reflects on this point as follows. In the distinction between
Orient and Occident that Gramsci introduced in his Notebooks, Aricó
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dent) are a way to describe the relations between the State and the Civil
Society—racism, in America is as pervasive as classism in Europe. Curi-
ously enough, the uses of Gramsci in South America not only displaced
Mariátegui from the intellectual scene, but also Zavaleta Mercado and
Fausto Reinaga. Motley society is a crucial concept to understand the
layers and interlayers of social formations in colonial societies. We can
fi nd nothing like that in Gramsci, and the Latin American left ignored
the concept until the books by Luis Antezama and Luis Tapia, in the past
twenty years when the colonial question awakened the left, was put again
in circulation. This is not a critique of Gramsci, of course. He did what he
had to do. It is a critique of the colonial mentality of the left in South and
Central America. So, if the question is to understand the uses of Gramsci
in South and Central America, we have to be aware that his work served,
unintentionally, to displace the local production of knowledge. Gramsci
indeed was also local production of knowledge, but why does Zavaleta
remain only as local while the Gramscians pretend that Gramsci is uni-
versal (or at least global)?
The West or “Occidente” was not a central problem for Gramsci. But of
course it is for all those who do not belong to the six dominant European
languages. Now, there are indeed at least three Occidents: Hegel’s heart
of Europe, Gramsci’s peripheral Europe, and the “colonial Occident”
(America except the US) that was self-described by an Argentine intel-
lectual as “the confi ne of Occident.” 20 There is the Occident in which the
interconnections between the economy, class structure, and state appear
in a more balanced organization and the Occident in which such rela-
tions are still in less articulated conditions. Those were, for Gramsci, the
frontier or peripheral states (Poland, Italy, Spain and Portugal). For the
Argentinian left it was important that Gramsci’s thought emerged from his
living and observing peripheral occidental societies. For that reason, they
concluded, certain Latin American societies, like Argentina, Brazil and
Mexico where industrialization was advanced, were similar to the Euro-
pean peripheral societies. The historical blindness was remarkable—both
for Argentinian and Brazilian followers of Gramsci—for Spain and Portu-
gal are deeply rooted in the colonial memories. Gramsci’s analogy was
208 Walter D. Mignolo
possible for the Argentinian and Brazilian left, because their own colonial
past was suppressed. That memory was very present in the entire work of
José Carlos Mariátegui. From a decolonial perspective Italy, Spain and
Portugal are the roots of European self-proclaimed (imperial) modernity.
Portugal-Brazil will need further and specific consideration, which is not
the place to go into here. Poland is perhaps the closest parallel to “Latin”
America in the sense that since the sixteenth century it went through a
series of violent colonizations and partitions by the Russian Tzarate, the
Kingdom of Prussia, and the Hapsburg Monarchy. For the new left (the
Gramscian) the legacies of the colonial past and the distinction between
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countries with imperial legacies (Italy, Spain, Portugal) and countries with
colonial legacies (Poland, Argentina, Brazil, Mexico) was not as important
as it was for the “national left” whose arguments were based both in the
history of the nation and the history of imperialism (from Spain and Por-
tugal, to England and France, and to the US). The new left had two foci:
to liberate themselves from the Communist Party and to reflect on the
State during the era of dictatorship. The national left was also formed in
contradistinction with the Communist Party, but it focused on the crossing
between national and imperial histories in the history of particular coun-
tries as well as in the history of South and Central America.
Gramsci entered “Latin” America perhaps a decade before he made
his way into the South Asian Subaltern Studies historiographical proj-
ect, and the emphasis was different. “Subalternity” was seldom, if ever,
an issue for South American Gramscians. What caught their attention
were the concepts of “hegemony” (chiefly Ernesto Laclau) and “historical
block.” 21 This difference is telling of what Gramsci took to India and what
Gramsci took to Argentina. South Asian Subaltern Studies scholars and
intellectuals were quick to mutate “subalternity” and make it work in the
colonial history of India. The colonial context made it necessary to clarify
the distinction between hegemony and domination. 22 “Subaltern subjects”
are formed—as is well known—not only by the larger class of deprived,
politically marginalized, economically exploited, and subjectively under-
mined individuals, as Gramsci taught us to see. Next to subaltern subjects
are the “colonial subjects,” and colonial subjects are a different species
of subaltern. Colonial subjects are crossed by racism and, therefore, by
the colonial and imperial differences. Colonial subjects are specifically
those marked by the double-crossing of racism and patriarchy, enduring
the colonial wound. These are not central concerns in Gramsci, but they
are in Fanon and Mariátegui. In this regard, subalternity in India is very
close to Fanon’s damnés, and one could wonder why it was Gramsci and not
Fanon who became the point of reference for Asian Subaltern Studies. 23
A quick answer would be that Fanon was, like Mariátegui, a respected
but second-class thinker; a thinker from the colonies. Beyond Gramsci’s
brilliancy, there was also the clout of being a European thinker. Italy has
Mariátegui and Gramsci in “Latin” America 209
a huge peasant population, but not as huge as India’s. Furthermore, Italy
belonged in the nineteenth century, to the “peripheral” modern, capitalist
countries of Europe while India was colonized by the leading European
imperial country, Britain. What is at stake here is the internal colonial
difference (or internal colonialism) in which Gramsci is thinking and the
external colonial difference that lay at the historical foundation of Gan-
dhi, Nehru, and the South Asian Subaltern Studies. That was where pro-
gressive intellectuals from the ex-colonies looked for their own salvation.
