Through the Looking Glass: Examining memories of the Estado da Índia Portuguesa

image obtained via:
https://dsgnarchive.com/restoration-of-goan-portuguese-house-567/

A few weeks ago, while dwaddling in the bye-lanes of social media I ran into an antique image of the streets of Lisbon decorated to celebrate a public festival. The caption indicated that this was an image of the celebration of the establishment of the Estado da Índia in Lisbon. The image had been shared from its original source by a group whose postings I follow and in this group the image was accompanied by a caustic observation “When the Portuguese had a memory”.

I smiled, if somewhat sadly, at this observation because I knew it to be true. The Estado da Índia Portuguesa is only a fading memory in contemporary Portugal.  Younger generations in this Iberian country are less likely to know, or feel strongly even if they know, about the Portuguese territories in South Asia because this history is no longer fed by state propaganda. For most contemporary Portuguese, Índia Portuguesa is something that is in the past, and for some, as I will soon demonstrate, an object that is perhaps safest in the past.

There was a curious timing to my viewing this image and caption, because just a few days prior to this my attention was drawn to another link on a social media group. This link highlighted the interview conducted for the Portuguese newspaper Diário de Notícias with Luís Filipe Castro Mendes, a Portuguese diplomat who was ambassador to India between 2007 and 2011. The link drew the readers’ attention to the following quotation, which I reproduce in the original Portuguese and will then translate to English:

... vou-lhe contar uma história: uma aristocrata [Goesa], dessa classe dominante, era uma salazarista militante e um dia vem a Lisboa visitar Salazar. Ele diz-lhe que ela fala muito bem português e ela responde que é portuguesa. Ele pergunta-lhe se tinha sido o pai ou o avô que tinham ido para Goa, mas ela fica gelada e responde-lhe que a família é católica e portuguesa desde o século XVII. Na cabeça do Salazar, para aqueles lados eram todos selvagens debaixo de coqueiros e toda a civilização que tinha ido para lá era da Europa.

[I’ll tell you a story: an aristocrat [a Goan lady] of this dominant class was a supporter of Salazar and one day comes to Lisbon to visit Salazar. He tells her that she speaks Portuguese very well and she replies that she is Portuguese. He asks her if it was the father or grandfather who had gone to Goa, but she gets frosty and replies that the family is Catholic and Portuguese since the 17th century. In Salazar’s head, those parts of the world were populated by savages under coconut trees and all the civilization that existed there was that which had gone there from Europe.]

There is a moral to Ambassador Castro Mendes’ narration. It participates in the demonisation of Salazar that marks the Third Portuguese Republic and offers an example of why the confidence that the Portuguese people, in this case the segment of the Goan aristocracy of which this lady was a representative, was misplaced. Salazar, in this telling, was nothing but a racist boor and an entirely irredeemable character in the long story of Portuguese history.

This, then, is the kind of memory that is being built up in contemporary Portugal of the former Estado da Índia Portuguesa, or at least this is the way that I read Ambassador Castro Mendes’ reminiscence – that the quincentennial history of Goa with the Portuguese is intimately related primarily to Salazar and the Estado Novo and for this reason the longer history of Goa and its relationship with Portugal should therefore be treated like a bad dream that we move on from now. If Portugal has moved on from Salazar, to the Third Portuguese Republic, Goa (that central constituent of Portuguese India) has also moved on, and is now part of a democratic India, which despite the current challenges, Ambassador Castro Mendes is confident, will always remain democratic.

I would not like to contest the truth content of the anecdote related by Ambassador Castro Mendes. First, because I know the Ambassador personally, recognise him to be a scrupulously honest man and count him among my friends, even if we have somewhat different political positions. Secondly, because even if Ambassador Castro Mendes reads this anecdote that he narrated in the way I suggested above, counting on its veracity, I read it in a somewhat different manner.

My reading does not seek to reprieve Salazar, on the contrary it relies on Salazar actually having said and thought the things attributed to him, because the response of the Goan aristocrat is more interesting. When she realises that along with the nature of her Portuguese-ness, the antiquity of her noble ancestry is being questioned, she turns frosty. This is not the response of an underling. This lady is affronted and even though she is speaking with the de facto head of state she is willing to put him in his place and dispel his offensive ignorance. This is not an unusual feature of the Goan aristocracy.  Goan public memory delights in recounting how in the Portuguese Governor Fernando de Quintanilha da Mendonca Dias slapped the Goan Antonio Bruto da Costa in the course of a vigorous argument. Rather than take this humiliation lying down, Adv. Bruto da Costa returned the slap, leading to a fistfight between the two men which – according to the memoirs of an ADC present in the room – the Goan won.

This willingness to stand up for themselves was a feature of Goan elite of the times, but also speaks to the nature of Portuguese citizenship that we continue to be heirs to. Portuguese citizenship was not some gift that simply dropped from the lap of the Portuguese monarchy, and subsequently the various republics. It was a right that was wrested from the realm of the legal discourse and concretely realised through the activism and self-assertion of the Goan elite. The Goan elites, and we the Goan people who are their political descendants, were not Portuguese because of some accident of history, or some coercion. No, they were – and we are if we chose it – Portuguese because we actively engaged with the circumstances of the time and asserted our equality within the order in which we found ourselves. We would do well to remember this.

