The question of representation in a colonial/imperial context is a crucial one, one that must be asked, addressed and reminded of, over and over again. Guaranteed new revelations and consequent anger every time it is readdressed, not merely as a purpose of revisiting the past, but more so as a protest in recognition of what the deprivation of representation meant, and still means. How it has evolved with time, yet manifests itself until today in various ways, each new to the last but inevitably tied to the one common past. The echo must reach one ear and the next, because it matters. It mattered, and it will matter. History is never without consequence, and the kind of history in discussion here is one of immense pain, deprivation, force. A robbery of representation. Of the many victims of colonization, representation is one; making one’s voice non-existent, unimportant, deprived of the need to hear, to speak and to demand. What was the cost then? The cost was the identity of the ruled, the voice and words of the systematically oppressed, the alienation of the ‘subjects’ in deciding, rather living, their own lives. The lives of their people, land, crop, values, labor and knowledge.
The very simplistic, derogatory view of the colonized or the ‘other’ as savage, uncivilized, non-progressive is a question of representation too. How they were, and are still recognized, is also a concern of representation. What comes to mind here is, when were the ‘savages’ ever allowed to represent themselves, their cultures, and contexts. When were they even asked. Was there ever a dialogue, or was their part of the story heard while they were being ‘civilized’. The answer(s) is in the negative, for they were robbed of the very right to represent themselves from the day the colonizers set foot on their land. Or rather, the moment they ‘decided’ to. This tragedy becomes even more manifest when the very people sometimes did not understand what they were being deprived of, and some who did, were silenced. Others wrote, some spoke, some sang, hence the reason we discuss it today.
How representation was denied becomes clear in many a speech, plays, testimonies and texts. All coming from different contexts, but one reality. The reality of being colonized, not free, not important. Not represented. Why else would Nehru feel the need to say “India discovers herself again” in his famous speech on the 15th of August, in 1947. What did his words promise, except the voice and agency to the Indians, something so fundamental, and yet so deprived, inaccessible, robbed. The “ill fortune” that he mentions could have been avoided, or moderately speaking, reduced, had the people been given representation. In other words, had they not been made to suffer from representational oppression, one that not only was rigid, but also penetrated into the time that is today and the minds that live in today, tangled in the tyrannies, forced complexes and anxieties of the past.
The tyranny of (non)representation is evident in the play called ‘Death and the King’s Horseman’ by Wole Soyinka, based on real life events in Nigeria during British Colonial rule. The year was 1946, Nigeria was not free, neither were her people. In the world of today, certain practices are considered unfair, barbaric, unjust and inhumane. However, who gets to decide what is what. Why has it always been the colonizer to simply announce the verdict. The King’s horseman, Elesin, is stopped from performing a ritual of death, in the honor of accompanying the King in the afterlife, by the Englishmen. The question here is not about right or wrong. It is about why the people were deprived of their right to represent themselves and their culture, why the decision(s) was not at their disposal and why was their say not important. Elesin could not complete the ritual and was imprisoned, but was the problem solved there? Could the Colonial District Officer, Simon Pilkings, and his comrades pride themselves in stopping a ‘barbaric’ act, when in fact, that intervention led to catastrophe; the death of Elesin’s son, Olunde, and Elesin himself, the shame, sacrifice, disorder for the Nigerian people, the realization of their fears. For them, it was not a mere intervention in saving a life, but one that intervened with the cosmic order, their world view and their values. How would a people react to such an intervention ending everything for which they were expecting celebrations, pride and honor. Olunde sacrifices himself to redeem the ‘failure’ of his father. One should ask, what led to the failure, except the Englishmen’s decision. Can we blame Elesin’s ‘weak will’ alone, or was it that he was denied to go beyond the will in the first place. How would the debate of what is morally right or wrong make sense to them, if they are deprived of their side of the contribution to the debate.
Soyinka addresses the lack of representation in his work through subtly stressing on the need of interaction and appreciation between the cultures of the ‘ruler’ and the forcefully, tactfully (and wrongfully) ruled. He demonstrates the result of the forceful intervention as utterly catastrophic in the eyes of the people, a destruction of the universal order, because it mattered. It mattered to the Nigerians that their values and culture be taken into consideration. It mattered to let them decide and distinguish. It mattered for them to be responsible for themselves, and their customs. Most importantly, it mattered that they received the ‘representation’ they rightfully deserved, but which came under the weight of tyranny, force and indifference. It is, therefore, understandable why the Praise-Singer said, “Evil strangers tilted the world from its course and crushed it.”
The question as to whether the Nigerians in specific, or the colonized in general, have completely defeated the representational tyranny, or is the legacy of the “ghostly ones” still far from leaving the fate of today, remains unanswered sufficient to the magnitude of the concern.
Decoloniality and Decolonization 