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)

Era Uma Vez Um Rapaz Que Queria Ser Um Urso Polar

O que é que podemos aprender com a história do um rapaz que queria ser um urso polar? Essa é também a preocupação de Tomáš Halík nas primeiras páginas da sua autobiografia intitulada Diante de Ti, Os Meus Caminhos. Será que a sua autobiografia seria somente fruto da sua própria vaidade ou poderiam as lições aprendidas no curso da sua vida ser úteis para o leitor? Depois de ter lido o livro, posso confirmar que de facto a história do rapaz que não cresceu para ser um urso polar nem presidente do seu país, apesar de ter tido oportunidade, tem muito para nos oferecer. Em grande parte organizados cronologicamente, os treze capítulos do livro encontram-se ligados através do tema dos caminhos, os quais, enquanto ligados à experiência duma pessoa, ecoam várias preocupações universais.

Somente para cumprir as normas duma presentação formal do um livro, permitam-me rapidamente enumerar os seus capítulos. Sem surpresa, o primeiro, O caminho para a fé, discute as circunstâncias do nascimento de Halík e o contexto da sua vida inicial. Uma vida que poderia ser descrita como imersão num catolicismo cultural, onde a fé é somente um padrão cultural, em vez de fazer parte de um exercício quotidiano. No final deste capítulo, porém, percebemos como Halík se comprometeu mais substancialmente com a Igreja. Essa atração teve um contexto: a maneira como a Igreja Católica estava a ser reprimida pelas autoridades comunistas da Checoslováquia. O segundo capítulo, O caminho da primavera capta os sentimentos na primavera do 1968:

foi a primavera da minha vida, a primavera da minha fé, a nova primavera da Igreja depois do Concílio Vatiano II, e tudo ao nosso redor e em nós foi impregnado pela a inebriante fragrância primaveril da esperança  de um desanuviamento político e duma vida mais livre (p.54).

Essa primavera política foi efémera, porém, e acabou com a ocupação militar da Checoslováquia pelo exércitos dos países do Bloco Soviético, situação que lançou os fundamentos para a história que será contada. O título O caminho para o sacerdócio deixa o conteúdo do capítulo claro, sendo seguido pelo capítulo O caminho da clandestinidade que narra não só as lutas pessoais de um padre clandestino, mas tambem reflete sobre as implicações de ser, em primeiro lugar, um padre num cenário marcado pela repressão e pela perseguição. Dado que a aurora vem depois da cada noite, por mais escura que seja, O caminho do despertar narra o eventual relaxamento que o comunismo teve sobre os países da Europa Central e do Leste, e o papel da Igreja em facultar esse abrandamento, desafiando o regime e também motivando espiritualmente a população através de um Decénio para comemorar o centenário de Santo Adalberto. O caminho da catarse começa com o primeiro ano do Decénio, o ano da Santa Inês, que foi também o ano da sua canonização. Foi próximo desta altura que os protestos em Praga começaram, os quais iriam eventualmente mudar o rosto do país para sempre.

A discussão presente no capítulo O caminho da transição interessou-me bastante por mostrar a maneira como o dia prometido da libertação política não implicou que a Igreja tivesse necessariamente um espaço amplo em que pudesse operar. Ao contrário, resultou na irrupção de cada vez mais desafios. O Caminho da Fundação narra a história da criação da Academia Cristã Checa, um sonho antigo de Halík que procurava restabelecer a administração espiritual dos estudantes na Igreja do Santíssimo Salvador em Praga e o lugar dos diálogos ecuménicos e inter-religiosos. O Caminho da Noite descreve a experiência traumática quando Halík enfrentou a oposição do chefe do departamento de Teologia. O Caminho da Política narra as consequências sofridas quando o nome do autor surgiu como um dos possíveis sucessores a Vaclav Havel como Presidente da República. Devo sublinhar que a parte que gostei mais ocorreu quando Halík indica que decidiu

não dizer um não absoluto. Um não absoluto aplica-se apenas a coisas que são realmente moralmente erradas em si mesmas. O não que disse à polícia secreta quando me tentou dobrar para uma cooperação. Aceitar uma candidatura presidencial é certamente arriscada, incomum, etc. etc., mas não é imoral. (p.283)

Os caminhos para mundo descreve as viagens de Halík aos quatro cantos do mundo,  os quais aparecem sempre como momentos de aprendizagem. O capítulo final intitula-se O caminho para o silêncio eterno.

