M. K. Gandhi: Indian Patriot in South Africa

Front matter

M. K. GANDHI:

INDIAN PATRIOT IN SOUTH AFRICA

By

Introduction

The writer of this book is not known to me personally, but there is a bond of sympathy between him and me in the sentiments which we share in regard to the cause of which he is so courageous and devoted an advocate.

I commend his book to all who are willing to take my word that it is worth reading. I respectfully suggest that others who attach no value to my opinion would do well to avail of the information afforded by this book in regard to the question of which few, unfortunately, in this country have any knowledge, but which is nevertheless an Imperial question of the highest importance.

Mr. Doke does not pretend to give more than a short biography and character sketch of Mr. Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, the leader of the Indian Community in the Transvaal, but the importance of the book is due to the facts that men and matters are inseparably connected in all human affairs, and that the proper comprehension of political affairs in particular ever depends on a knowledge of the character and motives of those who direct them.

Although I am not in a position to criticize I do not doubt that in these pages the facts are accurately recorded, and I have sufficient reason to believe that the appreciation is just.

The subject of the sketch, Mr. Gandhi, has been denounced in this country, even by responsible persons, as an ordinary agitator; his acts have been misrepresented as mere vulgar defiance of the law; there have not even been wanting suggestions that his motives are those of self-interest and pecuniary profit.

A perusal of these pages ought to dispel any such notions from the mind of any fair man who has been misled into entertaining them. And with a better knowledge of the man there must come a better knowledge of the matter.

The Indian community in the Transvaal are struggling for the maintenance of a right and the removal of a degradation. Can we as Englishmen find fault with them for that? The only method of protest, except that of violence and disorder, which is open to them, who have neither votes nor representation, is that of passive resistance. Can we find fault with them for that? They are not selfishly resisting a tax or insidiously striving for new political privileges; they are merely trying to regain that which has been taken from them—the honour of their community. Let him who blames them say what he would do in similar circumstances. Is there one of us who, out of respect for the law, would submit meekly and without protest to deprivation of rights and social degradation?

The Colonial Government can remove both grievances without sacrificing an ounce of principle or losing a grain of dignity. Will the Colonial Government do so for the sake of the Empire at this moment of reconciliation, union, and new hope for the future? That is the question to which we are anxiously expecting an answer at the present moment—the question whether or not the Indians who, have their homes in the Transvaal and who have assisted as a community in the development of South Africa, who are British citizens and subjects of His Majesty the King, are to have any lot or share in the general rejoicing over the Union of South Africa.

The Colonial Government has but to repeal an Act, which has served its purpose, which is now useless and unworkable, and which they themselves declare to be a dead letter, and to make a slight amendment of another Act, so as to remove the explicit racial distinction imposed by these laws and in practice admit a maximum of six Indians annually to the Colony, on the old principle of right, and the question would be settled. The Indian would then have no further reason for persisting in a struggle which for them means suffering and ruin while for the Colony it means a scandal and disgrace. This does not imply that they have no further grievances. They would still labour under the disabilities imposed by the late Transvaal Republic—the incapacity to acquire the franchise and to own land, and the liability to segregation in locations.

It is not realised in this country that in the Transvaal, during the past three years, Indians have for the first time been deprived of a right which they have enjoyed, at any rate in theory, and still enjoy in every other part of the Empire, viz., the legal right of migration on the same terms as other civilised subjects of His Majesty. That is the simple but startling fact, and if this were understood, as it ought to be understood, surely there would be protest from men of all parties in both Houses of Parliament who have so solemnly expressed their disapproval and regret at the establishment of a "colour bar" under the new Constitution for South Africa. Undoubtedly this disfranchisement, under a Liberal administration, of men on account of their colour, this deprivation of an elementary right of British citizenship on racial grounds, constitutes a reactionary step in Imperial government almost without parallel, and perhaps there never has been so great or momentous a departure from the principles on which the Empire has been built up and by which we have been wont to justify its existence, the principles of that true Liberalism which has hitherto belonged to Englishmen of all parties. But the violation of the political ethics of our race is even greater in the case of the "colour bar" which has been established in the Transvaal than in that of the new South African Constitution. If the Houses of Parliament and the Press cannot see this and do not think it worth while to take account of so momentous a reaction, it would seem that our genius for the government of an Empire has commenced its decline.