They were not looking much into their own past. That is why Mahatma
Gandhi is somewhat despised by Guha. 24 Thus, the generation who intro-
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duced Gramsci and created Pasado y Presente could have named their pub-
lication Amauta—that was the journal started by Mariátegui. Amauta in
Quechua-Aymara languages means “philosopher, man of wisdom.” But
that would have been taken as traditional. Instead, Gramsci was a song
“for the young generation” of modernity. In fact, it was the same ideol-
ogy of modernity that the US was using to promote their own projects of
“development and modernization;” the project that provoked the critical
responses of dependency theory and theology of liberation.
Now the fact that Gramsci entered Argentina through Córdoba and not
through Buenos Aires was not by chance. There is a long history that gave
Córdoba its place in Argentina. In 1575, the University of Córdoba was
inaugurated. That was a few decades after the creation of the University
of Santo Domingo, the University of Mexico, and the University of San
Marcos in Lima and about sixty years before the foundation of Harvard
University in 1636. During the nineteenth century Córdoba was a focus
of the civil war and the national re-organization since 1862. In 1918, Cór-
doba was the focus of Reforma Universitaria (University Reformation) that
had an impact all over Spanish America. By the 1960s, Córdoba became
a center of industrial modernization and development. The car industry
was responsible for the miracle: FIAT, Kayser, and Renault found their
home in Córdoba. And because of that, in 1969 the city witnessed “El
Cordobazo:” the workers of Kayser industry, with the support of the stu-
dent population, literally took the city. The uprising, that came about a
year and a half after the “global 1968” (Beijing, Czechoslovakia, Paris,
Mexico), was led not by the Marxist avant-garde but by workers and
students in the long tradition of Córdoba University and the shorter tradi-
tion of university reformation. The fact then that it was in Córdoba where
Gramsci found his fi rst shelter in Argentina is indeed quite relevant. And
it explains also why Mariátegui was less relevant in this context: the his-
tory of Argentina that Perón was able to mobilize. That is, the people
from the countryside and the Bolivian workers that migrated to Buenos
Aires were shattered by the shining path of industrialization, modern-
ization, and development that transformed Córdoba from a provincial
and colonial city into a modern city—the center, nothing less, of the car
210 Walter D. Mignolo
industry. And we all know the meaning the car industries had in the
Third World—they carried the promises of entering the route toward the
First World. Thus, Gramsci in Córdoba did not come with the “Southern
Question,” but with the “Northern Question.” Gramsci arrived at Cór-
doba, Argentina, at the moment the city was becoming the hub of the
automobile industry: Kayser, Renault and Fiat set their plants and office
in the outskirts of the city. They developed a large body of workers. The
industrial environment of Cordoba, where Gramsci found his home in
Argentina, was like the Milano of Luchino Visconti’s Rocco e i suoi fratelli
(1960): the Southern Question in the Industrial North.
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Any state crisis, then, may be reversible, or it may continue. If the cri-
sis continues, a subsequent stage is the catastrophic equilibrium. Lenin
spoke of a revolutionary situation, Gramsci of catastrophic equilibrium,
both referring to the same phenomenon albeit in distinct languages.
(“Catastrophic Equilibrium and Point of Bifurcation”)
The point is not of course about scholarly debates. The question ges-
tures toward the correlation between Marxism and ethnicity/racism in
America and the Caribbean. Garcia Linera is facing in Bolivia a situa-
tion that neither Lenin nor Gramsci could have imagined: a country in
which 60% of the population are the aboriginals of the land and Marx-
ism being a way of thinking and being that suits people of European
descent but not so much Indians and people of African descent. Or
course I’m not referring to the fact that there were no aboriginals, but
to the fact that colonial legacies in America (and the US—as well as in
Africa) present problems and issues alien to those the Russian Lenin
confronted and the Italian Gramsci was dealing with. I am suggesting
that in spite of the conceptual differences between Lenin and Gramsci,
there were more commonalities between Russia and Southern Italy at
the margin of Europe than with the Andes of South America: the land,
territory, history, memory and living experience Indians have endured
through fi ve hundred years of European colonialism, including, of course,
Marxism.