No seu ensaio “A Morte do Autor” Roland Barthes escreve que dar o texto a um autor e atribuir-lhe apenas a correspondente interpretação seria impor-lhe um limite. Respeitando, portanto, Barthes, e Halík também, o que vou fazer nesta apresentação será oferecer as minhas próprias respostas ao livro, e falar através das várias localizações que habito enquanto católico de Goa, na Índia, atualmente a viver em Portugal. Esta apresentação não será, creio eu, inadequada, dado que tanto Goa como a Índia se encontram referidos no texto, provavelmente mais Índia do que Goa.

Havia dois aspetos da descrição dos anos iniciais da sua vida com que me identifiquei instintivamente. O primeiro trata de uma sociedade e Igreja sob opressão, e a segunda as mudanças ocorridas depois do Concelho Vaticano II e as alterações políticas que as acompanharam. Em Goa, que foi invadida pela Índia em 1961, os anos das duras alterações políticas, a asfixia da cultura católica e as alterações do Concelho vieram em rápida sucessão. É verdade que a sociedade cristã em Goa e Índia, em grande parte, não se confrontaram com o tipo da repressão com que a Igreja checoslovaca teve que lidar. Todavia, a repressão na Índia foi mais insidiosa, escondendo-se por detrás da retórica da democracia. Os cristãos não foram assim somente forçados a viver dentro das restrições de um poder cada vez mais fascista, mas nos cantos do país onde havia pouco ou nenhum foco. Cristãos, as suas igrejas e bens foram assim atacados ferozmente. Este tipo da repressão não pôde deixar de ter um impacto profundo na vida da Igreja, tal como aconteceu na Checoslováquia.

Por um lado esta repressão obrigou-nos, clero e leigos, a funcionar com um inimigo na mente, ao extremo de que quando o inimigo já lá não se encontrava, fomos à procura de outro para estabelecer a ortodoxia como um porto seguro. Esta busca teve impactos devastadores, impedindo a possibilidade do diálogo, o qual se encontra no coração do contrato social. Estas foram as circunstâncias que garantiram que Halík, que estava a ensinar na faculdade da teologia, tenha lsido evado a encontrar resistência por parte do chefe do seu próprio departamento, acabando com a sua saída para a faculdade de letras onde ainda se mantém atualmente.

Outra consequência de viver sob opressão implica lidar com aqueles que colaboram com “o inimigo” ou os poderes que controlam o estado. Halík documenta este aspeto dentro da igreja institucional da Checoslováquia. A colaboração surge, porém, sob várias formas, e gostaria de sugerir que no caso indiano, foi através do muito mal entendido projeto de inculturação. No capítulo Os caminhos para o Mundo Halík refere a maneira como este projeto foi articulado na Índia. Halík observa que havia nas várias dioceses indianas a tentativa de tornar a liturgia mais consonante com as práticas locais. Ele conta que a determinada altura foi convidado a dançar num estilo checo durante a liturgia, tal como os locais. Felizmente Halík declinou o convite sugerindo que a dança não era a maneira como os checos se expressavam durante a liturgia! Na minha opinião, um dos maiores problemas com a inculturação na Índia prende-se com a tentativa de a igreja institucional alinhar com a cultura bramânica do estado indiano. Portanto, o que ela fez foi rejeitar as culturas das castas não dominantes, minar as culturas europeias que já faziam parte da cultura indígena e musealizar as práticas culturais dos grupos tribais. A divulgação acontece através dos diálogos inter-religiosos em grande parte apenas com o Hinduísmo, e quase nenhum com Islão, o que parece apontar a maneira como, consciente ou inconscientemente, a Igreja institucional tenta dialogar com poder.