What is to be the result in India if it should finally be proved that we cannot protect British subjects under the British Flag, and that we are powerless to abide by the pledges of our Sovereign and our Statesmen? Those who know about India will have no doubt as to the consequences. And what if India—irritated, mortified and humiliated—should become an unwilling and refractory partner in the great Imperial concern? Surely it would be the beginning of the end of the Empire.

These, briefly, are the reasons why this question of "the British indians in the Transvaal" is a great Imperial question and not one of mere internal administration of a self-governing Colony in which the Mother Country has neither right nor reason to interfere.

It is a matter which touches the honour of our race and affects the unity of the Empire as a whole: it therefore concerns every part of the Empire. Moreover, it is certain that any departure from principle, which may be sanctioned or ignored at the heart of the Empire, will operate as a mischievous example to other places inside and out, and then only by some rude shock to the whole system will the arrest of moral decay be possible.

The matter, therefore, concerns all who would "think Imperially," and it needs more "clear thinking" than it has hitherto received.

The question must be decided, not by methods of temporary expediency in which practice ignores theory, but on the fundamental principles of the ethics of our race. Theory can be modified in practice to suit the exigencies of time and place, but if theory is cast to the winds, there is no means of steering practice.

There is still hope that the danger may be realised and averted, for as I write I hear that negotiations for a settlement of the British India question in the Transvaal are still proceeding. I have no more earnest hope than that Mr. Gandhi and his fellow countrymen may see the accomplishment of that end, for which they have struggled so bravely and sacrificed so much, before this book is published.

Ampthill.

Milton Ernest Hall,

Bedford,

26th August, 1909.

Chapter 1. The Batteries on the Reef

CHAPTER I

THE BATTERIES ON THE REEF

October, 1908. This is written in Johannesburg. The Fort, used as the prison, with its great mounds of earth, originally piled up by the Dutch after the Jameson Raid, and garrisoned to overawe the City, crowns the hill above. The pleasure grounds of "The Wanderers" lie below, while between and over the lines of gum-trees which guard "The Wanderers", one can see the towers and roofs of Johannesburg. The distant scene is mellowed by a haze of smoke, and the sounds of the City hardly reach so far as this. But even now the roar of the Batteries along the Reef, like the roar of surf breaking on a distant shore, attracts the ear. At night it comes nearer. On some cold nights when the wind blows from the Mines, the sound is like the roll of thunder, as though the rocks and sands and surf were battling with each other for victory down there on "The Wanderers". That roar never ceases. On calm, hot, sunny days it almost dies; it sinks away into a lazy hum like the drone of bees in the clover. But it is always there. The Batteries of the Reef are never still. Night and day, and every night and every clay, without rest, the crushing of the great machinery goes on, and the rocks and stones and sand yield their golden treasure in response.

This is a strange City. In many respects a wonderful City. So young, and yet so old. The problems of vice and poverty which perplex those aggregates of humanity, whose experiences cover ten centuries, are all here. A young form, and a jaded heart. Then the population is so diverse. The other day an accident happened just in front of me, and a small crowd gathered. It was an ordinary crowd in a very ordinary street. As I reached it, a young Italian Priest mounted his bicycle and rode away. A Chinese followed. The few who remained were nearly all of different nationalities. A tall Indian, probably a Pathan, some Kaffirs, and two white people—one Dutch, the other a Jew. It is this cosmopolitan character of the population which forms at once the attractiveness and perplexity of the place. There is no cohesion, there is no monotony.

