Religion and Pride: Hindus in Search of Recognition in La Réunion 9781800730281

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Religion and Pride

Religion and Pride Hindus in Search of Recognition in La Réunion

Natalie Lang

berghahn NEW YORK • OXFORD www.berghahnbooks.com

First published in 2021 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com

© 2021 Natalie Lang

All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Lang, Natalie, author. Title: Religion and pride : Hindus in search of recognition in La Réunion / Natalie Lang. Description: New York : Berghahn Books, 2021. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020046025 (print) | LCCN 2020046026 (ebook) | ISBN 9781800730274 (hardback) | ISBN 9781800730281 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Hindus—Religious life—Réunion. | Hindus—Réunion— Social conditions. | Hinduism--Réunion. Classification: LCC BL1168.R52 L36 2021 (print) | LCC BL1168.R52 (ebook) | DDC 294.5096981—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020046025 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020046026

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-1-80073-027-4 hardback ISBN 978-80073-028-1 ebook

Contents

List of Illustrations

vi

Acknowledgments

viii

Introduction

1

Chapter 1. (Im)mobile in the Indian Ocean

31

Chapter 2. Pride Politics and the Making of a Religious Minority

57

Chapter 3. Relating to India in Different Ways

87

Chapter 4. The Quest for Religious Knowledge

113

Chapter 5. Strategic Bricolage

138

Chapter 6. Rituals, Emotions, and Aesthetics

168

Conclusion

206

Glossary

213

Index

216

Illustrations

Figure 0.1. Spectators taking pictures and filming a fire walking ritual, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

18

Figure 1.1. A family temple viewed from the inside of a house, La Réunion, 2014. Photo by the author.

47

Figure 1.2. A “small” temple with sculptures crafted and painted by Reunionese artists, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

48

Figure 1.3. A procession leading to the fire walking, La Réunion, 2014. Photo by the author.

49

Figure 1.4. A “big” temple early in the morning of the kavadi, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

50

Figure 2.1. A blank form to ask for authorized leave, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

65

Figure 2.2. The entrance to the Tamil New Year celebrations by the Région, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

71

Figure 3.1. A kavadi decorated with flowers and peacock feathers, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

90

Figure 4.1. The preparation of a fire pit: a pile of wood burning down until the evening, La Réunion, 2014. Photo by the author.

123

Figure 6.1. Women ritually circle the fire pit lying down several times on the ground, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

177

Figure 6.2. Glowing embers in a fire walking pit, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

179

Figure 6.3. A fire pit decorated with flower petals, La Réunion, 2014. Photo by Malbar Jérémy, reproduced with permission.

190

List of Figures • vii

Figure 6.4. A selfie when wearing Indian clothes posted on Facebook, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by an anonymous photographer, reproduced with permission.

191

Figure 6.5. Goat wearing the color red before being sacrificed for Karly, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

194

Figure 6.6. Penitents dressed in yellow before fire walking for Pandialé, La Réunion, 2014. Photo by the author.

195

Figure 6.7. Penitents wearing rose-colored clothing during kavadi for Mourouga, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

195

Figure 6.8. Red clothing during the Fêt Karly, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

196

Figure 6.9. Blue candies during the Fêt Krishna, La Réunion, 2014. Photo by the author.

196

Figure 6.10. A kavadi with decorations in the shape of a peacock, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