Neste contexto, Halík apresenta-nos a inculturação – tal como tantas outras pessoas perspicazes, como por exemplo o Papa Bento XVI – não como a adoção de práticas peculiares, mas sim como um processo de diálogo com as pessoas à nossa volta, dando testemunho dos valores do evangelho. Talvez um ótimo exemplo deste processo de inculturação e evangelização sejam as conversas iniciadas pela Academia Cristã Checa, a qual lançou debates sobre vários temas, tais como o racismo e o nacionalismo, a constituição e o novo sistema jurídico político da energia, as reformas na educação e na saúde, chegando a tocar em temas sensíveis, como a homossexualidade. Estes debates vão além dos convites habituais, tomando lugar longe dos centros de privilégio, como a capital nacional em Praga.

Conversa, ou diálogo, é talvez, o leitmotif deste livro.  Tenho que confessar que fiquei particularmente impressionado com dois episódios em particular. O primeiro, quando em Roma Halík viajou ao centro da Opus Dei familiarizando-se com a instituição, e o segundo quando visitou Écône, onde assistiu à consagração dos bispos pelo Bispo Lefebre. Para mim estes episódios marcam a atitude de um verdadeiro académico: alguém que não baseia a sua opinião no que ele/a ouve, formando-a depois de cuidadosa investigação e de reflexão sobre o assunto. Como Halík afirma na página 234 “Tudo precisa de ser visto de vários ângulos”. Halík tambem recorda o Padre Josef Zverina – uma das figuras mais importantes na sua vida – que costumava dizer que o princípio católico básico é “não só, mas também”, sugerindo que esta atitude, marcada pelo ponderação e abertura às nuances, é fundamentalmente católica. Talvez haja algo mais aqui. A minha impressão é que a história de Jan Huss, o teólogo checo do século XIV que foi acusado e executado acusado de heresia, influenciou esta atitude por parte de Halík. Este episódio marcou não somente o jovem Halík, mas enfatiza a importância de estar aberto ao diálogo – o que poderia ter evitado a morte de Huss – e especialmente a necessidade de estabelecer comunicação com grupos evangélicos que se alicerçam nas memórias do movimento Hussita.

Um dos temas que percorre este livro é a questão: qual é afinal o papel de um padre? A pergunta não é tão estranha assim considerando que, como padre clandestino na Checoslováquia comunista, Halík não poderia utlizar os marcadores tradicionais de um padre. Vejamos a possível imagem do novo padre nas palavras do Jesuíta Mikulasek a Halík quando o autor falou com o primeiro sobre o seu desejo de entrar no sacerdócio “o sacerdote do futuro deveria ter duas profissões, trabalhando numa profissão secular e, aí estar principalmente disponível para as pessoas sem fé e para as que andam à procura” (p. 96). Mais tarde, nas páginas 258 e 259 Halík, como um psicólogo treinado, avisa-nos sobre os perigos de “cultivar em nome do ideal romântico de um sacerdote santo e a pressão psicológica causada pela interiorização deste ideal no decorrer da formação no seminário”. Noutras partes do livro, mais uma vez salientando o facto de que os bispos e padres são também pessoas como os leigos, ele imagina o que as pessoas pensariam se elas vissem os seus bispos em fatos de banho a brincar na praia.

Se estes foram os aspetos com que me identifiquei, houve também partes do livro com as quais não posso concordar. A autobiografia de Halík encontra-se marcada por uma forte identificação com a nação. Como um católico, e um particularmente sensível ao modo como os vários grupos na Índia foram inferiorizados pelo estado, esta intensa identificação com a nação não é algo que me atraia. De facto, frequentemente me questiono se o entrelaçamento entre a Igreja e Nação tão comum na Europa não contraria a vocação universal da Igreja de tornar discípulos de todas as nações (Mt. 28:19) e de garantir que, tal como aparece nos Gálatas 3:28, “Não há nem judeu nem gentio, escravo ou homem livre, homem ou mulher”, mas uma nação em Jesus Cristo. É correto que a Igreja se identifique com o local. Apesar de tudo, como antropólogo, reconheço que é aí que a fé se enraíza. Não obstante, devemos dar o nosso melhor para garantir que este local se encontra ligado com o nacional, o último sendo o produto de antigos e continuados projetos de violentas punições.