The narratives that are established by contemporary Portuguese elites, and Indian nationalist elites whether Goan or otherwise, often mask the agency demonstrated by the Goan people – whether elite or otherwise – in the course of their history. The Goans took the Portuguese framework that they were placed in, and cleverly, and bravely, asserted themselves within that frame. They asserted a unique culture within that framework, where they were Portuguese while simultaneously Goan. We should not forget that Goans were not victims of history, and they should not be.

 (A version of this post was first published in the O Heraldo published on 9 Aug 2023)

Goa and Portugal: A Past without a Future?

I would like to begin by first thanking Rafael Borges Pinto for extending the invitation for me to speak with you today. Secondly, and of course, my thanks to Nova Portugalidade for hosting this conversation, and to all of you for your presence here.

 To many there is a perception that the relationship between Goa and Portugal is in the past. The first question that many metropolitan Portuguese ask of a Goan they meet is whether people still speak Portuguese in Goa. The answer is often in the negative. Until recently my own response was that Portuguese was never widely spoken in Goa and it was the language of the elite. My view changed when I encountered an interesting anecdote at a dinner party in Lisbon which suggested that the Portuguese language was effectively killed off in Goa after the annexation of the territory to India. Persons who were seen as pro-Portuguese faced harassment, and people who spoke Portuguese did so fearfully. This put a completely different frame on the issue, where I realised that given increasing levels of education in Goa from around the 50s, even though there is no denying that the Portuguese language was linked with the elites, it is possible that Portuguese would have been more widely spoken if it continued to be the medium of instruction in the Government primary school. Unfortunately, this possibility was killed, and despite valiant efforts in Goa, by such institutions as the Fundação Oriente and the Instituto Camões, and I must particularly signal the efforts of the Director of the Instituto Camões in Goa, Delfim Correia, and an increase in the interest in the Portuguese language, there is still a certain animosity towards the language in Goa.

This is to say, any evaluation of the relationship between Goa and the Portuguese language needs to acknowledge the animosity of the Indian state, and Indian nationalism. Any attempt at an Indo-Portuguese relationship, or a Luso-Goan relationship that does not acknowledge this fact will effectively be wasting its efforts. This was an argument I advanced recently when critiquing the Prime Minister António Costa’s visit to India which was motivated, so it seems, primarily by opening up Indian markets to Portuguese commercial interests and industry. While this is all very well, the tragedy of this strategy is that it sought to downplay Goa in Portugal’s relationship with India. This is not surprising given that from what I have perceived there is a strong lobby within the Ministry of Foreign Affairs that sees Goa as a liability for Portugal. Goa is the past, they say, let us re-create a new relationship with India.

There is no problem in creating a new relationship with India. The problem is that the Portuguese continue to be represented by Indian nationalism as tyrannical, fanatical, and this image continues to be reproduced in film and popular discussion. As such, without addressing this image, Portuguese interventions in India are always in fact under a sword of Damocles, because the moment there is scope for misunderstanding, out will come the same old stereotypes prejudicing Portuguese investment and intervention in India.

To return to the question of the Portuguese language, however, even while recognizing the importance of the Portuguese language to developing a relationship between Goa and Portugal, I have to also confess that I do not subscribe to Pessoa’s famous phrase “a minha pátria é a língua portuguesa”. This is to say, I do not concur that one can reduce the Portuguese identity to a knowledge of, and love for, the Portuguese language. Over the past couple of years, I have heard a string of Portuguese diplomats and others indicate their hostility to the idea that Goans have a right to Portuguese citizenship. These diplomats argue that these Goans know nothing of the Portuguese language, nor of Portuguese history, nor, do these people, they argue, have any love for Portugal.

Too often, Portuguese-ness is understood by metropolitan Portuguese as monuments and artefacts, they forget that the people are also products of Portuguese expansion. After all, there would not even be a Goa, or a Goan identity were it not for Portuguese intervention, and as such Goans are also producing Portugal, whether they recognize it or not. Persons in Goa are Portuguese, regardless of whether they know the Portuguese language or not, whether they know the details of Portuguese history or not. They are Portuguese because the law recognizes their Portuguese nationality, a law which – it must be said – is centuries old. Very often, when people in Lisbon ask me if there is still some Portuguese presence in Goa, I tell them, “You are speaking with Jason Keith Fernandes, son of José Manuel Fernandes and Philomena Dulcine Goveas.” I am a Portuguese presence as I live and breathe!” And just like me there are thousands of people that produce a Portuguese-ness because of their names, their daily activities, etc.

Speaking of the weight of history, not only is Portugal critical to Goa, but Goa was, and is, critical to the construction of a Portuguese identity since the time of the expansion. It needs to be recognized that one simply cannot have a Portuguese history today without the role of Goa, and Goans, present in it. Goans are Portuguese even though they do not speak the Portuguese language, because their Portuguese-ness is embedded in the mere fact that they were once part of the Portuguese empire and Portugal inflects their daily life, just as Goa does the daily lives of metropolitan Portuguese – whether they recognize it or not.

Take, for example, the argument I recently made, that while Camões is without doubt Portuguese, he also is, note, is and not was, Goan. He is Goan because his poetry was written in Goa, it was marked by the fact of his presence in that tropical location and that space is intertwined with his poetry, as the translator of the poet Landeg White has recently pointed out in the introduction to his book Camões: Made in Goa (2017). Without Goa, there would have been no Camões, no Lusiadas.

