Why it’s politically incorrect to be privileged
EVER since the Israeli invasion of Palestine entered its new chapter last year, I have been in touch with a friend living in West Bank, who runs a famous school there. We have known each other from our university days at Cambridge, where we did our PhDs together. While departing, I was gifted a lovely ceramic cup by her, emblazoned with elegantly swirling floral motifs rendered in earthly hues. The object has sat on my desk for the past five years, holding my stationery and, thereby, by imagination together, often reminding me of the school that my sole Palestinian acquaintance runs.
Every time I have written or recorded a message of concern and prayer for her and her family, I have felt the language falling short of its purpose, even though it remains the fundamental means to communicate one's feelings.
In our latest conversation, my friend assured me that she and her family were safe and away from the conflict zone. But she added a caveat: that the ongoing genocide and its escalating horrors have robbed her of any feeling of enjoyment of even the most basic privileges. Thus, having water, electricity, shelter and everything else has injected a permanent sense of 'guilt' in her, making her question whatever she possesses.
Anyone with even an iota of sensitivity can relate with such a predicament, albeit from one's own context. We have, most unfortunately, reached a point in our evolution as a species where there is hardly anything that cannot potentially fall under the ambit of ‘privilege’. Such are the increasing inequalities and inequities that now, even to breathe clean air or have a window with the view of a healthy landscape comes with a premium.
Consequently, over the last few years, the word 'privilege' itself has garnered an astonishingly bad reputation. Unless fully and repeatedly acknowledged, it has also ineluctably got associated with being ‘politically incorrect’.
Tellingly, in my experience, an honest acknowledgement of one's wherewithal also doesn't necessarily guarantee the absence of negative criticism — such is the immorality automatically expressed by the term 'privilege'.
A fair amount of this criticism is rightly levelled at those in power, from authorities to institutions, who deny ordinary people the dignity to live. These establishments are more than often hands-in-glove with discriminatory practices and atrocities of all kinds. Hence, the burgeoning critique of their offensive, politically incorrect actions is not only required but also the need of the hour.
The protests in support of the Palestinians the world over are an effort in this direction, as are the boycotts by literary communities of Israeli cultural institutions complicit with the genocide.
Increasingly, there are also calls cast in black-and-white: you are either with the Palestinians or not, and any kind of affinity with the Israelis fundamentally marks a betrayal of the larger cause, a debasing of political correctness.
While, in principle, there can be no doubt regarding the above, in reality, the idea of associations and the experience of relationality is frequently more complex, and ridden with contradictions. It is ironic, especially as an Indian citizen, that one of the most widely reported developments that directly pierces through this black-and-white reading comes from the marginalised sections of society.
Since the end of the last year, thousands of Indian workers have been applying for jobs in Israel amidst persistent joblessness and the lack of opportunities back home. These openings have become possible because Israel suspended the work permits of scores of Palestinians after the beginning of the Gaza offensive.
From carpenters to floor-tile fitters and plasterers to ironworkers, Indians from the lowest segments of society have been queuing up for applying to these 1,00,000 advertised posts, assured as they are of earning much more than they ever would on home-turf. Many of them have termed this a "once-in-a-lifetime opportunity" since making anywhere between Rs 1 lakh to Rs 2 lakh per month on Indian soil strikes them as the stuff of dreams.
The dangers posed by the war-ridden region have been overlooked, especially in light of Israeli assurances. On the other hand, there have been testimonies by some expressing great anxiety, too. But again, the absence of opportunities in India, eventually, gets the better of their fears.
While critics have been quick to point out how this situation illustrates the hollow claims of economic progress by the current Indian dispensation, my concern here is more ideological and existential in nature. To whom does political correctness belong? Is there an angle of privilege attached to the ones espousing it? Is it not easier for me and the likes of me, coming from a decidedly better-off economic background than all of these workers, to be unequivocal in my denunciation of anything connected with Israel, let alone looking forward to working there as a “lifetime opportunity”? And doesn't this recognition, then, challenge and unsettle the clearcut objectivity we often attach to political correctness in the name of morality and ethics?
The implication, here, isn't that the workers don't have ethics. Rather, it is that to what extent does one's socio-economic background determine the high moral ground of “conscience”.
Even more complicatedly and simultaneously, the scenario forces us to think of one marginalised section of society (the Palestinians) as 'opposed' to another oppressed section (the Indians), given that here, two political realities collide and correspond jarringly with each other. How can we as 'critical thinkers' understand the Indian labourers' disposition towards Palestinians? Even if they were to espouse support for the latter, wouldn't their 'choosing' to work on Israeli land upset our unambiguous understanding of political correctness?
And, in what ways should I continue to express my sympathies to my friend and her folks, while also thinking empathetically about my own marginalised countrymen, without the two clashing with each other?
