ABSTRACT
I remember talking to an untouchable caste laborer outside a village teashop near the city of Madras. I think the year was 1970. He was all deference, seeing me as someone of higher social status than him. He placed the cup of tea he was drinking on the ground and folded his hands in respect, slouching a little in servility. He could drink tea only from an aluminium mug, and only outside the teashop. The glass tumblers were reserved for upper caste clients who sat inside. The untouchable could not enter the shop as his status was too low and he would pollute the others if he did. I tried to provoke him into thinking of the injustice of it all, but our worldviews were very different. What was injustice to me was perfectly normal to him. He was immersed in what Paulo Freire called “the culture of silence.” When you cannot “name” your reality, you are unable to grasp why you are poor and who keeps you poor. You accept to be taken for the dregs of society, totally oblivious of what is happening to you and your people. You are paralyzed in a mist of naive ignorance, the culture of silence.