The issues confronted by Indo and Afro intellectuals, scholars and
activists are not the same as those affl icting Euro-descendent activists,
212 Walter D. Mignolo
scholars and intellectuals. We are all living in the same world, but we
inhabit different corners of the colonial matrix of power. Marxist views
cannot be universal, neither for that matter, Liberal, Christian or Islamic
views. The decolonial fi nds its place right there, on the cracks produced
in the clash of abstract universal in their struggle to obtain a universal
hegemony. If we are to still use the Gramscian concepts, it is necessary
to extricate them from the modern political theoretical frame in which it
emerges and to bring it to the decolonial horizon. In that horizon, decolo-
nial hegemony would look like pluriversality as a universal project rather
than the hegemony of one abstract universal.
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When I say that in America Gramsci has been used mainly by the
population of European descent, but not so much by indigenous and
Black radical thinkers, I have two scenarios in mind; one is Fausto Rein-
aga, Aymara intellectual and activist. In his book The Indian Revolution
he stated,
The manifesto of the Partido Indio de Bolivia (PIB) does not have to
be subjected to any model, rule or logic, formal or intellectual, that
rules the political parties of the White-mestizo “cholaje” [cfr. People
of Indian ancestry mixed with other ethnicities, mixed in blood but
¨white¨ in mind] of Bolivia and Indoamérica. 31 This is not a mani-
festo of the social class. It is a manifesto of a race, of a people, of a Na-
tion: the manifesto of an entire culture oppressed and silenced. It is
not possible to compare with Marx´s Communist Manifesto. It is not
possible to compare because the genial “Moor” did not confront the
West (Occident). He confronted the proletarian with the bourgeois
class and proposed, within the same Western Civilization, the “in-
tangida” [cfr. incapable of being thought out or realized] communist
revolution. (Reinaga 382; my own translation)
ica (in general, from pole to pole) and is very important for my argument.
Gordon suggested that Europe smells like class while the Americas smell
like race. What did he mean by that? The Europe of the Industrial Revolu-
tion and of Marxism is basically “white” Europe. 32 The South, where mixing
bloods and religions could be found, was fi rst “purified” with the expulsion
of Jews and Moors since the end of the fi fteenth century. Furthermore, by
the end of the eighteenth century, Enlightenment philosophers were effective
in downgrading the South/Latin region of Europe. In such a way that when
the question of class began to be formulated, it was formulated in the heart
of Europe (England, Germany and France) where ethno-racial confl icts were
invisible since the majority of the population was white and Christian.
On the other hand, Paget Henry published a landmark book in 2003 that
was awarded the fi rst annual Fanon Prize by the Caribbean Philosophical
Association in 2004. The title of the book is Caliban’s Reason: Introducing
Afro-Caribbean Philosophy.33 The chapter before last is devoted to “Caribbean
Marxism: After the Neoliberal and Linguistic Turn.” There is not one sin-
gle quote from Gramsci. Certainly, the chapter focuses on the period “after
the neo-liberal and linguistic turn” and Gramsci strongly entered in Latin
America in the 1960s, but apparently not so strongly in the Caribbean. But
the time period should be a factor since Henry devotes a chapter to C. L. R.
James, and James adhered to a certain extent to Marxism, until he was dis-
enchanted and wrote Beyond a Boundary (1963), a personal and critical narra-
tive of cricket in Jamaica. The year of the publication of James’s book was the
year in which Gramsci was being received by young generations of Marxists,
in Argentina and Brazil, disenchanted with the Communist Party.
As we can imagine, not quoting Gramsci was not Henry’s oversight of
careless scholarship. It is just that for Caribbean black intellectuals, Gramsci
was not addressing issues relevant to them. Certainly, radical Black thinkers
of the twentieth century have been all critics of capitalism, like Gramsci.
However, as you can imagine, Marxism doesn’t have the monopoly of that
kind of criticism and visions toward the future. As Fanon said in The Wretched
of the Earth, “Marxist analysis should always be slightly stretched every time
we have to deal with the colonial problem” (xx). 34
214 Walter D. Mignolo
Last but not least, Anthony Bogues—Jamaican political theorist—wrote a
book about Black radical intellectuals. His line of reasoning is parallel to that
of Fanon. Bogues writes,
Here, Bogues refers to the knowledge regime that made the intellectual an
object and less human. For Gramsci this was not a problem. Gramsci was
put in prison because of his ideas not because the color of his skin, and the
meaning of “blackness” in Western white modernity. I am not saying that
one form of violence (because of ideas or because of skin color or religious
belief) deserves more attention or has an epistemic privilege over the other. I
am saying that for the “Latin” American left that introduced Gramsci, racism
was not a problem. And Bogues further on observes,
[W]e have already noticed that the radical black intellectual is, to use
Gramsci’s term, an “organic” intellectual. But he or she is organic with
a difference. While in the Gramscian mode radical organic intellectuals
provide the missing inventory of the spontaneous philosophy of ordi-
nary people, they do so within a framework and discursive practice that
do not call into question their own ontological natures. (71)
Notes
1. The title implicitly invokes its missing counterpart: “Gramsci and Mariatégui in
Europe.” Coloniality of knowledge (and Eurocentrism) implies that intellectual
influences are centrifugal, never centripetal. Many of the ideas advanced here,
were rehearsed in a seminar co-taught, at Duke, with Roberto Dainotto in the
Fall of 2009 titled “The left, the right and the decolonial.” The two pillars of
the seminar were Gramsci and Mariátegui. I am thankful to Roberto for his
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1950s.