200

Acknowledgments

I would like to express my deep gratitude to the people I met during long-term anthropological fieldwork in La Réunion. I thank everyone in La Réunion who helped me during my research by sharing their daily lives and stories with me. For reasons of confidentiality, I do not name them individually. I am particularly indebted to the warm hospitality of my host grandparents, Mémé and Pépé. I have greatly appreciated conversations with representative members of the Fédération Tamoule, Tamij Sangam, Groupe de Dialogue Inter-religieux de la Réunion (GDIR), Global Organization of People of Indian Origin (GOPIO Réunion), Organisation for Diaspora Initiatives (ODI Réunion), the Consulate General of India, as well as numerous functionaries in the education sector and in the administration. I am also grateful to Florence Callandre at the University of La Réunion for facilitating my start in the field by connecting me with several people. Special thanks go to Loreley Franchina, who pursued a PhD project on fire walking in La Réunion at the same time as me. Our works can be read as complementary ethnographies on the understudied field of Reunionese Hinduism. I also thank Stéphanie Folio-Paravéman, Sébastien Paravéman, Céline Ramsamy-Giancone, and Sangari Tirou for the wonderful time spent together. My sincere thanks go to Patrick Eisenlohr, Torsten Tschacher, and Rupa Viswanath, for their excellent comments on earlier drafts of this book. I also thank all who have read drafts of chapters, including Zaid Al Baset, Alva Bonaker, Chen Ning Ning, Kenneth Dean, Hanne de Bruin, Antonie Fuhse, Christian Ghasarian, Malini Ghose, Fabian Graham, Carola Lorea, Nandagopal R. Menon, Ouyang Nan, Srirupa Roy, Show Ying Ruo, Anne-Christine Trémon, and Isabel van Manen. I thank Matthew Fennessy for his suggestions on language and style. I gratefully acknowledge the feedback I have received on selected chapters from audiences at the Harvard Divinity School, the Groupe Sociétés, Religions et Laïcités (GSRL) at the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique (CNRS) in Paris, the International Sociological Association (ISA) Forum in Vienna, the European Conference on South Asian Studies (ECSAS)

Acknowledgments • ix

in Warsaw, the Université du Québec à Montréal (UQAM), the Centre for Modern Indian Studies (CeMIS) colloquium at the University of Göttingen, the German Anthropological Association (DGV) Conference in Berlin, the Peer Preview group of the Department of Anthropology at the University of Heidelberg, and the European Association of Social Anthropologists (EASA) in Stockholm. The research for this book was supported by a Dorothea Schlözer PhD scholarship granted by the University of Göttingen, and by CeMIS travel grants. I have valued greatly the collaborative research environment that all research and administrative staff at CeMIS and at the Asia Research Institute (ARI), National University of Singapore, provided for me to work on this book. I thank the anonymous reviewers for Berghahn Books for their helpful suggestions on the book manuscript. My warmest thanks go to my family. I thank my parents, Elisabeth Schömbucher-Kusterer and Klaus Kusterer, for their love and continuous support. I thank my sister and brother, Mira and Roman, for the wonderful family time that I cherish above all else. I thank my whole family and my friend Christine Prinz for babysitting in Singapore and Germany while I was working on the book manuscript. I thank my inlaws, Mei Lang-Tan and Wolfgang Lang, for putting their trust in me. Finally, I thank Jarno Lang, my soulmate wherever I am, for always supporting my work, even though it meant that I left to La Réunion for twelve months of fieldwork just after getting married, and that I moved to Singapore with our then six-month-old daughter Leila, who has made our life even richer.

Introduction

Coralie walks quickly in a procession of about a hundred practitioners who wear the goddess’s bright saffron color. Under the sound of beating drums, in an atmosphere of enormous suspense, with the sun going down, they enter the temple ground where hundreds of spectators and cameras welcome them. The crowd is clustered around a large pit filled with glowing embers. Little space is left for the procession to pass between the spectators and the pit. An incredible heat emanates from the coals, even when standing two meters away. I sit down among other women near the milk basin at the end of the fire pit. Movements are hectic. I lose sight of Coralie. It is getting darker. The coals blaze in grey, orange, and red. The drums keep beating. Their rhythms increase the tension. The priest conducts the final preparatory ceremonies. Where is Coralie now? How does she feel? With the drums accelerating, the priest is the first to step barefoot on to the glowing embers. He crosses the field in eight strides and steps into the milk basin. Now, one devotee after another walks across the fire pit. From my spot, I do not see Coralie, but I see Amandine when she crosses the field. Her steps are fast and her eyes are wide open. Fire walking is a popular Hindu festival in La Réunion, a French overseas department and remote region of the European Union in the Indian Ocean. Coralie and Amandine1 are eighteen and twenty-eight years old. They, together with the other participants, took a vow to the goddess Pandialé (Draupadi) at the beginning of the festival. During the subsequent eighteen days spent together in this temple fasting and praying, the practitioners have become like a family, myself included. The final moment of the fire walking is particularly emotionally intense for us. For both those who fire walk and those who watch, the tension that has built up and the fear that some devotee developed over the last days increase even more now in the moment before stepping into the field. After about eight steps, fear and pain turn into relief, thankfulness, and pride for having accomplished this act of penitence.