Neste sentido, termino com uma observação final sobre outra ideia que me ocorreu e que se relaciona não apenas com o ênfase que Halík coloca no diálogo, mas que nos toca a nós em Portugal.

Por outro lado, apercebi-me tambem de que a tão condenanda sociedade pluralista secular, com os seus ideais iluministas de tolerância, direitos humanos e liberdades civis, protege a Igreja da tentação das infelizes recaídas do passado. É bom que vivamos numa sociedade democrática, não anseio de todo por um «Estado católico». Onde quer que a fé se torne numa ideologia estatal, eu serei, em nome da fé e em nome da liberdade, o primeiro dissidente.” (pp. 253- 254)

Ler estas linhas recordou-me do papel da Igreja Católica no debate sobre a eutanásia neste país. Por muito que admita os problemas éticos associados à eutanásia, reconhecendo-o mesmo enquanto pecado, houve momentos em que senti que a Igreja Católica – ou os católicos em Portugal – ultrapassou o limite, chegando demasiado perto de uma identificação do país com o Catolicismo. O nosso trabalho acredito que seja tornar a posição moral clara, de a divulgar, mas de nos lembrarmos que assumir a legalidade do estado como sendo a única legitimamente possível em sociedade, é correr o risco que marcou as diferentes organizações políticas do século XX – seja o comunismo, os fascismos, os liberalismos precoces, ou de facto, o nosso próprio estado corporativista em Portugal, personificado no Estado Novo. Será importante relembrar os intelectuais católicos que precederam estas situações e as suas vozes que se insurgiram frequentemente contra a centralização de todo o poder no estado, argumentando a favor da sua dispersão pela sociedade.

Termino aqui, mas gostaria primeiro de vos agradecer a atenção dispensada, ao Fr. António Martins, a oportunidade de apresentar este livro, e a Fr. Tomáš Halík por partilhar a sua história de vida connosco.

Diante de Ti, Os Meus Caminhos
Tomáš Halík
Paulinas Editora, 2018, Prior Velho, 432 pp., 23,00 € (PB)
ISBN 9789896736620

(Texto da apresentação do livro Diante de Ti, Os Meus Caminhos, autobiografia do teólogo Tomáš Halík na Capela do Rato, Lisboa, 22 Nov 2018. Gostaria agradecer a ajuda da Ínes Figueira em editar este texto. )

About The Boy Who Wanted to be a Polar Bear:

What can we possibly learn from the story of a boy who wanted to grow up to be a polar bear? This is also the concern of Tomáš Halík in the initial pages of his autobiography entitled Diante de Ti, Os Meus Caminhos (Before You, My Paths). Would his autobiography be merely a pandering to his own vanity, or does he have insights to share from his life that would benefit the reader? Having read the rather weighty text, I can say that indeed the story of the boy who did not grow up to be a polar bear, nor to be the President of his country, though he did have the possibility to be the latter, does have much to offer us. Broadly – but not entirely – arranged chronologically, the thirteen chapters of the book are bound together by the theme of caminhos, or routes, which, while rooted in the experience of a single individual, speak to a number of universal experiences.

If only to fulfill the norms of a formal presentation of the book, allow me to quickly run through its chapters. Not surprisingly the first chapter titled O Caminho para a fé (the road to faith) discusses the circumstances of Halík’s birth and the context of this early life, one that could possibly be described as an immersion in cultural Catholicism, where the faith is a cultural marker, rather than part of a system of quotidian exercise. Already by the end of this chapter, however, we are introduced to the manner in which Halík comes to be attracted to commit to the Church in a more substantial way. There is a context to this attraction, given the manner in which the Catholic Church was being repressed by the Czech state authorities under communism.  The second chapter, O caminho da primavera (The road to spring) captures the sentiments in the spring of 1968 which, in his words:

 foi a primavera da minha vida, a primavera da minha fe, a nova primavera da Igreja depois do Concílio Vatiano II, e tudo ao nosso redor e em nós foi impregnado com a inebirante fragrância primaveril da esperança  de um desanuviamento político e duma vida mais livre (p.54).