This question of the centrality of the Portuguese language to the Portuguese identity of Goans is not merely a rhetorical point but a practical one because it involves the fate of the thousands of Goans with Portuguese citizenship in the UK. The state obliged to secure their interests is the Portuguese state, and given that many of these Portuguese citizens do not, as of now, speak Portuguese, it is incumbent, in my opinion on the Portuguese state, just as it is the obligation of any state, to speak to its citizens in the language that they know best. This is not to deny that the Portuguese language has a privileged relationship with the Portuguese state, and that these Goans should ideally begin to learn the language, as I am sure future generations will, but the Portuguese state cannot wash its hand off of them on the basis of the argument that they do not speak Portuguese. Indeed, it could be argued that the fact that these Goans do not speak Portuguese is a result of the historical failures of the Portuguese state, in particular the manner in which Portuguese rule in Goa was sustained by cooperation with upper caste elites – Catholic, Muslim, and Hindu.

I am not one who believes in the politics of apologies, but post-colonial justice, especially when these people are citizens of the Portuguese state, requires that Portugal recognize the structural violence of caste and work towards empowering these citizens. Speaking to them in any language that they can understand would be a part of this process of empowerment, helping them realise their Portuguese-ness. I should suggest that this would also ensure that the languages that the Portuguese state uses, such as in this case Concanim, also in this way becomes a language of Portugal. Similarly, Marathi, another significant Goan language, was utilized in the Boletim do Governo do Estado da India to communicate with those who did not speak or read Portuguese.

The discussion of the Portuguese citizenship of Goans raises one more issue that to my mind is critical to the question of Goa and Portugal. When the Portuguese state eventually recognized Indian sovereignty over Goa in the aftermath of 25 April 1974, it also recognized the continuing right of Portuguese citizenship of Goans. What the Indian state has done, however, is to effectively deny Goans the right to Portuguese citizenship while imposing Indian citizenship on them. To the Indian mind, Indian citizens cannot have two nationalities, hence Goans must choose either Portuguese or Indian citizenship. The moment that Goans assert their Portuguese citizenship, they not only lose the right to intervene in electoral politics in Goa, but are faced with a variety of impediments, both legal and, given the fact that we are suffering a particularly intense moment of Hindu nationalism, extra-legal.

What the India state fails to recognize, however, is that Goans are not acquiring Portuguese citizenship anew, this is a right that they had when India annexed Goa, and continue to have, and that the right of citizenship is fundamental to human rights. As such, the Indian state cannot oblige Goans to give up their right to Indian citizenship if they chose to exercise rights under Portuguese citizenship. To do so is to effectively be a colonial presence in Goa. The resolution of this problem, which is critical to a continuing and healthy relationship between Goa and Portugal, should be something that the Portuguese state takes up, because, after all, not only does it involve Portugal’s obligations as part of a decolonizing state, but these are, at the end of the day, the rights of Portuguese citizens that we are talking about. Given that Portugal intervened in the case of East Timor, I fail to see why this deprivation of a right by a colonial power is not similarly taken up now. Too often, unfortunately, the continuing rights of Goans as Portuguese citizens are not recognised as such by the Portuguese state.

The reasons for this problem lie in the manner in which Portuguese political rhetoric has been structured subsequent to the Carnation Revolution, which involves essentially a simplistic inversion of the rhetoric of the Estado Novo. As such, if the Estado Novo suggested that all persons in the Portuguese state were Portuguese, then the response has been to uncritically recognize the persons in the former overseas provinces as non-Portuguese. I recollect some years ago when I first began to work out the ideas I hold today and would assert myself as Portuguese, well-meaning metropolitan Portuguese friends who see themselves as left-leaning, would condescendingly ask me, “but why do you want to be Portuguese, you are Goan, Indian!”

Now, I am not saying that all persons in Goa have to necessarily feel Portuguese; if they want to only feel Goan, or Indian, then this is their choice. However, if I can feel Goan, South-Asian, and Portuguese, why do I have metropolitan Portuguese people telling me that I am not? Why the assumption that I am a supporter of the Estado Novo, or living in a time-warp? Indeed, one could argue that these responses by metropolitan Portuguese are evidences of racist action because it allows for the metropolitan to decide who is Portuguese or not, constructs identities that are effectively racial for those who are from the former overseas territories, and in doing so effectively limits Portuguese identity to those who are white.

A lot of this confused positioning is the result of the blind adoption of post-colonial norms and theories that were developed in the context of the British Empire. It needs to be borne in mind that the British Empire did not extend citizenship to its subject populations. In the absence of even a rhetoric of being British, given that Britain’s late expansion was informed by scientific racism, the most attractive possibility that subject elites saw was to assert the right to independent nation-states. This move effectively extended the logic of racism, rather than rejecting a racialized vision of the world, and demanding justice within the empire. The Portuguese case, however, precisely because of the rhetoric of the Empire, and the longer history of metropolitan and overseas relations offered, and continues to offer, us a different possibility, of demanding justice within imperial relations. Further, it is not too late to work towards this question of justice, but the first step towards it would be to recognize that things in Portugal were, and are, different, and that marching to the tune of Anglophone postcolonial certainties is not necessarily the answer for us.

At this point of time, I should stress that I do not think that Portugal was unmarked by racism. Further, I know that the situation in the African territories was unlike that in Goa, where there was an in-principle extension of citizenship to all.  Indeed, the situation in Goa may be so dramatically different that we can only extend this example with caution. I also want to highlight that the rhetoric of the Estado Novo, as radical as it sounded, was marked by a deep cynicism. This rhetoric that it utilized was in fact harvested from an earlier age, when the universal ideals of the Catholic faith allowed for the creation of a universal identity, in this case directed by the Portuguese Crown. But even in early modern Portugal it is not as if there were no tendencies towards racist exclusions. But we do not need to remain trapped in acknowledging that there was racist violence. I think that even as we recognize this fact of racist violence, we should focus on is the fact that the rhetoric was present and it allowed, and indeed, allows us to create possibilities for a different world. Imagine how empowering it is for a person who is not white, who has not grown up in the metropole to be nevertheless able to affirm that s/he is Portuguese, even while affirming other identities! It is here that the question of postcolonial justice begins to be affirmed.