Problems, which are essentially problems of Johannesburg, appear on every hand—race, colour, education, crime, religion—each in turn presents its own peculiar difficulties, and clamours to be solved. Surely of all places this is the most perplexing, and perhaps the most fascinating. Few live here long without loving it. But amidst the many questions which have appeared in the City since its foundation, there is one which stands out in curious and unique relief, and has done so for a long time. That is, the Passive Resistance movement of the Asiatics.

For some eighteen months, the Asiatic community, which numbers throughout the Transvaal about 10,000, naturally a loyal and law abiding community, has been in revolt against the Government. The Asiatic Law Amendment Act, which was built on the theory that the Asiatics had inaugurated a wide-spread fraudulent traffic in "permits," and was consequently a criminal community, to be legislated against as criminals, awakened intense indignation amongst them. They clamoured for proof of this traffic but were refused. They appealed to have the charges investigated by a Judge of the Supreme Court, but the appeal was ignored. They had no parliamentary vote, and no representation in Parliament, so nothing remained but either to give the outward sign of the criminal in registration—which was the impression of the digits—or resist the Law. They decided on resistance. Fortunately, their leader was a refined, gentle, chivalrous man, a disciple of Tolstoi, and the resistance took the form of "Passive Resistance". Since then, Johannesburg has been a battle-ground on which issues, which will affect the whole Empire, have been fought out, and the battle is still raging. Now, as I write, the authorities are sending numbers of Indian hawkers to imprisonment in the Fort, for carrying on their trade without a licence. Of course, they applied for a licence, and tendered their money, but because they would not register under insufferable conditions, their money was returned, and they are being prosecuted and sentenced to seven and fourteen days with hard labour in the Fort for a breach of the Law. We can see them frequently marching up the dusty road in batches and guarded—the Passive Resisters of Johannesburg.

At the beginning of the year, there were over two hundred in the gaols at one time. Since then, there have been readjustments—a compromise—a promise made and evaded by he Government—a new Bill with new insufferable conditions—and once more, that patient, dignified, persistent Passive Resistance, so that the number threatens again to rise as high.

Johannesburg is very apathetic about it. The "colour prejudice," which is intensely strong with a majority of the white population, makes this spot a difficult battleground on which to fight out such issues. Then we have so many conflicting interests—trade considerations, political interests, racial antipathies, and no one knows what besides. So Johannesburg as a whole looks with apathy on the action of the Government, and with unconcern on the sufferings of the men—while those who pity and sympathise hardly dare speak their thoughts.

And so the Batteries thunder on—political greed, injustice, racial prejudice, and the selfishness of trade; the crushing Batteries of the Reef, hammering and pounding under their enormous weight, the helpless Asiatic community. Sometimes the sound of it dies away to a whisper—again it rises to a roar—but it never ceases—and the result? Well, we shall see. But the leader himself has no doubt of the issue. I said yesterday to him: "My friend, it is likely to be a long struggle—England is careless, and the Government here is like iron." "It doesn't matter," he replied, "if the trial is long, my people will be purified by it, and victory is sure to come." Yes, the work of the Batteries is to find the gold.

Chapter 2. The Man Himself

CHAPTER II

THE MAN HIMSELF

It was late in December, 1907, when I saw Mr. Gandhi for the first time. Rumour had been very busy with his name. The Passive Resistance movement had come into prominence. Some small stir had been made in the newspapers by the imprisonment of a Pundit, and in one way or another, Mr. Gandhi's name had been bandied from lip to lip. One evening, a friend raised the Asiatic Question at the supper-table, and as we were comparatively new to Johannesburg, although not new to the country, he told us what he thought of the Indians. His account was so strange and so completely opposed to all our previous experience, that it made us curious, and more than anything else decided me to interview the leader.

The office, at the corner of Rissik and Anderson Streets, I found to be like other offices. It was intended for work and not for show. The windows and door were adorned with the name of the occupant with the denomination of Attorney attached to it. The first room was given up to a lady-typist; the second, into which I was ushered, was the SANCTUM SANCTORUM. It was meagrely furnished and dusty. A few pictures were scattered along the walls. They were chiefly photographs of no great merit. The Indian Stretcher-bearer Corps was in evidence—photogaphs of Mrs. Besant, Sir William Wilson Hunter, and Justice Ranade—several separate Indian portraits—and a beautiful picture of Jesus Christ. Some indifferent chairs, and shelves filled with law books completed the inventory.