It was the spring of my life, the spring of my faith, the new spring of the Church after the Vatican Council II, and everything around and in us was impregnated with the intoxicating spring fragrance of hope for a political thawing and a freer life (p.54).

The political spring was not to last, however, and instead ended with the military occupation of Czechoslovakia by the combined military of the countries comprising the Soviet Block, which lays the foundations for the history that is to unfold in the subsequent chapters. O caminho para o Sacerdócio (The road to the priesthood) is self-evident, and is followed by the chapter O caminho da Clandestinidade (The road towards the underground) which discusses not only the personal trials of being a priest in hiding, but reflects on what it means to be a priest at all, and a priest in scenario marked by repression and persecution. Given that the dawn must come even after the longest night, O caminho do despertar (The road to awakening) speaks of the eventual relaxation in the hold of communism over Central and Eastern Europe and the role of the church in aiding this thaw, challenging the regime and also engaging the population spiritually through a Decennial to commemorate the centenary of Saint Adalbert. O Caminho do Catarse (The road to catharsis), begins with the first year of the Decennial, the year of Saint Agnes, also the year of her canonization. It was around this time the protests in Prague commenced, which would eventually lead to the face of the country being changed forever. The discussion in O Caminho da Transição (The road to transition) is perhaps one that interested me the most, because it demonstrated the way in which all too often the promised day of political liberation does not translate into an era of unimpeded operation for the church, rather, it heralds the opening of ever new challenges. O Caminho da Fundação (The road to foundation) engages with the creation of the Czech Christian Academy, Halík’s long standing dream to reestablish the student chaplaincy (which later became the Academic Parish) at the Church of the Holy Saviour in Prague and the site for ecumenical and inter-religious dialogue. O Caminho da Noite (The Road of Night) describes the traumatic experience in which things did not run so well when Halík ran into opposition with the head of the Department of Theology. O Caminho da Politica (The road towards politics) deals with the scenarios when Halík’s name emerged as a possible successor to Vaclav Havel as President of the Republic. I have to highlight that the portion that really appealed to me here was that where he indicates that he decided

não dizer um não absluto. Um não absolute aplica’se apenas a coisas que são realmente moralmente erradas em si mesmas. Um não que disse à polìcia secreta quando me tentou dobrar para uma cooperação. Aceitar uma candidatura presidencial é certamente arriscada, incomum, etc. etc., mas não e immoral.

To not offer an absolute not. An absolute no is to be used only when things are inherently morally wrong. The no that I offered the secret police when they tried to bend me into cooperation. To accept a presidential candidature is certainly risky, uncommon, etc. etc. but not immoral.

Os Caminhos para Mundo (The roads to the world) describe Halík’s travels, which extended to all of the continents and were always, it appears, moments for learning. And the final chapter is titled O caminho para o silencio eterno (The road towards eternal silence).

In his essay, ‘The Death of the Author’ Roland Barthes argues that to “To give a text an author” and assign a single, corresponding interpretation to it “is to impose a limit on that text”. Respecting both Barthes, and Halík, therefore, what I will do in this presentation of the book will be to offer my own responses to the book, speaking from the various locations that I inhabit, a Catholic from Goa in India, and currently living in Portugal. Such a presentation would not, I believe, be out of place given that both Goa and India feature in the book, India more so than Goa.

There were two aspects of Halík’s description of the early years of his life that I instinctively identified with. The first was that of a society and Church under oppression, and the second that the changes following the Vatican Council II and political change came together.  In Goa, which was invaded by India in 1961, the years of hard political change, the suffocation of a Catholic culture, and the changes of the Council came in quick succession. It is true that Christian society in both Goa and India do not, in the large part, face the kind of repression that the Church in Czechoslovakia faced. However, the repression in India is more insidious, where hiding behind the rhetoric of democracy, Christians are not only forced to live within the constraints of an increasingly fascist power, but in corners of the country where there is no or little spotlight, Christians, their churches and property are ferociously attacked. This kind of oppression, as in Czechoslovakia, and so compellingly narrated by Halík, cannot but have a profound impact on the life of the Church.