I would like to pause at this moment and look at another dimension of the relationship between Goa and Portugal. I have noticed for a while that there are some Goans who have a very fixed idea of what is Portugal, in their vision it is metropolitan Portugal which decides what is Portuguese and what is not. I think that this is a sad situation largely because the relationship between Goa and Portugal has never been one of a mere transfer of technology and culture. It was not a case of Goans simply and blindly copying metropolitan behavior. Rather, Portugal was an instrument of a larger conversation, as has been amply demonstrated by Paulo Varela Gomes in his book Whitewash, Red Stone (2011) where he argues that the churches in Goa are not Portuguese churches but Goan churches. He points out that these churches were the result of assembling European features to meet local needs within a local format. They may look Portuguese, but they are in fact Goan. Of course, I would add that Goan-ness and Portuguese-ness are not exclusive identities, but each inform the other.  Similarly, the case in other spheres, Catholicism and European behaviors were adopted to claim citizenship. Note that the citizenship rights of Goans were not simply the result of a metropolitan gift. Rather, they were the result of Goan exertions whether in the case of the famous Bernardo Peres da Silva, or other Goan members of the Portuguese parliament. It is for this reason of century long struggles for citizenship that we cannot let go of this citizenship issue so lightly.

If conversation is what will ensure a future to the relationship between Goa and Portugal, what are the steps we can take to ensure this conversation? Indeed, I think that metropolitan Portuguese endeavours ought to play this role as a facilitator of larger conversations.

I would like to reference the Monte Music Festival, conceived if I am not mistaken by Sergio Mascarenhas former Delegado of the Fundação Oriente. In what has become a highlight of Goa’s cultural calendar, held at the Capela da Nossa Senhora do Monte in Old Goa, the Fundação Oriente organizes a festival of Indian and European classical music annually. While it is possible that this hosting of the Indian and European was the result of having to deal with local hostility to anything Portuguese, the festival demonstrates that Portugal is not merely a messenger of a narrowly conceived Portugalidade, but is, as it has always been, a messenger for a conversation with Europe, but also with the rest of the world.

I have, for a long time, suggested that metropolitan Portugal, not just the state, but civil society as well, or especially, should institute scholarships that would allow promising Goans to come to Portugal for some sort of education or extended period. One need only look at the work of Sonia Shirsat, who came to Portugal to learn the fado on such scholarships, and is today churning out fadistas by the dozen in Goa! It is also critical to enable these scholars to gain access into metropolitan Portuguese society – no simple task, let me assure you. An appreciation of contemporary Portuguese society is critical if we are to take this relationship into the future. This necessarily requires that the award of scholarships is supplemented by a mentoring process that allows for a single experience to continue as a longer, if not lifelong, engagement. But more than all of this, what is critical is an immersion in the history and institutions of this country and our common past, given that too many of us in Goa are woefully illiterate about our own past, more familiar with histories of British India, or potted histories of Goa.

Similarly, I believe it is critical for metropolitan Portuguese to come to Goa, and other places in India where Portugal had a substantial presence. As a Portuguese priest indicated to me about a month ago, it is when you go to Goa that you realise what being Portuguese meant. I don’t believe that he meant this in a chest-thumping manner, marveling at the work we did over there, but the complexity of what it means to be Portuguese and that it involves something more than being a member of a medium-sized country of the EU.

In this context I would like to share with you an argument that I have been forwarding about the South Asian nature of the Portuguese. To do this I refer to the term Namban, which often refers to Japanese art made in the period when in conversation with the Portuguese.  Namban, quite literally, means Southern Barbarian. Which south, could the term refer to I inquire. It could, of course, refer to the south of Europe, but I would rather imagine that it refers to the South of Asia.  It is this South-Asian-ness of the Portuguese identity that I believe that visiting Portuguese should seek to recover, rather than simply wallow in the greatness of the monuments, and in looking to speak in Portuguese. I would rather see metropolitan Portuguese learn Concanim, Marathi, Urdu, Malayalam. Too often contemporary Portuguese identity formation is bound up in producing the Portuguese as white, and as members of the European Union – I would like to highlight the work of Sarah Ashby titled The Lusophone world: the evolution of Portuguese national narratives (2017). While I have no problems with the European Union, and indeed think it a great idea, an approximation to Europe does not have to imply a distancing of Portugal from a rich and complex past.

Goa and Portugal have a past, this much is clear. Both these spaces have influenced each other, such that one is not possible without the other. But do they have a future? While I believe that they do, they must if what we know as Portugal and Goa are to survive. However, this requires that we address a number of issues, first, recognize the animosity of the Indian state, and the fact that it refuses to allow Goans to hold both Portuguese and Indian citizenship effectively makes it a colonial presence in Goa. Second, ensure that the Portuguese state makes a determined outreach to Goans holding Portuguese passports, and not living in the Portuguese state. Third, become alive to the fact that we need to explore post-colonial models that are honest to our experience. Fourth, initiate structural interventions that ensure that there is space for continued conversation between individuals in Goa and Portugal.