21. Laclau and Mouffe. Laclau left Argentina during the years that Gramsci was
introduced and returned Gramsci to Europe, so to speak.
22. See Guha, Dominance without Hegemony. The uses of Gramsci by Guha and the
South Asian Subaltern Studies collective are radically different from the uses
of Gramsci by the New Left in Latin America. The contention for dominance,
between the two groups studied by Guha (the British colonial elite and the local
Indian elite), was no longer comparable with the situation in South and Central
America whose countries obtained “independence” in the fi rst half of the nine-
teenth century.
23. Mignolo, “On Subaltern and Other Agencies” 381–407.
24. Interestingly enough, Guha critiqued Gandhi for his shortcoming in front of the
masses, while Partha Chatterjee and Ashis Nandy highly praise Gandhi for his
overall decolonial (my word, not theirs) project and his confrontation with West-
ern civilization. For Gramsci, Western Civilization was not a concern (neither
for Marx): they were living and thinking within it. For Reinaga and Gandhi,
and for Mariátegui Western civilization was a problem because it is part capital-
ism. For Marx and Gramsci, capitalism was a problem, not Western Civiliza-
tion. For Guha, see the section on Gandhi in his Dominance without Hegemony.
See the interviews with Partha Chatterjee and Ashis Nandy in Jahanbegloo.
25. On the Argentine national left, see the useful summary written by Chumbita in
El pensamiento alternativo en la argentina del siglo XX. See also the monographic
volume edited by Zulma Palermo with a preface by Walter Mignolo.
26. I said “colonial nation-states” for the simple reason that their historical founda-
tions in America, Africa and Asia (after the Second World War) differ from
the historical foundation of “modern nation-states” in Europe after the French
Revolution, because the French was not a revolution against imperial domina-
tion but, on the contrary, it opened the ways to new forms of imperialism. Italy
although in a minor scale, was in the same path. Italy’s colonies were not of the
same scale as France’s and England’s, but the colonial mentality (and frustra-
tions) were there. We should remember that Fascism, Nazism and Francoism
materialized in countries that remain in the margins of “the core of Europe”:
Spain lost all its colonies in 1898, and Italy’s and Germany’s colonial posses-
sions were of a minor scale. Gramsci was living and thinking in that tradi-
tion and memories; Mariátegui and the national-left in the colonial history of
Spanish America. And of course, the Subaltern Studies South Asia group were
still thinking within a colonial situation that not only was different from South
Mariátegui and Gramsci in “Latin” America 217
America, but was radically different from that of Italy. The introduction of
Gramsci in Spanish America (and in Brazil), allowed its followers to cut the
strings with the “populism” of the national left and focus, instead, on the theo-
retical aspects of class struggles within the capitalist logic: capitalist bourgeoi-
sie against the working class. The nationalist-left was fully aware of the racial
aspects of colonial histories; the Gramscians were not.
27. Among the many books published on these issues, see, José Hernández Arregui,
(1913–1974), Imperialismo y Cultura (1957), La formación de la conciencia nacional
(1960), Jorge Abelardo Ramos (1921–1994), Socialismo y ejército en la semicolonia
(1968), El marxismo de Indias (1972). Arturo Jauretche (1901–1974), Ejército y
política (1958), Política y economía (1977), Los profetas del odio y la yapa. La colo-
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nización pedagógica (1975). For a recent re-evaluation of the national left from a
decolonial perspective, see Zulma Palermo, Pensamiento Argentino y opción desco-
lonial. Of note here is the book by Hernández Arregui, Imperialismo y Cultura
(1957).
28. See the classical debate between Gyan Prakash, on the one hand, and O’Hanlon
and Washbrook, on the other, in Prakash, “Can the ‘Subaltern’ Ride? A Reply
to O’Hanlon and Washbrook.”
29. For a recent reevaluation of this trajectory, see Palermo (with a preface by Wal-
ter Mignolo).
30. See Kusch.
31. Notice that for Reinaga there is no “Latin” America—the America of Euro-
pean descent belongs, but “Indo” America, the America of the Indians; my
addition.