On the one hand it forces us, clergy and laity, to operate with an enemy in mind, to the extent that even when the enemy is no longer there, we go looking for an enemy with the intention of establishing orthodoxy as a safe space. This has devastating impacts on a society, impeding the possibility for dialogue, which is at the heart of the social contract. Such were the circumstances that ensured that Halík, who was teaching in the faculty of theology, encountered resistance from his department head leading to his departure to the faculty of the liberal arts where he has been happily based for years now.

Another aspect of living with oppression is that this situation is also encountered those who collaborate with “the enemy” or the powers that control the state. Halík documents this aspect of those within the institutional Church in Czechoslovakia.  Collaboration comes in different forms, however, and I would like to suggest that in the Indian case, this comes in the form of the much misunderstood project of inculturation. In his chapter Os Caminhos para Mundo Halík refers to the way in which this project has been articulated in India. Halík observes that, in various dioceses in India, efforts were made to bring the liturgy more in line with local practices. He recounts that at one time he was invited to dance a Czech dance at the liturgy, just as was done by the locals there. Fortunately Halík refused suggesting that dancing was not the way in which Czechs expressed themselves in the course of the liturgy! In my opinion, one of the major problems with inculturation in India is that it is an effort by the institutional church to align itself with the brahmanical culture of the Indian state. Thus, what it does is to dismiss non-dominant caste cultures, to undermine European cultures that have become part of the local culture, and museumize cultural practices of tribal groups. The outreach that takes place in terms of inter-religious dialogue is largely with Hinduism, and little or none with Islam, speaking to the manner in which consciously or unconsciously the institutional church seeks to dialogue with power.

In this context Halík offers us, as have many other persons with sharp insight, such as Pope Benedict XVI, that, rather than be seen as the adoption of discrete practices, inculturation is the process of dialoguing with those around us, and bearing testament to the values of the gospel. A great example of this process of inculturation and evangelization are, perhaps, the conversations initiated by the Czech Christian Academy. These discussions touched on a variety of topics, racism and nationalism, the constitution and the new juridical system, energy policy, reforms in education and health, and including such sensitive issues as homosexuality. These debates go beyond the invitation of the usual suspects, but more importantly take place outside of centres of privilege, such as the national capital in Prague.

Conversation, or dialogue, is, perhaps, the leitmotif of this book. I have to confess that I was particularly impressed by two episodes in particular. One, where, when in Rome, Halík travels to the centre of the Opus Dei and familiarizes himself with the institution, and secondly his visit to Écône where he attended the controversial consecration of bishops by Bishop Lefebre. What struck me in these episodes was that this was the attitude of the genuine scholar. Someone who will not base his opinion on what s/he hears, but will form it subsequent to personal engagement with, and reflection on the issue.  As he says on page 234 “Tudo precisa de ser visto de vários ângulos” (everything needs to be seen from various angles).  At the same time, Halík recalling Fr. Josef Zverina, one of the significant figures in his life, who suggested that the basic Catholic principle is “não só, mas também” (Not only, but also), also suggests that this attitude, of examining, being open to nuances, is also necessarily Catholic. Perhaps there is a history here.  My own impression is that the history the 14^th century Czech theologian Jan Huss, who was accused of, and executed for, heresy has a role to play in this attitude. This history has profoundly influenced Halík, not only in his childhood interest in Huss, but also in emphasizing the importance of openness to dialogue- which could have avoided the execution of Huss, but also in the need for dialogue with evangelical groups who build on the memories of the Hussite movement.