Thank you all for your attention and I look forward to your comments and reflections.

(Full text presented at the Conference organized by Nova Portugalidade, at Casa de Sertã, Lisboa, 28 March 2019)

Os perigos de abraçar a Índia

Desde a visita do primeiro-ministro António Costa à Índia, em Janeiro de 2017, e da recente vinda do primeiro-ministro indiano Narendra Modi a Lisboa, têm surgido vários discursos celebratórios sobre a efetiva aproximação entre os dois países.

À superfície, estes discursos parecem trazer consigo a promessa de fortes e mutuamente respeitosas relações pós-coloniais. A realidade, porém, é bem mais inquietante. As novas relações que Portugal está a forjar com esta potência regional demonstram um profundo desconhecimento da natureza do Estado indiano. A antropóloga Shalini Randeria cunhou o termo ‘cunning state’ [Estado astuto] para definir a natureza da Índia, ou seja, a de um Estado que utiliza acontecimentos internacionais para fortalecer o seu poder tanto interna como externamente. De facto, a Índia, enquanto Estado astuto, manipulou Portugal e o seu primeiro-ministro, afirmando uma duvidosa e racializada leitura da história do subcontinente asiático, estrategicamente pensada para abrir caminho a uma nova ordem internacional — de carácter neo-colonial — que a Índia espera impor.

O desejo de se afirmar no plano global é uma ação legítima por parte de qualquer Estado. Mas a forma como a Índia opera é, por várias razões, altamente problemática. Uma análise cuidada da concessão do estatuto de Overseas Citizen of India (OCI) — Cidadão Ultramarino da Índia, um estatuto em princípio aberto a todos os estrangeiros com antepassados dentro das fronteiras da India actual — ilustra bem esta questão.

 

De facto, uma das principais razões para a recente visita de Costa à Índia foi este presidir ao 14.º Pravasi Bharatiya Divas (Dia do Indiano no Exterior). Portugal cometeu o enorme equivoco de tratar este convite como uma oportunidade para obter acesso ao tão desejado mercado indiano. Muito pelo contrário, este convite foi um cavalo de Tróia deixado pela Índia em Portugal.  

O aspeto que deveria ter agitado o establishment diplomático português ao permitir que o primeiro-ministro português seja reconhecido como OCI é deixar a Índia determinar a natureza das relações diplomáticas entre os dois países. A Índia reivindicou Costa, um homem que se tornou primeiro-ministro sem qualquer apoio do Estado Indiano, e desta maneira definiu a identidade do mais alto representante de um Estado estrangeiro.

É óbvio que a Índia atingiu este objectivo em parte devido ao apoio das estruturas racializadas que continuam a dominar a cena internacional e onde Portugal, apesar de ser um membro da UE, continua a ser um país semi-periférico. Por estas razões, a relação entre os dois países está longe de ser uma interacção entre iguais, tendo a Índia uma larga vantagem. É compreensível que num contexto de dificuldades económicas graves os empresários portugueses lutem por acesso ao mercado indiano. Porém, o Governo português deveria ponderar se para isto valerá a pena comprometer a dignidade do Estado e, mais importante ainda, os direitos dos seus cidadãos.

A comprovar a astúcia do Estado Indiano, o estatuto de OCI não concede quaisquer direitos de cidadania de facto; trata-se, apenas, de um visto permanente. Na realidade, apesar de as únicas restrições conhecidas aos OCIs serem apenas as proibições de votar e a compra de propriedade agrícola, vários incidentes demonstram que existem diversas outras restrições ocultas, apenas referidas quando da conveniência do Estado indiano. O maior problema, contudo, reside no facto de o regime de OCI se basear em preconceitos raciais e sectários. (Sendo racismo a identificação de grupos de indivíduos como uma raça, grupo étnico ou religioso e a atribuição de características indeléveis a estes mesmos grupos). Desde logo, porque reforça o preconceito anti-muçulmano do Estado indiano, visto que o OCI não é extensível a pessoas com ligações familiares ao Paquistão e ao Bangladesh. Mais, com a actual política de OCI, a Índia define efectivamente os seus cidadãos através de uma perspectiva étnico-racial em vez de uma perspectiva legal. Por exemplo, os antepassados de Costa nunca foram indianos. Eram cidadãos portugueses e goeses, sendo que o Estado indiano só emergiu em 1947. Identificar os antepassados de Costa como indianos seria classifica-los do ponto de vista racial. Desta forma, o Estado indiano pretende revindicar como indiano qualquer pessoa que provenha do subcontinente em qualquer altura da história, apagando desta maneira todas as especificidades das diversas identidades sul-asiáticas e agrupando-as numa homogénea e racializada “identidade Indiana”. Isto ao mesmo tempo que pretende consolidar um nacionalismo cultural bramânico que exclui indivíduos que não pertencem às castas dominantes hindus e ignorando deliberadamente os direitos políticos de uma grande parte da população e de uma forma profundamente sectária.

Assim, quando Costa se afirma orgulhoso da sua identidade indiana, o que está efectivamente a fazer é ser cúmplice de um regime racialista e neo-colonial. Uma acção que tem consequências múltiplas, não só na Índia, mas também em Portugal.

