The Life and Death of Mahatma Gandhi (The Robert Payne Library)

by Robert Payne

  The ordinance against the Indians of the Transvaal had not yet been passed into law and there was therefore time to employ all available means to prevent its passage. It was decided, as a last resort, to appeal directly to the British government. A deputation consisting of Gandhi and Haji Ojeer Ally, a mineral-water manufacturer of wealth and prominence, half-Malay and married to a Malay wife, speaking fluent English and Dutch, was authorized to lay the case for the Indians before Lord Elgin, the Secretary of State for the Colonies. On October 3, 1906, they boarded the R.M.S. Armadale Castle at Cape Town.

  It was an uneventful journey, though Gandhi suffered from toothache and Haji Ojeer Ally came down with a severe attack of rheumatism. Gandhi nursed him, dictated what he should eat and saw that he submitted to a regimen of hot and cold baths and ate nothing during the morning. As always, he was pleasantly impressed by the quiet, orderly routine of life at sea, the punctuality and humility of the crew, the efficiency of the ship’s officers, the discipline and good sense of the English passengers. Seeing them at close quarters, he was strangely moved by their effortless assumption of power, and one day, when he had nothing better to do, he sat down to write a short essay on the virtues of the Englishman:

  When he chooses to enjoy wealth and power, the Englishman excels in doing it, and he makes the best of poverty, too. He alone knows how to give orders; and he knows too how to take them. In his behaviour he is great with the great and small with the small. He knows how to earn money and he alone knows how to spend it. He knows how to converse and move in company. He lives in the knowledge that his happiness depends on the happiness of others. The Englishman I observed during the war seems to be an altogether different person now. Then he did all his work himself, trekked over long distances and felt happy with dry bread. Here on board the ship he does not do any work. He presses a button, and an attendant stands before him. He must have nice dishes of all kinds to eat. Every day he puts on a new dress. All this becomes him, but he does not lose his balance. Like the sea, he can contain all within himself.

  When Gandhi looked around the ship, which ran so smoothly and silently and efficiently, he was reminded of the quiet community of Trap-pists at Mariann Hill: everything was in its ordered place and everyone behaved with decorum. It was for him a strange and enviable existence, and he could never quite reconcile himself to it.

  But when he encountered Englishmen in positions of authority, Gandhi was not always so charitable toward them. Sir Richard Solomon, the Acting Lieutenant Governor of the Transvaal, was traveling on the ship, and since Gandhi was traveling first class, it was an easy matter to seek him out and discuss the question of the restrictive laws. At first Sir Richard seemed to be sympathetic to the Indians and spoke of appointing a commission to examine the problem, but then he remembered the stories he had heard of Indians smuggling their friends into the Transvaal in large numbers, and his mood changed abruptly. On the following day Haji Ojeer Ally had an interview with him and was told that it would be much better if the Indians quietly submitted to the new law. Crestfallen, he reported the words to Gandhi, who came to the conclusion that the Acting Lieutenant Governor was an ambitious man who wanted to be Prime Minister and would therefore do nothing for the Indians for fear that any act of mercy would bring disfavor on his head. There were no more interviews with Sir Richard Solomon.

  In London the delegation stayed at the Hotel Cecil, a prestigious and expensive hotel on the Strand, which has long since been pulled down. Gandhi felt that a good address was necessary since he would be dealing with high government officials. Since at all costs it was necessary that the delegation should attract as much attention to itself as possible, the two suites at the Hotel Cecil were transformed into offices with secretaries continually clicking away at the typewriters; an endless stream of letters, requests for interviews, and pronouncements on the hated law were sent out. Two English secretaries were employed full time at nominal salaries; Indian students helped out; Louis Ritch, who had been articled to Gandhi and was now studying for the bar, served as legal adviser and general factotum. During a period of forty days five thousand letters were sent out. Gandhi had never been so busy, or so determined. He visited the Houses of Parliament, waited on great dignitaries at their clubs, and left his card in their palatial homes. Soon Haji Ojeer Ally left the hotel for cheaper lodgings, and Gandhi would occasionally write and inform him when his presence would become necessary. Gandhi was so busy that he did not have time to have a tooth extracted.