All this I confess to have noted afterwards. Just then, my whole attention was centred in the man who geeted me, and in an effort to readjust my ideas to unexpected experiences. Having travelled in India, I had almost unconsciously selected some typical face and form as likely to confront me, probably a tall and stately figure, and a bold, masterful face, in harmony with the influence which he seemed to exert in Johannesburg. Perhaps a bearing haughty and aggessive. Instead of this, to my surprise, a small, lithe, spare figure stood before me, and a refined, earnest face looked into mine. The skin was dark, the eyes dark, but the smile which lighted up the face, and that direct fearless glance, simply took one's heart by storm. I judged him to be of some thirty-eight years of age, which proved correct. But the strain of his work showed its traces in the sprinkling of silver hairs on his head. He spoke English perfectly, and was evidently a man of great culture.

Asking me to be seated, he listened to an explanation of my visit, noting the points raised with a nod of the head, and a quick "Yes," until I had done. Then he went straight to the mark. Using his fingers to emphasize his thoughts, he gave the most luminous statement of the Asiatic position, in a few crisp sentences, that I have ever heard. I was anxious to know what the religious elements in the struggle were, and he gave them with convincing clearness, explaining patiently every little involved issue, and satisfying himself that I understood before dealing with the next. Once, when he paused longer than usual, to see whether I had grasped the thought or had sake of courtesy, I closed my note-book, thinking he had finished. "Don't close it," he said, "the chief point is yet to come."

There was a quiet assured strength about him, a greatness of heart, a transparent honesty, that attracted me at once to the Indian leader. We parted friends.

When I think of him now, one or two scenes stand out more vividly than others.

There is the trial in the "B" Criminal Court, a great mass of excited Asiatics crushed in at the door, and spreading to a great crowd outside. The cynical Magistrate, with his face flushed, presiding at the Bench; the horseshoe of legal offices below.

Then I can see again that spare, lithe form responding to the call. "Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi," and taking the prisoner's place with alacrity to receive a sentence of "two months' imprisonment" for the sake of his suffering people. Just prior to this, he had addressed these words to the hundreds of Asiatics who had gathered at the Mosque:—"No matter what may be said, I will always repeat that it is a struggle for religious liberty. By religion, I do not mean formal religion, or customary religion, but that religion which underlies all religions, which brings us face to face with our Maker. If you cease to be men, if, on taking a deliberate vow, you break that vow, in order that you may remain in the Transvaal without physical inconvenience, you undoubtedly forsake God. To repeat again the words of the Jew of Nazareth, those who would follow God have to leave the world, and I call upon my countrymen, in this particular instance, to leave the world and cling to God, as a child clings to its mother's breast." Notable and brave words.

Another scene recurs to my mind with equal vividness. The Pathans had attacked him, striking him down and beating him with savage brutality. When he recovered consciousness, he was lying in an office nearby to which he had been carried. I saw him a moment later. He was helpless and bleeding, the doctor was cleansing his wounds, the police officers watching and listening beside him, while he was using what little strength he had to insist that no action should be taken to punish his would-be murderers. "They thought they were doing right," he said, "and I have no desire to prosecute them". They were punished, but Mr. Gandhi took no part of it.

These are scenes one can never forget; they serve to reveal the man. Our Indian friend lives on a higher plane than most men do. His actions, like the actions of Mary of Bethany, are often counted eccentric, and not infrequently misunderstood. Those who do not know him think there is stone unworthy motive behind, some Oriental "slimness," to account for such profound unworldliness. But those who know him well are ashamed of themselves in his presence.