Desde logo, esta postura do Governo de Portugal compromete a identidade dos seus cidadãos com ligações ao Sul da Ásia que se ressentem ao ser identificados como “indianos”. Este rótulo opera efectivamente de forma racialista, pois não só nega a esses cidadãos a sua identidade portuguesa como também ignora as especificidades das suas múltiplas identidades sociais. Esse é o caso dos vários grupos cujos antepassados deixaram o Gujarate e se estabeleceram na África portuguesa durante gerações, chegando a Portugal como retornados e portugueses. A mesma questão se coloca com os goeses, damanenses e diuenses. Para estas pessoas seria crucial poderem ser reconhecidas socialmente como portugueses — embora distinguindo as suas identidades sociais específicas — em vez de serem agrupados indiferenciadamente numa categoria racial única. Esperava-se que o corpo diplomático português que aconselha o primeiro-ministro tivesse sido capaz de tomar devida nota destas nuances sociais.

Mas a natureza racializada das relações luso-indianas não termina com a manipulação da identidade de Costa por parte da Índia. Portugal tem tido também um papel ativo neste jogo, perpetuando uma tradição colonial e luso-tropicalista, ao oferecer o seu “privilegiado entendimento” de África aos seus potenciais parceiros indianos, sabendo que a presença indiana em África tem dimensões neo-coloniais.

A escolha de um modus operandi mais ético na sua relação com a Índia, ao mesmo tempo enfrentando os complexos problemas que ensombram esta relação, daria a Portugal base para um entendimento mais honesto e possivelmente mais duradouro entre os dois países.

Um dos obstáculos a uma feliz convivência entre os dois países é sem dúvida a relação de Portugal com os seus antigos territórios no subcontinente, especialmente Goa. Esta difícil relação deve-se em grande parte aos distúrbios criados por parte de nacionalistas hindus ativos em Goa. É frequente ouvir-se os diplomatas portugueses na Índia mencionarem em privado que historicamente a razão para a ineficácia das relações entre Portugal e a Índia se deve ao Governo de Goa e a certos segmentos da sociedade local. Segundo os mesmos, as relações com o governo central são, pelo contrário, de grande cordialidade. Esta lógica poderá ter sido uma das razões que levou a diplomacia portuguesa a querer fundar uma nova relação com a Índia, pondo de lado as raízes do passado. Operando como Estado astuto, o governo central indiano reivindica completa impotência perante eventos “anti-portugueses” em Goa, precisamente por não ter nenhum interesse em pôr fim a este tipo de manifestações naquele território. Isto porque a retórica dos nacionalistas hindus em Goa não é mais do que uma extensão lógica do nacionalismo cultural através do qual a Índia continua a impor uma certa identidade nacional.

Pelo facto de assentar num nacionalismo cultural, em lugar de num nacionalismo político, a construção da identidade nacional indiana sempre foi marcada por ideias de inimigos externos e internos. Por esta razão, também, a presença portuguesa será sempre vista com suspeita, e a história portuguesa no subcontinente sempre disponível para ser recordada de acordo com a conveniência dos interlocutores e a obvia desvantagem dos investidores portugueses na Índia. Dado o poder que o governo central indiano tem sobre os seus estados, especialmente quando o mesmo partido governa tanto a nível nacional como regional, a invariável alegação de impotência para intervir na situação de Goa deve ser vista com grande cepticismo. Desempenhando o papel de Estado astuto, a Índia permite e incentiva o florescimento de alguma instabilidade regional, porque a mesma lhe traz vantagens na sua estratégia geo-política mais alargada.

Uma política externa que reconheça a natureza do Estado indiano permitiria a Portugal perceber que abandonar o passado português no subcontinente nunca poderá gerar uma relação madura e equitativa com a Índia. Na verdade, é no confronto das questões relacionadas com o fim do Estado da Índia Portuguesa, como a maneira em que o Estado indiano nega aos residentes destes antigos territórios a dupla nacionalidade, que Portugal poderá construir uma relação honesta com a Índia, cumprir com as suas obrigações enquanto descolonizador, confrontar os seus desejos neo-colonialistas que ensombram a sua relação com os PALOP e, ao mesmo tempo, enfrentar os complexos desafios raciais que estão longe de estar resolvidos em Portugal.

(Este post foi publicado como Opinião no Publico no 5 Jan 2018)

The idyll that never was: Goa and the Indian elites

It was with anger and disbelief that I read Deepti Kapoor’s recent article in The Guardian titled “An idyll no more: why I’m leaving Goa”. While there is no denying that Goa is in fact facing a looming ecological and political crisis, what is galling is that Kapoor does not acknowledge her own role in the mess that Goans find themselves in. Kapoor is silent about the privilege that she enjoys – the privilege of the (largely North) Indian elites, who dominated British India, led the anti-colonial nationalist movement, and who now operate as the embodiment of colonial power in places like Goa. This is precisely the relationship that is to blame for the many ills that Kapoor documents, and that allows Kapoor to escape Goa with relatively no loss, while Goans are left not only with a ruined ecology and social fabric but a continuing brutal colonial relationship with India.

The relationship of the Indian elites to Goa is by no means innocent. For that matter, neither is the relationship of India to Goa. Rather, these relationships are built on the willful ignoring of history, to enable Indians to create Goa and Goans not only as property of the Indian empire but as a pleasure park where they can imagine themselves to be in their own little part of Europe. Take, for example, the way in which Kapoor chooses to label older houses in Goa “Portuguese villas” despite the fact that many Goans, including scholars, have pointed out that there is nothing Portuguese to these homes. Except for the fact that they were built by Goans, who were Portuguese citizens at the time, these were, and are, Goan homes. The reason for this stubborn insistence is linked to the fact that these houses are in high demand by the Indian elites who choose to own second homes in Goa. It is precisely in calling the built forms “Portuguese” that Goa and Goans are transformed into props that allow for the territory to be read as Europe in South Asia, as a seaside Riviera where Indian elites can play out their European fantasies.