32. See Gordon 65.
33. See Henry.
34. See Fanon, Les damnés de la terre xx.
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Part III
Epilogue
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Interview with Gayatri
Chakravorty Spivak
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BB: Your essay “Can the Subaltern Speak?” is one of the most important
texts for the field “postcolonial studies.” In this essay you proposed a radical
re-imagination of the subaltern—on the one hand you argued that Gramsci’s
“work on the ‘subaltern classes’ extends the class-position/class-conscious-
ness argument isolated in The Eighteenth Brumaire.” And on the other you
also emphasized the “singular” position of the gendered subaltern subject.
We were wondering if you would like to revisit the essay in light of this
224 The Postcolonial Gramsci
productive tension, and if you could tell us about the way you look at that
essay after almost two decades of its publication.
GCS: That essay is not really post-colonial as such. I was looking at female
subalternity as singular, rather than necessarily at a subaltern class. And
subalternity is not in the state, so post- or anti-colonialism is incidental there.
(Recently, Ursula Apitzsch has pointed at Gramsci’s correspondence with
Giulia and Tatiana Schucht where he speaks of individual if not singular
subalternity.) Also, the essay is concerned with pre-colonial determinations
of gendered subaltern psychobiography. Sumit Sarkar has been kind enough
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to say that this is almost the only subalternist work that looks at pre-colonial
material. It is much more a critique of the Hindu orthodoxy around sati, and
then the middle class displacement of that ideology into a world where sati
itself had no reality—that world of Bhubaneswari Bhaduri—than anything
about the British as such. And I have remained in that position, Baidik,
because I fi nd it without any intellectual or political effort at all. I fi nd it much
more didactically alive for me in my everyday. To think of the fact that I
belong to a ferocious majority with a terrible history of both cultural produc-
tion and criminal social tradition, grandeur built on cruelty, and therefore,
the entire trajectory of knowledge as property and power, which is millenni-
al—I fi nd that to be a much greater didactic corrective than the few hundred
years of colonization, which I was smart enough to recognize early on that if
it is not recognized as enabling violation, we are in bad faith. So therefore,
it is really not a postcolonial essay in the sense of focusing on a critique of
colonization. What I am trying to say there, if anything, is that two groups in
such a contrast—the Hindu orthodoxy as well as the Indo-British reformers
and legalists (there is a difference between the two segments of the portman-
teau designations)—that both of them, in fact, had no interest in accessing
the protocols of gendered agency. That is what my basic position was then,
which may be revised when I read Ranajit Guha’s recent book Daya. Now I
have subsequently tried to place it within my own intellectual autobiography,
my stereotype of myself. And I have noted that I went to my own class. It is
now well known that the woman in the case was my grandmother’s sister.
So, because I wanted access I went into the family. I do not particularly
admire this, although I understand this, and it warns me against identitari-
anism because it was basically an identitarian move. I was smart enough to
know that identitarianism was intellectually harmful. So, at least, I kept her
identity—her kinship inscription—a secret. And I moved from that fi rst move.
I moved from studying the subaltern to learning from, which is the hardest
possible task, especially because given the complete lack of interest of the
State or National Civil Service in terms of training primary school teachers,
and the domestic and international civil society’s unexamined patronizing
of it, my attempt to learn from the subaltern how to produce subaltern intel-
lectuals, has to remain in a sector which I disapprove of—classic description
Interview with Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak 225
of a double bind -- private sector voluntarism. It was in that situation that I
went to Gramsci’s thoughts on this in the Prison Notebooks— I did not know
that I was doing precisely that, I discovered the deep affi nity teaching Gram-
sci in New York. When I taught Gramsci before, all the way from Texas
in the late 1970s, my own subalternist educational work had not matured
enough for me to make this connection. Also some specific Gramsci people
in Italy, especially women, Sergia Adamo and Giorgio Baratta saying that
in recognizing the need for the production of the subaltern intellectual I had
taken Gramsci somewhere, which I think was very kind and affectionate of
them. But nonetheless, that is what made me look again at Gramsci, and
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beginning to teach him carefully I realized what I was doing. You cannot
do this kind of thing— if you think to yourself, oops! I am teaching Gramsci
or I am doing Freire or I am doing Dewey or I am doing Montessori. No.
You are going there because you are trying to not learn from a Gramsci or a
Freire who is continuous with you as a university academic but as I said, in
a mediated way from people who cannot, in fact, “teach” in a way that you
can recognize. You have to know, quite unsentimentally, that whatever they
may say themselves, they are deeply affected by the history of which you are
both agent and victim, as are they, in a different way. The gender argument
of subalternity is different yet. In the old dispensation the subaltern allowed
us to stop outside of capital logic. In the thinking that I am now describing,
gender allows us to think outside of the abstract logic of citizenship alone. So
that it is in thinking of gendered subalternity that we step—at risk—we step
from the abstract structures of citizenship, the circuits of hegemony, in other
words, agency talk—very important—into subjection. From agent to subject.
