Inconvenient Question?

On 15 October, a video surfaced that starkly captured a moment of tension and protest among the women and members of the tea garden workers' union at Longview Tea Estate in Kurseong. In the video, a man posed the question, “Timi yaha janmeko ho?” “Were you born here?” followed by the assertion, “Timi pari pati Mechi ma janmeko ho” “You were born in Mechi (Nepal), right.” This was not merely an inquiry but a challenge directed towards those who have long been at the mercy of exploitative practices in an industry that produces some of the world's most expensive teas. The women were protesting for their rightful claim to a 20% bonus, an amount that stands in stark contrast to their meagre earnings of less than Rs 250 per day. The situation is further exacerbated by the fact that tea workers in West Bengal remain excluded from the protections of the Minimum Wages Act—a demand that has been championed by trade unions for years. The irony is palpable: those who toil to cultivate and harvest luxury teas find themselves among the lowest paid in the labour market.

The annual struggle for a bonus is but the tip of the iceberg regarding the myriad challenges confronting tea workers. Since the establishment of tea plantations by the British in Darjeeling over 150 years ago, the reliance on cheap labour has been integral to the industry's prosperity. The current planters, however, remain obstinately resistant to meaningful change, perpetuating a cycle of exploitation that has long been entrenched.

This incident serves as a potent emblem of both ethnic nationalism and the mechanisms of patriarchy that are deeply embedded within this socio-economic fabric. It crystallises a project of transformation amid profound insecurity, illustrating that ethno-nationalism is not simply a contemporary phenomenon but rather fundamentally rooted in a constructed historical memory. This memory manifests as a narrative of victimhood, characterised by a persistent sense of subjugation to foreign incursions, whether historical or perceived.

In the wake of the post-1986 movement, the enduring colonial grievances articulated by various communities in the region do not primarily stem from the legacies of British colonialism. Instead, they are often framed within the context of foreign invasion from across the border. As I.B. Rai elucidates in his 1994 work Indian Nepali Nationalism and Nepali Poetry, those who seek to reconnect with the past while denigrating Indian Nepalis as “settlers” or “immigrants” reveal a profound ignorance of the complexities of this region's history. The significance of this moment is further accentuated by the fact that it was articulated by a Nepali-speaking individual, whose very identity is woven into the intricate tapestry of the region.

To truly comprehend the specific nature of Darjeeling’s ethno-nationalism, it is imperative to situate it within the broader historical continuum of political, cultural, and colonial assaults that have beset the Darjeeling Hills since the nineteenth century. While the political ascendance of Darjeeling's identity movement has indeed intensified anxieties surrounding land security, its ideological implications transcend mere political discourse. They delve into the moral psychology and the politics of ignorance and aggression, posing challenges to the rights and democratic freedoms of individuals.

Let’s face it that Darjeeling’s tea garden workers possess a legacy that spans over 150 years. They have endured the trials of two world wars, colonial oppression, the Indian independence movement, the establishment of a new nation, as well as natural calamities such as landslides, droughts, and severe monsoons. The landscape of post-1986 Darjeeling would be inconceivable without their enduring presence and resilience. Yet, their identity remains a contentious issue, igniting a complex political discourse around identity in the Darjeeling Hills. This discourse starkly reveals the schism between the urban elite—disengaged from the realities of the tea gardens—and those historically connected to them, many of whom continue to labour under exploitative conditions. At times, even the most morally progressive individuals, who once affiliated themselves with the tea gardens but have since ascended to higher social strata, may exhibit remarkable insensitivity. They may show a refusal or an inability to respond to pressing moral imperatives that call for solidarity with the very workers who sustain the industry. The radical inequalities in the Darjeeling Hills have fostered a categorisation of individuals reminiscent of different species, wherein the existence of certain groups imposes no moral obligation regarding their basic needs and rights, ultimately engendering a quotidian form of moral indifference.

Collective identities can obscure our perception of the humanity and individuality of others, rendering us particularly susceptible to a kind of moral cretinism. The development of terms such as "Kamanane" and "Bustyko," often employed in derogatory contexts, further alienates us from the moral imperatives that ought to transcend our collective narcissism. Our morality, shaped to protect our identities, compels us to identify new adversaries, thereby precipitating a profound moral regression characterised by the suppression of the weak and the marginalised. In contemporary discourse, it is disconcerting to observe a climate where individuals openly question the moral foundations of their identities with scant regard for nuance or self-reflection. Public discourse has, in many instances, rendered nuanced moral responses virtually unattainable, and expressions of sympathy are frequently demarcated along partisan lines. In such a context, the prospect of a genuine human response to tragedy and atrocity appears increasingly elusive.

This phenomenon of moral cretinism is, in fact, intricately tied to the prevailing identities and ethno-nationalism—its aesthetic allure often serves to obscure deeper ethical considerations. The question of the truth of identity becomes a veritable trap. As Pratap Bhanu Mehta perceptively noted, we find ourselves ensnared in what can be termed an "identity trap," a form of collectivism that compels us to engage in abstract identification with a predetermined script that is fraught with classification. On one hand, we yearn for self-definition— on the other, we are compelled to forgo it in favour of a collective form of identification that is fundamentally vicarious.

If something is posited as true, we feel an obligation to accept it. Yet, what if there exists a kind of freedom in breaking the shackles imposed by an origin of identity? This liberation would not only entail a rejection of imposed classifications but also a critical engagement with the realities that these identities obscure.

In an era increasingly impatient with institutional frameworks, many have sought salvation in charismatic figures who can articulate a new vision of identity—one that often undermines the very existence of individuals who fight for their rights. Such figures, embodying authoritarian characteristics, possess a sheer will to power that paradoxically becomes part of their allure. Their effectiveness lies in their singular focus, often at the expense of acknowledging the lived realities of those they claim to represent.  In this landscape, we encounter individuals who present themselves as moral paragons, devoid of self-interest. Yet, in their quest for an idealised vision of identity, they may unwittingly contribute to the erasure of those very individuals whose struggles have paved the way for such discourses. The moral complexity of these dynamics demands our attention, as it reveals the intricate interplay between identity, power, and the ethical responsibilities we owe to one another in an increasingly fragmented society.

The challenge remains: how do we navigate the complexities of identity, engage in meaningful moral discourse, and ensure that the voices of the most vulnerable are not only heard but actively integrated into the narratives that shape our collective existence? The answer lies in cultivating a more nuanced understanding of the interdependencies that define our social fabric, recognising that the struggles of one community are inextricably linked to the broader tapestry of human rights and dignity that we all share.

(Views are personal. Email: anuvishub@gmail.com)