This colonial relationship, it should be pointed out, is not unique to the relationship between Goa and India. In fact, it follows a longer colonial relationship enjoyed by the Northern European, and principally British elites, with the European South – namely, Italy, Spain, and Portugal. It was to these historically Catholic locations that the largely Protestant elites of the North fled to enjoy not just the sun but the pleasures of the flesh. The European South, and by extension the overseas colonies of these countries, were marked out as spaces for frolic and relaxation, and fabulous lifestyles afforded as a result of the poorer economies of the host locations. Additionally, these locations were identified as places for inspiration for artistes and writers. In post-colonial times, the elite British Indian has actively taken on the gaze and privilege of the British overlord, and looks at Goa precisely through the lenses that the British used to view the European South.  No wonder then that Kapoor, author of the novel A Bad Character (2014), also chose Goa as a place for future writing projects.

The continuation of this imperial gaze is also deeply rooted in colonial politics. As Sukanya Banerjee demonstrates in her book Becoming Imperial Citizens: Indians in the Late-Victorian Empire (2010), the end of empire and the creation of an independent nation-state was not the goal envisaged by early Indian nationalists. On the contrary, South Asian dominant caste elites were stakeholders in the empire rather than its opponents. Given this proximity to the imperial project, what they deeply desired was the status of Imperial British citizen and equality with the British overlord. Banerjee also demonstrates the way that Gandhi himself was invested in the pursuit of this status. The figure of Gandhi is critical here, because it was he who effectively created a mass movement by recruiting subaltern groups to make what had earlier been a largely elitist cause. This mass recruitment was necessary for the elites to be taken seriously by the British Crown. The Crown was convinced that while the Indians merited the status of subjects, they could not be imperial citizens and thereby claim equality with the British. The rallying of the masses forced a change in the nature of the movement to assume the character of a nationalist anti-colonial project. Independence was now the only answer.

Thus, the objective of the nationalist elites was, rather, parity with the British and participation in the imperial project. The continued desire for imperial prominence that motivated these caste elites ensured a number of features that have marked post-colonial India. By exerting various pressures on the princely states and acquiring, forcefully if necessary, the territories of other colonial powers, the nationalist elites put together an Indian empire that even the British Raj had not managed to. This new post-colonial empire was held in place by retaining most of the colonial laws, and an imperial perspective guided the relationship with the territories and peoples that were assimilated into post-colonial India. Thus, along with Goan houses being labeled “Portuguese”, Goans have been marked out as fun-loving, relaxed, and laid back, just as the southern Europeans and Latins. Further, just as the British elites travelled to the European South for sensorial excess, so too has Goa been marked out as a place for excess. Note that Kapoor’s narrative suggests that her brother had his mind blown – normally a reference to the effect of psychotropic drugs – when he saw his first nudist in Goa. The Kapoor family’s relationship with Goa seems to be marked by an excess that is unavailable in India. As R. Benedito Ferrão points out, Kapoor suggests her own sensorial relationship with Goa through the excessive exclamation marks that she uses when listing the things that brought her to Goa: “The beaches! The restaurants! The music, and the people!” Further, as if to prove the point of a continuity between the imperial British and the contemporary imperial Indian elite, Kapoor states that she has decided “to look toward Europe or Latin America” in her search for a new place to live. It should be obvious that Latin America is placed along the same continuum as Goa in terms of being the place of Iberian influenced tropical languor and excess. Therefore, Kapoor will merely shift from Goa to another location that offers a similar southern European backdrop for the party.

Interestingly, the insistence of Indians, such as Kapoor, on labeling the built landscape in Goa as different from India reveals a disinclination to be attentive to the historical and legal differences of this former Portuguese territory. Unlike the legal scenario that unfolded in British India, Goans were constitutionally recognized as Portuguese citizens as far back as the early 1800s. This resulted in a restricted segment of the population being entitled to vote in parliamentary elections. And vote they did. Goan elites regularly sent voluble representatives to Lisbon, who established the legal and social parity of Goans with metropolitan Portuguese. This situation was temporarily suspended in the years when Goa, like the rest of Portugal, suffered an authoritarian regime from the 1930s until 1974. It was in this situation that India sent troops in to militarily wrest Goa from the Portuguese. Rather than engage with the political agency that was being expressed within and outside of the territory, India simply asserted sovereignty over the territory and extended citizenship to persons residing in the territory. Given the right of colonized peoples to self-determination, this was an act for which there was no legal precedent, but was based on the assertion of a dubious argument of cultural homogeneity.

With the normalization of relations between Portugal and India in 1975, Portugal recognized the continuing right of citizenship of residents of its former territories in India. As consciousness of this continuing right percolates through Portuguese Indian society, many have chosen to access and assert this right. The Indian state, and consequently most Indians, however, fail to see this as a resumption of an existing right. They see it instead, as the acquisition of dual citizenship, which some argue is prohibited by the Indian legal system. This places Portuguese Indians – in this case, Goans – in an awkward situation, where they have to give up political engagement with Goa, and a host of other rights, if they choose to assert their right to Portuguese citizenship. Like most Indians, Kapoor seems to fail to recognize this complexity and naively suggests that Goans are leaving, or, as she puts it, “looking elsewhere”. As I articulated in an essay some time ago, Goans are not leaving; they are merely employing one more way to maintain their historical connections and pursue livelihood options. It is only in the face of an Indian state that refuses to recognize the complexity of Portuguese Indian history, and prevents this movement, that Goans are, in fact, being forced to leave.