  The main purpose of the visit to England was to present a petition to Lord Elgin in person. For this purpose it was necessary to appoint a distinguished committee which would accompany the two delegates, and by its very distinction lend weight to the petition. Gandhi succeeded in rounding up a committee of titled gentlemen so distinguished that he felt sure it would impress the Secretary of State, for it included Lord Stanley of Alderley, Sir Charles Dilke, Sir Lepel Griffin, Sir Henry Cotton, Sir Muncherji Bhownaggree, Sir George Birdwood, Sir Charles Schwann, and Dadabhai Naoroji, known as “the grand old man of India,” who was much trusted by British officials and loved by the Indians. From time to time Gandhi would make his way to Dadabhai’s small office near the Houses of Parliament—the office was so small that two men could hardly stand upright in it—and discuss strategy. When the meeting with the Secretary of State took place on November 8, Gandhi came well prepared. The London Times appeared to sympathize with his cause, a hundred Liberal Members of Parliament had listened approvingly to his account of the grievances suffered by the Indians, and he had many friends in high places.

  Victor Alexander Bruce, the ninth Earl of Elgin and Kincardine, was far from being a colorless official. He had been Viceroy of India between 1895 and 1899, and was later appointed chairman of the royal commission to investigate the conduct of the South African War. He therefore knew a good deal about India and South Africa. Gandhi felt that he could be relied upon to give a just verdict, for he regarded Lord Elgin as the judge, himself as the prosecuting attorney, and the Transvaal government as the criminal in the dock. In this Gandhi made an error. Lord Elgin had no judicial powers whatsoever, and the British government had little control over the government of the Transvaal.

  On that November afternoon when the delegation waited upon Lord Elgin in Whitehall, all the formalities were complied with. Lord Elgin made a short speech of welcome, and Sir Lepel Griffin, his close friend, outlined the case for the Indians in the Transvaal, urging the British government not to sanction the new ordinance. The Indians had suffered enough; it was beyond reason they should be asked to suffer more; and he went on to use a phrase which was brutal and to the point—“The toad under the harrow knows where the harrow grips him.” He compared the treatment of Indians in the Transvaal with the treatment of Jews in Russia, and then, rather surprisingly, he blamed the Jewish traders in the Transvaal, refugees from Russia and Germany, for the plight of the Indians, with whom they were in competition. These Jews and Syrians and “the very off-scourings of the international sewers of Europe” had urged the government to introduce the new legislation. He went on to describe the Indians as “the most orderly, honourable, industrious, temperate race in the world, people of our own stock and blood.”

  Sir Lepel Griffin was one of those retired officials who never completely retire. He loved India passionately, and wrote voluminously about Indian art and philosophy. He had been a kingmaker, for he had developed a friendship for Abdur Rahman, the Amir of Kabul, and offered him the throne. Gandhi could not have had a more impressive champion.

  Lord Elgin was sympathetic, saying he had no doubt that there was a real grievance, but it was his understanding that the registration of the Indians was being introduced for the benefit of the Indians themselves. Gandhi spoke in less forceful tones than Sir Lepel Griffin, deliberately avoiding rhetoric. One by one all the members of the committee presented their views, and then at last the meeting ended with a short speech by Sir Lepel Griffin in which he thanked th
e Secretary of State for listening so patiently. “We were assured before of your lull sympathy in this matter,” he said, “and we knew it perfectly well.”