2 • Religion and Pride

“Religion is a source of pride to me” (French: La religion, c’est une fierté pour moi), Coralie had declared on one of these eighteen days. Now, after the ceremony, I find out that she did not cross the fire pit in the end; she found it too hot. She nevertheless claims pride in her successful fasting and in her devotion to the goddess. Some days later, the priest asserts his pride in his temple, which holds, in his opinion, the most beautiful fire walking festival on the island. Reunionese Hindus’ claims of pride—not in the negative sense of haughtiness, but as a justified form of self-esteem—repeatedly attracted my attention during my twelve months of anthropological fieldwork on the island in 2014–15. Without knowing then that I would focus on pride in writing this book, I sometimes employed words such as “proud” and “proudly” over ten times on one page of my field diary. Similarly, the recorded conversations include frequent usages of fierté (pride) and fier/ fière (proud) by Reunionese Hindus. Pride was something that people spoke about throughout my fieldwork. And the display of pride goes far beyond its concrete formulation in words. It runs like a golden thread through people’s actions and their ways of living and belonging in La Réunion. A little more than 350 years old, Reunionese society is the result of multiple strands of migration, mainly from France, Africa, Madagascar, China, and India, to the previously unpopulated island. Métissage, which translates as ethnic mix or ethnic mixing, carries a wide variety of possibilities for religious orientations. Reunionese Hindus are French citizens with Indian, but often also African, Madagascan, Chinese, and European origins. Among their often-diverse origins, most Reunionese Hindus have at least one ancestor from South India who had migrated to La Réunion in the colonial context of indenture in the nineteenth century. However, most do not speak Indian languages and do not have family links to India anymore. Since the second half of the twentieth century, some Reunionese Hindus have started to orient themselves toward India to acquire knowledge about Hindu religion. New orientations toward ancestral cultures, with a view to acquiring religious knowledge and prestige, have emerged in many places around the world since the late 1960s and 1970s: Brazilians of African origin have been searching for Candomblé in Africa, French Polynesians of Chinese descent have been “reviving” Chinese ancestor worship, and more such examples exist. In the historical context of French assimilationist politics and Catholic dominance in colonial La Réunion, neither traveling to India, nor pride in being Hindu had been possible. From the 1960s and 1970s

Introduction • 3

onward, favored by the decline of colonial hegemonic power in many parts of the world, French Reunionese society opened up more toward both local Creole culture and ancestral cultures. Only at that time did Reunionese Hindus get the chance to develop a feeling of pride based on ancestral religion—parallel to and overlapping with claims of pride in Creole culture or other ancestral traditions, such as Chinese religion. A more complex picture unfolds in people’s lives, their dreams and fears, and in what some perceive as their struggle for recognition. In this book, I combine the often separately treated debates on religion, globalization, diaspora, secularism, and recognition. With my focus on aspirational pride, I wish to enrich these debates by paying attention to the social and emotional dimensions of people’s desire for recognition. Recognition from others in the context of migration and diversity is a valuable asset that individuals and groups aspire to. Debates on recognition and religion often focus on the relation between religion and the state. To the people in this book, however, the emotional dimensions are at least as important as the institutional dimensions of recognition processes. Although often neglected in discussions on the making of religious minorities, contemporary political dynamics in different parts of the world show how extremely powerful such felt dimensions of recognition are.

Felt Recognition A politics of pride and recognition frames this ethnography. I have observed how Reunionese Hindus assert pride on different levels and toward different audiences: in the form of social distinction from other Reunionese Hindus, for social status in Reunionese society, and to claim recognition as a religious minority by the French state. The ways some Reunionese Hindus formulate their claims for recognition in the French state complicate universal assumptions about French laïcité. Despite the official narrative that the French Republic does not recognize any religion, state institutions do indeed recognize religions, and in doing so sometimes reveal different attitudes toward different religions (Bowen 2008; Liogier 2009). Furthermore, in contrast to state and public discourse, laïcité is much more about exceptions and adaptations than one may assume (Asad 2006; Bowen 2008; Fernando 2014: 11). As in many other parts of France, laïcité in La Réunion undergoes multifaceted adaptations (Waldis 2008). Unlike in Metropolitan France, where debates