One of the questions that animates a portion of this book is what is the role of a priest? This is not an unsurprising question given that, as a clandestine priest, Halík in communist Czechoslovakia could not simply take on the traditional external markers of a priest. We see the possible image of the new priest in the words of the Jesuit Mikulasek to Halík when the latter spoke to him about his desire to enter the priesthood  on p. 96 “o sacerdote do future: deveria ter duas profissões, trabalhando numa profissão secular e, aí, estar principalmente disponível para as pessoas sem fé e para as que andam à procura” (The priest of the future: should have two occupations, working in a secular profession, and from there, always available to people without faith, and those who seek for it). Later, on pages 258 and 259 he warns, as a trained psychologist of the dangers of “cultivar em nome do ideal romantic de um sacerdote santo e a pressao psicologica causada pela interiorizacao deste ideal no decorrer da formacao no seminario” (cultivating the image of a saintly priest in the name of a romantic idea, and the psychological pressure caused by the internalisation of this ideal in the course of formation at the seminary). At other times in the book, once again highlighting the fact that Bishops and priests are also ordinary people, he imagines what people would think if they saw their bishops in swim suits having fun on the beach.

If these are aspects I identified with, however, there were also portions that I just could not. Halík’s autobiography is marked by a strong identification with the nation, and the national. As a Catholic from Goa, and one who is particularly sensitive to the way in which various groups in India have been minoritized by the state, this intense identification with the national is not something that rocks my world. Indeed, I often wonder whether the twining of the Church with the national, so much the flavour of Catholicism in Europe goes against the universal vocation of the Church we are called to “make disciples of all the nations” (Mt. 28: 19) but in doing so are also called to ensure that as instructed in Galatians 3:28 “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female” but be one nation (?) in Christ Jesus. It is right that the Church identify with the local. After all, as an anthropologist, I recognise that this is where the faith is rooted. However, we should do our best to make sure that this local does not get conflated with the national, the latter being the product of ancient, and ever-continuing projects of violent disciplining.

On this note, I will end with a final observation on another idea that struck me and which I think speaks not only to Halík’s emphasis on dialogue, but to us in Portugal.

Por outro lado, apercebi-me tambem de que a tão condenanda sociedade pluralista secular, com os seus ideais iluministas de tolerância, direitos humanos e liberdades civis, protege a Igreja da tentação das infelizes recaídas do passado. É bom que vivamos numa sociedade democrática, não anseio de todo por um «Estado católico». Onde quer que a fé se torne numa ideologia estatal, eu serei, em nome da fé e em nome da liberdade, o primeiro dissidente.” (pp. 253- 254)

(On the other hand, I realized that the much condemened pluralist secular society, with its Enlightenment values of tolerance, human rights and civic liberties, protects the Church from temptation of the unhappy relapses to the past. It is good that we live in a democratic society, not at all desirous of a “Catholic State”. Were the faith to turn into a statal ideology, I would be, in the name of liberty, the first dissident.)

Reading these lines brought to my mind the role of the Catholic church in the entire debate around euthanasia in this country. As much as I recognise the ethical problems with euthanasia, even recognise it as a sin, there were times, when I felt that the Catholic church, or bodies of Catholics in Portugal, overstepped the mark, moving too close to an insistent identification of Portugal with Catholicism. Our job, I believe, is to make the moral position clear, to advertise it, but to remember that conflating the legality of the State, as the only possible legality in society is to make the mistake that marked the variety of political organisations that marked the 20^th century – whether communism, fascisms, early liberalisms, or indeed, our very own corporate state in Portugal, embodied in the Estado Novo. It would be worthwhile to go back to the Catholic intellectuals who preceded these situations and remember that their voices were very often raised against the centralization of all power in the state, making an argument for a dispersal of power through society.

I will end on this note, but not before thanking you for your attention, Fr. Antonio Martins, for the opportunity to present this book, and to Fr. Tomáš Halík for sharing his life story with us.

(Text of the presentation of Diante de Ti, Os Meus Caminhos, the autobiography of the theologian Tomáš Halík at the Capela do Rato, Lisbon, 22 Nov 2018.)