Gendered subalternity is not easy to track. The new gendered subaltern I
have defi ned in a conversation with Vinayak Chaturvedi in terms of TRIPS
and TRIMS and global super-exploitation.
Citizenship and the civil rights of the subaltern are still in the realm of
agency even when gender sensitive. It is necessarily somewhat gender blind
because it cannot step back from the realm of rights and agency. Even when
we are most self-consciously gendered, in terms of citizenship within which
we take gendered oppression and make a case, we are somewhat gender-
blind because gendering is upstream from the State. The State has a history,
the history of gendering is as we are constituted in sexual difference and fall
into a so-called “cultural” field of negotiations abstracted in terms of that
difference. Reproductive heteronormativity is our oldest institution of valida-
tion and we are in a double bind with it. It cannot be corrected, it can only
be approached. And so, the gendered subaltern lives in another space and
Gramsci’s argument about “inventory without traces” is taken into that arena
because psychoanalysis is also aligned with reproductive heteronormativity.
Its corrections too are within that alignment. Reproductive heteronormativ-
ity contains psychoanalysis. Both Irigaray and Judith Butler are aware of this.
Gramsci, necessarily not thinking of this, says that sociology might now have
226 The Postcolonial Gramsci
to produce shorter essay-like things which are more literary because of this
methodico-methodological difference. Perhaps Shahid Amin is the one who
has an intuition of this in the way he writes. That is the Gramscian risk.
BB: In a talk titled “The Trajectory of the Subaltern in My Work” (2004) you
have pointed out two configurations of the subaltern in your work: through
your engagement with Ranajit Guha’s work and your “loose bonding” with
the Subaltern Studies group that leads to the project of “learning to learn
from below”; and your engagement with the “new subaltern” that allows
the “homoeopathy of self abstraction” in the public sphere in order to con-
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nect with the state. We were wondering if you could tell us how these two
moments extend the legacies of Gramsci in your recent project—which you
describe in the talk as critical negotiation with the “abstract understanding of
secularism and the state”—and, if we can extend this insight, how you see the
relevance of Gramsci (if any) in this age of globalization/post-globalization.
BB: If we can go back to my earlier question once again, the point you make
about the “metonymization” of the self.
GCS: Oh, the Santa Barbara talk, which has been so YouTubed? Everybody
has seen it. I feel very embarrassed. But, yes, the metonymization, I don’t
want to call it code-switching because if you call it code-switching that is a
rational choice reduction—an existential impoverishment. By metonymiza-
tion, what I was trying to describe is the part of the practice of those who
have the leisure and class position to be morally outraged for the sake of
the world at large rather than self-interested because of the need for free-
dom from oppression. This seems clear, doesn’t it? Now, if we think about
the way in which people like that whole generation, not just Georges Sorel
or Walter Benjamin but people like Rosa Luxemburg—thought about the
importance of the general strike because the agent of the general strike is—
not the ideologue. But what does the ideologue do? That is what I am talking
about here. Those of us who become “activist ideologues”—whatever that
word activism means—inhabit, the methodico-methodological difference as
best as we can. In that situation we inevitably enter engaged collectivities
by emphasizing— this is the synecdoche part—one part of our stereotype,
of our agential selves. This has to do with tremendous intuition of the pro-
duction of the subaltern intellectual. When I try minimally to engage in
that Gramscian model of work my self-metonymization reduces itself of a
claiming of equality through the formula: you have one vote and I have one
vote. The arithmeticization of democracy—it is nonsense if taken as essence.
Nonetheless, I metonymize myself as such. This is a declaration of figuration;
it is not a rational choice. The project is to restore to the subaltern, through
infrastructural engagements, the possibility of a broader spectrum of self-
metonymization without criminal violence against them. In that interest the
228 The Postcolonial Gramsci
specific metonym is part of a war of maneuver. This is by way of a contrast
with the protective and benevolent ex-zamindar types who join hands with
the World Social Forum—very far indeed from the Gramscian project—I call
it a feudality without feudalism. Their alter-globalization European associ-
ates play with them as if they themselves are the ethnicized subaltern without
realizing that there is a representational problem here, democratic structures
hardly exist in the situation of the benevolent feudal, conscientized feudal,
superficially lefticized feudal, Chomskianized feudal class, without actu-
ally existing feudalism, but with affective feudalism still in place. This is
exactly opposed to the Gramscian imperative. That particular possibility of
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BB: You have often talked about your “field work” in your school in the
Adivasi areas of West Bengal as an integral part of your intellectual life. Does
this experience allow you to rethink the Gramscian notion of the organic
intellectual?