  Sympathy, however, was not what Gandhi wanted. He wanted action, a ground swell of public opinion against the new ordinance, interviews with all important officials from the Prime Minister downward. The meeting with Lord Elgin had been satisfactory, not because it gave him any assurance of success, but because it was necessary. There were men more powerful than Lord Elgin. John Morley was Secretary of State for India, and a large deputation, headed by Gandhi and Sir Lepel Griffin, waited on him. Gandhi asked that a royal commission be appointed to inquire into the grievances of the Indians in South Africa. “I have been in Parliament for many years,” John Morley replied, “but I do not remember any commission which has solved any question.” He pointed out that within a few months the Transvaal would come under “responsible government,” meaning that it would no longer be bound by any decisions made by the Secretary of State for the Colonies. Gandhi knew this, but still hoped that overwhelming pressure from the British government would make the rulers of the Transvaal change their course. John Morley promised that the India Office would make strong recommendations, but he could do no more.

  Gandhi sought out Winston Churchill, then the Under Secretary of State for the Colonies. The interview took place shortly before Gandhi sailed for South Africa. Churchill was in good spirits, but he had sharp questions and gave sharp answers. If the British government refused to give its assent to the ordinance, what then? Surely the new government in the Transvaal would pass an even more restrictive law. Gandhi answered that no law could be worse than the present law, and the future could take care of itself. It was a friendly meeting, and Churchill promised to do all he could. It was the only meeting between Churchill and Gandhi.

  A more hopeful sign came from the Prime Minister, Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman, who told a deputation of Liberal Members of Parliament that “he did not approve of the ordinance and would speak to Lord Elgin.”

  There was little more Gandhi could do in London. The South Africa British India Committee was formed, and Louis Ritch was placed in charge of it at a monthly salary of £12, paid intermittently. Gandhi thanked all those who had helped him, the secretaries who had worked without pay, the distinguished officials who had accompanied him during his many meetings with high officers of state, and then he left for South Africa.

  When the ship touched at Madeira, two telegrams were waiting for him. One was from Louis Ritch, the other was from Johannesburg. Both telegrams said that the ordinance had been refused assent by Lord Elgin.

  This was indeed more than he had hoped for—a victory such as he had never won before, and would not win again for many years. He wrote in his notebook:

  God’s ways are inscrutable. Well-directed efforts yield appropriate fruit. The case of the Indian community was just, and circumstances turned out to be favorable. It is a happy outcome, but we may not exult over it. Much of the struggle still lies ahead. The Indian community has still to do much of its duty. We may be able to digest our victory only if we prove our worth. Otherwise, it will turn out to be poison.

  In this mood, quietly exulting, he spent the remaining days of the voyage to Cape Town. He did not know, and could not have guessed, how soon the fruit would turn to dust and ashes.

  The First Satyagraha Campaign

  THE GOOD NEWS electrified the Indians in the Transvaal, and wherever Gandhi and Haji Ojeer Ally went they were greeted like conquerors. They had accomplished what no one thought they would accomplish, and Gandhi would sometimes have to warn them that a triumph such as this made it all the more necessary for them to be humble. Success, he explained, had been achieved because he had acted always with affection toward Mr. Ally, they were like father and son, and perfect mutual understanding had been achieved. Truth and justice had been on their side, and God was with them. Without God’s help nothing could or ever would be accomplished.

  It was a heady victory, and Gandhi was so certain of his success that he made no plans against the time when victory would be snatched from him. Congratulations poured in, and he accepted them gratefully. He had forgotten Winston Churchill’s warning. On January 1, 1907, the Transvaal was granted self-government, and the Transvaal government as a sovereign body could do as it pleased.

  In the eyes of the government the Indians in the Transvaal possessed no special importance. They were few in numbers, for there were only about 13,000, most of them living as traders and hawkers in Johannesburg and Pretoria. General Smuts said later that the desire to impose restrictions on the Indians came from the English rather than the Boers, while Sir Lepel Griffin put the blame on the East European Jews who had settled in South Africa in large numbers as small tradesmen and were therefore in direct competition with the Indians. In fact, all of them—English, Boers and Jews—were equally responsible for the restrictive laws which could now be imposed without interference from the British government. The law was passed at the end of March, received the royal assent, which was a pure technicality, in May, and took effect from July 1. Thereafter all Indians had to register and be fingerprinted, and there could be no exceptions.