A Cure for Foolishness

When I first encountered this work by Navelcar I knew, because of earlier conversations with the artist, that these two lines of calligraphy were not some orientalist scribbling. The artist had shared with me that, as a boy, he had learned to read and write Urdu from a Catholic teacher in the neighbouring village of Aldona. Given my own inability to read Urdu, I turned the image over to friends on social media who revealed that the script was, in fact, Arabic. At this point differences emerged in interpretation. One friend argued that it looked like the work of someone practicing to write in Arabic, with the first line marked by errors and the second correcting those errors. This explanation made sense, since the artist has eschewed a title for this piece. A second appraisal of the text suggested that both lines were actually the same, just written in slightly different styles. “The difference lies in a slight variation in the cursive ‘h’, the ‘lā’ and the hamza...,” my friend offered. Both assessments were clear in their estimation, however, that the text before us captures the Arabic proverb “Alhamaq da' la dawa' lahu.” This translates to: “Foolishness/stupidity is a disease that has no cure/treatment.” The language and the choice of proverb with which to practice his calligraphic skills reveal interesting dimensions of the artist’s personality. 

Asked to write a curatorial essay for an exhibition in Hyderabad of the works of Goan artists in 2015, I encountered the sheer diversity of global experiences that animate their works. Taking cue from the erstwhile authoritarian Estado Novo’s proclamation: “Portugal não é um país pequeno” (Portugal is not a small country), and choosing to subvert it, my essay notes that “Goa is not a small country.” Having lived through the Estado Novo and traversed the pluri-continental Portuguese world, it is my suspicion that Navelcar, whose art bears the influence of these experiences, would agree with my reframing of the Salazarist claim.

Subsequent to Goa’s legal disconnection from the Portuguese world due to the annexation of the territory by the Indian Union in 1961, Goan identity has been reformulated by Indian nationalists to reflect a narrower character. Following the national lead, itself obsessed with brahmanical origins, Goan elites have crafted a local identity that is focussed on an imagined Sanskritic past, when in fact Goan culture is knit from heterogeneous strands. Navelcar’s efforts in this untitled piece counter this Indian nationalist tendency, demonstrating instead the centuries-old, and continuing, connections between Goans and the larger Indian Ocean world within which they are situated.

The ties between Goans and Arabs predate the migration of the former to the Gulf states as a result of the economic boom of the 1950s. The eastern coastline of the Arabian Sea was frequented by Arab traders even prior to the latter’s conversion to Islam. For example, the myths associated with the figure of Cheraman Perumal, the Chera ruler of the territories  that now constitute contemporary Kerala, evidence this ancient proximity. In one myth, the ruler, a contemporary of the Prophet Mohammed, witnessed the splitting of the moon. On learning from visiting Arab traders of a similar event involving the Prophet, Perumal is reported to have renounced his kingdom, travelled to Mecca, and converted to Islam. In the context of such exchange, one could enquire whether Navelcar’s present work operates as a suggestion of the “stupidity” or “foolishness” of contemporary identity-framers who tether Goan identity to a Sanskritic one alone, while obscuring the various pluri-continental strands that have and continue to constitute Goan identities.

Further, Arabic is not a language internal to Goan heritage alone. It is also inherent to the other spaces through which this exhibition tracks the journey of Navelcar: Portugal and Mozambique. Arabic was an Iberian language prior to the establishment of the Frankish kingdom of Portugal. As such, a reconnection with the language is critical to the future of Portugal if it is to move away from those historiographies of the country that are racialized and parochial. Being part of the Swahili coast, Arabic similarly maintains a visceral presence in parts of Mozambique. It turns out, therefore, that Arabic is not as alien to Navelcar’s world as it might first appear. Thereupon, his artistic practice could be viewed as a challenge to the postcolonial nationalisms that besiege the various locations in his world: Goa, Portugal, and Mozambique.

If such is the artist’s intent, then Navelcar’s choice of idiom, and his practice at perfecting his Arabic calligraphic skill, suggest that there is in fact a cure for foolishness. The remedy lies in the opening of one’s self to the larger world. Foolishness, after all, is not so much a naturally existing state, but a stubborn refusal to see the world as it is.

(A version of this text was first published in the catalogue organised by R. Benedito Ferrao that accompanies the exhibition 'Goa / Portugal / Mozambique - The Many Lives of Vamona Navelcar' organised by the Al-Zulaij Collective, at the Fundação Oriente India from 12 Dec 2017 - 12 Jan 2018.)