GCS: When I wrote “Righting Wrongs” I didn’t realize that the power of the
feudal personalities keep the adivasi as close to anthropological “purity” as
possible. What I was looking at was a simulacrum. I was looking at a removal
from the stream of history, not by history as such, but by the desire of the
feudals without feudalism to remain benevolent by way of an earlier semiotic
field: fighting the police, fighting the party on behalf of the “serfs”—public
interest litigation—imposing upon them absurd agricultural projects thought
Interview with Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak 229
up by retired, old codgers from agricultural schools, completely unmindful
of chemical fertilizers, I could go on. This was the version of benevolent
feudal intervention from above that I mistook for the “nature” of tribal “cul-
ture.” God knows the benevolent despots took me in! Those tribals were
in the hyper-real. They were not acting out cultural conformity. They were
obliged to remain faithful to the idea of their masters. This is why the UN-
style feminists dislike the fact that I don’t dress ethnic and talk global.
BB: Does your experience allow you to rethink the Gramscian notion of the
“organic intellectual?”
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GCS: It seems to me that you have really linked these questions very well
because I seem to be answering always the next one or beginning to answer
the next one.
GCS: Yes. Yes. That is a very good question. Gramsci had two forays into
education. First, the Factory Council days before his imprisonment. And
then, in jail he had the time to consider why the Turin strike failed and put
his mind to the problem of producing the subaltern intellectual.
Gramsci is careful from the start not to base epistemological authority
in the unions. This is the one place where he stands with Rosa Luxemburg.
Unlike Luxemburg, though, Gramsci insists on taking the epistemological
task (long run) away from the unions (short run) and makes epistemologi-
cal transformation the task of the new intellectual. This he begins to think
about more in terms of the available class mobile system of education rather
than an alternative project in the factories. And I myself would say that that
was right on target because no alternative proposed as an alternative ever
remains an alternative. The only thing that you lose is the weight of amoral
history concerned with nothing but itself. That is a great advantage to have.
For example, one of my former “advisors” whom I used to take into the vil-
lages and who could only ever stay there for two or three days would say: if
you make them make up diagrams themselves they will learn much better.
But the part of our mind that can connect the abstract and the concrete in
terms not of art-practice (that, funnily enough gets damaged less, is tougher),
but in terms of cognitive performance, has been destroyed by centuries of
prohibition of intellectual labor. Could my “advisor” step out of his own
upper middle-class production? Not for a minute. This is why Gramsci says
that the subaltern environment must be the intellectual’s teacher. It is a sabo-
taging argument, as it were.
Gramsci obviously is not perfect. He is not an educationist tying up things.
The entire business of taking Latin away from the Latinitas of Mussolini,
nonetheless, has a pretty old-fashioned argument behind it, but the important
Interview with Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak 231
thing is to sabotage it to a different end, the old-fashioned tools have lasted. I
am not a Gramscian fundamentalist. But on the other hand, the idea that you
insert these folks into a good way of teaching the national and state curricu-
lum fi nds resonance in that intuition of Gramsci’s: the instrumentalization of
the intellectual, the new intellectual is in the master–disciple position, in the
disciple position—all of that is the methodical part. The methodological part
is to use the established system because, if you simplify de-subalternization
into mere class mobility, the subaltern does not have a chance in hell with a
non-formal education. One of my associates in Hong Kong, she is a young
woman who was good enough to say she was influenced by my thought, ran
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a wonderful NGO. She said at one point: How can this be? Where there is
so much education and has been for long, so the students are getting to the
electoral age. How is it that they voted BJP? And I said: what does learn-
ing Maths have to do with thinking democratically? Du Bois also, not only
Gramsci, says this. Just after Emancipation, says Du Bois, the Negro needs
food and shelter but they must at once learn to communicate with the stars.
What does that mean? It is that engagement with that historical system of
education which the bourgeois intellectuals, who are themselves very well
educated within that system, dismiss as producing traditional intellectuals
(does not have to if the teaching has changed). So it is an activity- intensive
rather than curriculum-intensive project and there I am with Gramsci with-
out being a Gramscian fundamentalist. I think there are areas where . . . I
mean Gramsci himself changes his mind about the relationship between
national languages and dialects in the wonderful last Notebook printed. But
that is too “thick” a topic for now.
BB: And my last question, how do you revisit “Can the Subaltern Speak?”
now?
GCS: Okay! First of all, the original version needed another round of edit-
ing that my editors did not provide. People fi x on that “White Man Saving
Brown Women from Brown Men” sentence as if it is the central message.
But the rhetorical moment there is that I say I do not know anything about
South Asia, so, I take Freud as my monitory model. If I can construct it as a
sentence then I can go forth to construct an object. Just as Freud wrote the
sentence “a child is being beaten,” so can I write this sentence. Tada, right?
And recently I saw that what I was doing was taking a white man (Freud)
and using him to save brown women, namely the satis, from brown men,
namely, Hindu orthodoxy. So, in a deep sense, I was myself implicated. No
one else has noticed it because if they had, they would have killed me. But I
looked at it and I also realized that that is the one thing that Bhubaneswari
is not doing. Her charge was to kill a white man. So, that’s where the double
bind between ethics and politics came in. I think the one thing that I do think
about that incident is that it taught me to get beyond knowledge as power.