Money, I think has no charm for him. His compatriots are angry; they say, "He will take nothing. The money we gave him when he went as our deputy to England he brought back to us again. The presents we made him in Natal, he handed over to our public funds. He is poor because he will be poor."

They wonder at him, grow angry at his strange unselfishness, and love him with the love of pride and trust. He is one of those outstanding characters, with whom to walk is a liberal education, whom to know is to love.

Chapter 3. A Compact

CHAPTER III

A COMPACT

This morning, as usual, the sanctum was full of Indians when I entered, discussing earnestly the latest phase of the Asiatic difficulty. When, however, it became clear that Mr. Gandhi and I wished for a quiet chat, with the well-bred instinct of Orientals they silently left the room. Mr. Gandhi swung round on his office-chair and faced me, his dark eyes alert and watchful, his hair a little more silvered, I thought, than yesterday, his whole attitude alert and expectant.

"My friend," I began, "I want to ask you a strange question—how far are you prepared to make a martyr of yourself for the good of the cause?" He looked a little surprised, but said quietly, "I think you should know that by this time". "No." I said, "candidly I do not." "Well," said he, his face kindling, "it is a matter with me of complete surrender. I am nothing, I am willing to die at any time, or to do anything for the cause". "Take care," I rejoined, "perhaps I shall ask something too great." "You cannot do that," he replied, calmly. Then I saw my opportunity, and drew the toils about him. "Listen," I said. "It appears to me that what we are doing now is merely tinkering at the Asiatic settlement—our fight with this Government is only part of a much greater fight, to be fought out on a larger battlefield. "The question of the status of British Indians throughout the whole Empire will have to be solved, and in the settlement of that vast problem, you should have much to say. The question is—how can we best prepare for that future?" He nodded in his own quick, incisive way. I proceeded: "You know very well that, with us Europeans, character and personality are of the first importance. It is so here, and it must be at home. You yourself are the chief asset of the Indian cause. It is a great thing to know and trust the leader of such a movement." He was about to speak, but I stopped him. "Let me continue," I said. "Your position as leader makes your personality of great importance to the cause. It has occurred to me that if I could write a short book—bright, graphic, and reliable—making your personality real to the people of England, it might do something to help the cause in the great struggle that is to come." The emphatic nods became appreciably weaker, but they did not altogether cease, so I went on: "You will see, however. that my power to do this depends altogether upon yourself. You must tell me about your childhood and youth, allow me to picture your personality, and depict your character, and if I know anything of you, to submit to this will be the severest kind of martyrdom that you can suffer." "Ah," he said, as my purpose dawned upon him. "You have caught me completely." "But," said I, "would this help your people?" He thought a moment, and then replied, "Yes, in England." "Well, can you go so far?" "For the cause, I can," he said. And then, "What do you want me to do? You don't want me to write anything, do you?" "No, I replied, not a word: just let me question you about that Indian city where you were born, that beautiful home of yours far away in the East, the very thoughts of your heart, your struggles and sacrifices and victories. What you cannot tell me, others will help me to discover." So silently, with a grip of the hand, we confirmed the bond, and this is how this story was born.

Chapter 4. The White City

CHAPTER IV

THE WHITE CITY

If we begin at the beginning, we must visit, in fancy, a city in Western India, called Porbandar, and try to recall it, as it appeared a generation ago. This was the ancestral home of the Gandhis. Many changes have come since then; even in slow-changing India. Porbandar has changed. The city of yesterday has gone. Its primitive customs, its haughty isolation, its serene atmosphere, have almost vanished. The city of to-day is not Porbandar. It occupies, of course, the old spot close to the sea. It still claims a proud position as "Capital of the Principality of Porbandar, in the sub-province of Kathiawar, in the Province of Gujarat." It still holds fifty villages in vassalage. And still its Rana Sahib is regarded as "a first-class Power." But old Hindu Porbandar has gone forever.