  When the time for registration came, Gandhi was well-prepared. Satyagraha was to be the weapon the Indians would employ against the government. It had not been attempted before, and the actual physical machinery had not yet been designed. In its first tentative stages Satyagraha involved hundreds of pickets who lined the roads leading to the registration offices; they could be recognized by their badges and by the broadsheets attacking registration which they distributed among the Indians. Those Indians who, in spite of these warnings, insisted on being registered were to be asked their names, and these would later be printed under the heading “Blacklegs” in Indian Opinion. If they refused their names, the vigilantes were on no account to pester them. These vigilantes were to obey the police and suffer any indignities in silence; if the police arrested them, they were to go quietly and peacefully to the police station. Each group of pickets was under the command of a captain who would report to a local command post, which in turn would report to Gandhi. Most of the pickets were boys between twelve and eighteen years old. Gandhi was especially anxious that the pickets should behave well.

  Nevertheless, there were some who threatened the people who went to register, and there were some ugly incidents. As Gandhi ruefully commented, “Those who were threatened instantly sought government protection and got it. Poison was thus instilled into the community, and those who were weak already grew weaker still.” Gandhi was inclined to make light of these incidents, but they were far too numerous for his own comfort. By his account very few of the Indians, not more than five hundred, went to the registration offices or received government permission to register in their own houses in order to avoid the pickets.

  Gandhi was in a bitter mood, and his writings during this time are sometimes virulent. Lord Elgin, “sitting on his cushioned seat,” was blamed for having double-crossed the Indian delegation, saying one thing to them and something else to Sir Richard Solomon. The posters which appeared all over Pretoria and Johannesburg were couched in shrill tones:

  BOYCOTT!

  BOYCOTT PERMIT OFFICE!

  By Going to Gaol we do not resist, but

  suffer for our common good and self-respect.

  Loyalty to the King demands loyalty

  to the King of Kings

  Indians, be free!

  The police were ordered to tear down the posters, while the government made inquiries about their origin. They learned that Gandhi took full responsibility for them and had himself written them. To reinforce their demands the Indians threatened a four-day general strike by shopkeepers.

  The strategy had been carefully worked out. It was learned that any Indian found without a permit after July 31 would be ordered to leave the Transvaal within forty-eight hours. Gandhi explained in the columns of Indian Opinion that it was the
bounden duty of every Indian to defy the government. At all costs the expulsion order must be resisted. The government could not physically deport a man who resisted; it could only sentence him to a month’s imprisonment. The strategy was to make the law unworkable by filling the prisons. With the Indians presenting a united front, it was hoped that the government would back down.

  Gandhi’s first Satyagraha campaign depended on a series of miscalculations. He had hoped that the pickets would behave calmly and decorously, without offering threats. He had hoped that there would be no violence, and he had hoped to present a united front. None of these hopes was fulfilled. Future Satyagraha campaigns would be conducted with a much greater insistence on the need to avoid threats of violence, though they could rarely be avoided completely. For the rest of his life Gandhi was to be haunted by the knowledge that a peaceful movement of protest could always erupt into savage and uncontrollable violence. Non-violent resistance could be very violent indeed.

  On July 31, the last day of registration, a mass meeting was held outside the mosque at Pretoria. Two thousand resisters sat on the ground and listened to the speakers who sat on a small platform. Among the speakers was William Hosken, who had served so often as an intermediary between Gandhi and the government. Hosken knew that the government was absolutely determined to enforce the law, and he begged them to avoid needless suffering. “To resist the law will be to dash your head against a wall,” he said. They had protested vigorously, they had done all they could possibly do, and they had acquitted themselves like men, and now they should prove their loyalty and love of peace by submitting to the inevitable.