232 The Postcolonial Gramsci
By looking at foremothers—the essay “Foremothers” is on the web and is now
being published by Susan Gubar.
To learn this lesson of extreme politics, suicide politics, body-as-inscrip-
tion politics, to inhabit the cusp of ethics and politics, and the impossibility of
being ethical and the impossibility of being political and producing oneself
as response—this is what today, I really take away from that event. I had a
huge writer’s block when I fi rst wrote it in the eighties; it was not written
easily. And so, then, the recent discovery through Nayanika Mukherjee with
whom in a kind of casual conversation, I revealed that I have photographs
of the Birangonas—the rape victims of the Bangladesh war—as she reminded
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me they were called. I had forgotten that mother and I were there at that time
and mother was really the much greater figure and activist at that stage.
GCS: Photographs? Indeed I have them. So, Nayanika came to me and she
took the photos. There were eighteen photos. They were just in my album.
They were not part of any archive. In 1973, okay? So, she took them and she
organized them. She gave credit due to the University Press and interviewed
me, which I have just edited. At any rate in talking to Nayanika, I said no,
Bhubaneswari is not the origin of the turn to the subaltern. This is the secret
that I never unearthed, until the casual conversation with Nayanika. It is the
scene of being with mother, where I owe, as a daughter, no activist responsibil-
ity. My father, who died in 1955, had destroyed his extremely brilliant career
as a Civil Surgeon in Dhaka in 1940—in about two seconds. He had been
asked to give false evidence at a rape trial. So, there was a whole itinerary of
heteronormative familial connections drawing me there in terms of a much
bigger scene which was non-productive, which was precisely not fieldwork.
This is very unusual. And talking to Nayanika, I realized my stereotype of
my autobiography, that it started with a foremother, was the second take. The
Birangonas will remain the open secret, the agential articulation of which
became “Can the Subaltern Speak?” and, then, turning away from family
to other people’s children—an accessible democratic signature—to the hard
work of learning from below the production of the subaltern intellectual.
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Index
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C G
Cabral, Amilcar 70, 73, 137 Gandhi, M. K. 3–4, 14n4, 49, 121, 171,
“Can the Subaltern Speak?” 11, 13, 31, 175, 176, 187n2, 189n27, 209,
32, 188n13, 223, 231, 232 216n25
caste 13, 32n7, 90, 122, 134, 165–171, Geertz, Clifford 103, 108
173–176, 178, 179–186, 188n9, Gobetti, Piero 35, 47, 95
188n11, 189n22, 189n25 Guha, Ranajit 7, 9–11, 31, 119, 121, 132,
Catholic Church 4, 58, 60, 102, 104, 209, 216n23, 216n25, 222, 224, 226
168–169, 187n7
Chakrabarty, Dipesh 176, 185, 222 H
Chatterjee, Partha 12, 14n4, 79n11, 83, Hegel, G.W.F. 91, 141, 145, 201, 204,
166, 187n5, 207, 216n24 207, 223
252 Index
hegemony 5, 6, 7–8, 10, 11, 19, 24, 28, 32, nationalism 19, 22, 25, 28, 41, 55, 56, 57,
39, 41, 43, 47, 49, 50, 51, 53n30, 58, 62, 65, 67, 78n5, 81, 85, 96
60–62, 63–64, 70, 75, 76, 77, 79n9, national-popular 7, 12, 58, 60, 72, 73, 88,
82, 84, 85, 86, 93, 97n7, 97n8, 101, 89, 91, 97n9, 97n11, 146, 147,
102, 103, 104, 105, 107, 113, 117, 180, 185, 206
119, 125, 127, 135, 136, 140, 143, Naxalite 10, 30
145, 146, 165, 166, 167, 168, 170, Negri, Antonio 42, 43, 80, 81–82, 109
171, 183, 186, 197, 200, 203, 205, Négritude 55–56, 71–73, 76, 77, 78n2,
208, 212, 225, 229 Nehru, Jawaharlal 69, 166, 169, 209
Heidegger, Martin 117, 154, 185 Nietzsche, Friedrich 107, 111, 228
Hobsbawm, Eric 168, 177
O
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115, 119, 132, 143, 145, 166, 168, Williams, Raymond 7, 62, 84, 87, 97n6,
176–180, 185, 186–87, 188n13, 221
188n15, 194, 197, 208, 211,
221–228, 230, 232 X
Subaltern Studies 7, 9–11, 12, 30, 31, Xiaoping, Deng 155
43, 83, 119, 145, 176, 186, 207,
208–209, 210, 216n23, 217n27, Z
221, 222, 223, 226 Zedong, Mao 24, 30, 121
Zhangke, Jia 13, 138, 144, 146–149,
T 150–152, 158, 161, 163n19,
Tamilnadu 165, 170 163n20
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