In the days of which we write, like most towns in Kathiawar, it was surrounded by substantial walls, some twenty feet thick, and high in proportion. These have since been destroyed. The houses were built chiefly of stone quarried in the neighbourhood. The stone was white and soft—easily worked but hardening under exposure, so that, in time, these buildings became like solid blocks of marble fitted to endure an age. There was some approach also to architectural excellence, and although most of the streets were narrow, and the bazaars crowded, the effect was wonderfully picturesque. That "White City," with its massive walls seen from a distance, in the coloured glory of the setting Sun, was a vision of beauty never to be forgotten. Unfortunately, there were few trees in Porbandar. The palace and garden of the Rana Sahib were within the walls, but apart from these, the tropic loveliness of those spots.

"... Where the feathery palm-trees rise,

And the dates grow ripe under sunny skies,"

had no place in the scene. The only green things which were common in the city were the tulsi-plants, in their pots or tubs, before which puja was done.

Outside the walls, the sea was almost within a stone's throw. It swept around the city so closely, that at times it made almost an island of Porbandar, changing the neighbouring fields into a swamp, and necessitating a bridge in later times. Beyond this, and away from the sea, the plain spread out unchecked to the distant Barda Hills.

Over this plain and on those purple hills, some forty years ago, the horrors of civil war raged. Apparently. the great convulsions which have changed the fact of India-Moghul and Mahratta wars, the victories of Clive and Hastings, the India Mutiny—hardly raised the temperature of Kathiawar, but internal trouble, more than once, has done so. At one time. a large portion of the people of Porbandar, the warrior caste, disowned the Rana Sahib, and civil war followed. The Prince was victorious, but traditions are still told, over the hookah of the glorious stand made by two brothers who were outlaws—Maccabæan in their bravery—and of how they fought to the last, one defiantly using his gun with his feet when his hands were useless. The Gujaratis were evidently cast in another mould from that of the milder natives of Eastern India, and the experience of war has told.

The sea, too, has had its powerful influence over them. As with the Phœnicians, the Northmen, and the British, the sea has been their nursing mother. The chief occupation of Porbandar, from remote antiquity has been "doing business in the great waters." Vessels constructed here might be met with from Zanzibar to Aden, and the wild ocean-life gave these people an independence of character, and a wide knowledge of men and thing in other hands. Thirty years ago, a very large proportion of the men of Porbandar had been across the sea, either for purposes of trade, carrying their noted ghee or else, in the service of the State.

This is to show from which the Gandhis sprang.

The Princes of Porbandar, who were knit up with the family, trace back their genealogy to Hanuman, the Monkey-God, which means that the records are ancient. What strange, fantastic, choleric characters these old Hindu Chiefs must have been! Take, for instance, Rana Sahib Vikramajit, the Prince before whom Ootamchand and Karamchand Gandhi stood as Dewan Sahibs. Here is his picture: "Firm-minded, singularly chaste in morals, keen-sighted, often cruel, so independent that he quarrelled with the political agent, so stubborn that he raised a Civil War, so niggardly that his dependents were almost starved, and yet with compensating characteristics which won their affection." A curious combination, not unusual in old India.

To be Prime Minister in the court of such a Prince was no sinecure. It meant at least occasional excitements, and a general sense of insecurity. Yet Ootamchand Gandhi, grandfather of our Mohandas, held that position for many years. Once, during the interregnum, before Vikramajit came to the throne, a romantic incident happened, which left material marks on the family inheritance. Ootamchand incurred the displeasure ot the Queen-Regent. He was displaced and fled, and the State soldiers bombarded his house. Marks of the cannon-ball can still be seen on the old mansion. Then he escaped to Junagadh, across the Barda Hills. The Nawab of Junagadh received him kindly, but the courtiers noted that Gandhi's salute was given with the left hand, an insult greater than that for which others had lost their heads. The Nawab questioned him about it. He replied, respectfully but firmly, that "in spite of all that he had suffered, he kept his right hand for Porbandar still." It is to the credit of the Nawab that he appreciated the patriotism of the disgraced Minister, and maintained him honourably until the storm passed over. and Gandhi was recalled.