At the end of the day, it is the refusal to recognize this most basic of rights, that of citizenship pre-existing the Indian takeover of Goa that complicates the relationship of India, and Indians, with Goa, and Goans. The refusal to recognize a pre-existing constitutional right of citizenship transforms the Indian presence in Goa into one of occupation and not post-colonial liberation.

The colonial nature of India’s presence in Goa is perhaps best captured in the way the territory has been actively converted into India’s pleasure periphery. In his book, Refiguring Goa (2015), Raghuraman S. Trichur points out that “it was only after the state sponsored development of tourism in the 1980s (more than two decades after Goa's liberation/occupation in 1961), was Goa effectively integrated into the Indian nation-state” (p. 13). This is to say that the integration of this former Portuguese territory, which ought to have been given the right to self-determination, was ensured through the process of articulating Goa’s “otherness” or cultural distancing, as evidenced by the social practices and performances that constitute the tourism destination in Goa. Thus, Trichur argues, Goa’s emergence as a tourism destination is more than the fortuitous agent of economic growth: “it is also an arena, a discursive frame where the Indian State intersects with Goan society” (p. 16). Tourism, then, is precisely the way through which Indian colonialism is exercised in Goa. Indeed, the usage of “Portuguese” houses, in reference to the homes of Goans, suggests homes not continually inhabited by Goans but open for occupation by the “helpful” outsiders that come to renew Goan life.

While Kapoor correctly lists the many problems that are cropping up in Goa as a result of a tourist industry gone wild, she seems to place the responsibility for the looming ecological and social disaster primarily in Goan hands. One reads in Kapoor’s narrative the usual suggestion that it is the greedy Goans who are selling agricultural land and pulling down ancestral homes, and that the local government has no vision. What escapes her is that Goans are all too often subject to forces not within their control. Goans are trapped in an economy that, rather than working on producing more varied opportunities for the locals, has for decades now relied exclusively on tapping the extractive industries of either tourism or mining, or on overseas remittances. While the tourist economy has produced huge profits for some, incomes have not risen to keep pace with the increased cost of living. In such a context, there are two options that will assure people without the material resources or skill sets to fuel social mobility of persons who cannot achieve betterment in Goa. The first is the sale of land to persons in search of the fabled Goan lifestyle. The second is migration in search of gainful and respectable employment. The irony is that the critique of the Portuguese presence in Goa was that they failed to develop a viable economy, which required people to migrate to earn a living that would assure them and their families of a higher standard of living. Indeed, for the vast majority of the population life under Portuguese rule was experienced more as life under landlord rule. And this Goan lifestyle was no idyll. It was only through migration that they could economically emancipate themselves. It was only with the economic liberation possible through migration that Goa, now a place to return for the summers, was constructed as an idyll. As it turns out, the transition to Indian rule has not changed much, as many Goans are still forced to migrate.

Yet it is not economics alone that Goans are trapped by but, the political system itself. There is a clear understanding among the many groups in the territory that this system is not delivering good governance and that there is a need for dramatic change. In their imitation of Britain, British Indians adopted the unsophisticated first-past-the-post system of determining political representatives. As Dr. Ambedkar pointed out, the ills of the system are such that it does not allow for marginalized groups to find a voice in the legislature. Even though there are moves to shift to a system of proportional representation, it seems unlikely that there will be a change anytime soon. Thus, Goans are chained to a political structure that they had no say in determining, and that clearly does not work for their territory, given that it reproduces persons who represent majoritarian politics. One wonders whether Goan politics may not have been dramatically different if the people of the territory were allowed to innovate with a proportional representation system followed in Portugal.

But Kapoor’s text is not merely illustrative of the problem that Goans have with the Indian elites. Rather, it exposes the colonial relationship of these elites with marginalized Indian populations. The trouble with the Indian elites is that they do not see themselves as a part of the political processes of the subcontinent, believing themselves too good for the rest of the citizens of India. Indeed, this is part of their adoption of the colonial gaze. These elites see the residents of the rest of the continent as a strange race that requires firm governance. The review of Kapoor’s book by Prashansa Taneja makes this quite obvious when she reports, “more often than not, she gives into the temptation to exoticise Delhi, and India, for the reader. Many Indian women cover their heads on a daily basis, but when Idha [the character in Kapoor’s book] does so at a Sufi shrine, she feels she becomes ‘Persian, dark-eyed, pious and transformed’.” One could argue that she succumbs to the use of clichés precisely because like other members of her class, Kapoor looks at the people in the city of Delhi, through a gaze adopted from the Raj.

Goa and Goans are locked in an unequal and unfair colonial relationship with India. Until and unless this inequality and injustice are resolved, and the relationship is made more equal – indeed, until the colonial equation at the heart of the imperial Indian project is resolved – Goa and Goans may be doomed to destruction. Kapoor’s text is offensive precisely because she is blind to these facts, and while also being blind to her own privilege is completely oblivious to the extent to which her article is a gripe about the loss of her own privileges. Kapoor’s problem seems to lie in the fact that with other Indians, and not just other elites but all sorts, coming to play with her toy, the party has been ruined. While Kapoor may be able to trip off to some other island paradise and live the life of the wandering elite, where, pray, will the Goans go?

(A version of this post was first published in Raiot webzine on 17 Oct 2016)