4 • Religion and Pride

around Islam are prominent, a common discourse in La Réunion is to praise the vivre-ensemble—the peaceful art of living together. Nevertheless, there are important negotiations in La Réunion about how to manage the diverse origins and to celebrate or grant recognition to ancestral religions. While Hindu religious activities are highly visible in Reunionese society, some Reunionese Hindus aim for more recognition. Formulated as identity politics, the struggle for recognition also reflects people’s underlying desire for social mobility. Fierté in the form of aspirational pride is closely linked to recognition in terms of social status, including political participation and redistribution (Fraser 2000, 2003) in French Reunionese society. I suggest that the pride of those Reunionese Hindus who engage in what they call a struggle for recognition emerges where their status in Reunionese society, which is often associated with economic and social success, intersects with their ongoing aspirations for social mobility and their efforts for recognition of Hindu religion as integral to their French national identities. Reunionese Hindus’ claims of pride are at least as much about the process of claiming pride and recognition as about an actual state of feeling or an achieved position in society. Several examples (chapter 2) of efforts religious associations undertake to gain more state recognition in a local context that already recognizes Hindu religion to a considerable extent demonstrate that the process itself of demanding recognition can become a source of pride (see Tully 2000). Reunionese Hindus’ aspirations highlight the importance of institutional recognition, social status, and the felt dimensions of recognition. What scholars and members of religious and cultural associations often call a struggle for recognition is as much a struggle for difference (see Fuchs 1999). The processes of recognition of difference reveal a relation of tension, as the one to be recognized first needs to exist as something that then can be recognized (Bedorf 2010). In the case of Reunionese Hindus, apparent members of this religious minority in the making realize that they first have to form a group and make their understanding of religion conform to the category “religion” in the eyes of the French state. Or rather what they think the state would regard as religion, which is tricky when the state does not officially recognize religions. Those Reunionese Hindus who engage in negotiations with the state attempt to adhere to Hinduism as a larger religion that exists worldwide—an image that is impacted by the dominant status of the Catholic Church in France. The work of fashioning Hinduism as a

Introduction • 5

“world religion” in La Réunion exemplifies the invented character of the idea of a world religion in close connection to ideas about secularism (Masuzawa 2005). Reunionese Hindus’ attempts at shaping Hinduism as a world religion, which are linked to wishes for institutional recognition as a religious minority and social recognition as origin-conscious French citizens, take different forms: by trying to organize themselves as a group that can negotiate with state institutions, by developing an educational infrastructure, by comparing Hinduism with Catholicism, and by orienting themselves toward India as a source of ancestral religious knowledge.

Religion, Globalization, and Diaspora While debates about the relation between religion and globalization often focus on how globalization leads to religious transformations (Altglas 2011; Dawson 2014), religious aspirations can themselves present driving forces behind globalizing processes (Csordas 2007; Stamatov 2010). Similarly, while much scholarship on religion and diaspora focuses on how diaspora contexts engender religious transformations (e.g. Hausner and Garnett 2010; Vertovec 2004), religious projects can drive subjects to create a diasporic consciousness, for instance by drawing on perceived ancestral religions to locate themselves with regard to past, present, and future residential or symbolic places. The Reunionese case demonstrates how religious aspirations can present important globalizing forces. After a long period of sparse contact with India, some Reunionese of the younger generation began an important new orientation toward India in the 1960s and 1970s. Those who shared a feeling of having lost their ancestral religious traditions and who had enough money began to travel to India with the wish to acquire religious knowledge. Some of them also began to learn the Tamil language and create religious and cultural associations, and bring priests and temple architects from India. What started as a religious orientation has come to encompass other relations with India, including economic ones. Thus, in contrast to common assumptions about globalization provoking religious transformations, it was Reunionese Hindus’ interest in religion that led to the recent establishment of trans-local connections. The ways Reunionese Hindus relate to India show how religious aspirations can produce different senses of diaspora (chapter 3). Diaspora does not result from mere migration but requires the active creation

6 • Religion and Pride

of belonging—and that is not a desire all Reunionese Hindus pursue. Rather than thinking of diaspora in terms of a community, I am interested in diaspora in terms of a consciousness (Clifford 1994; Vertovec 2000: 146–53). While a visible, yet probably smaller, part of Reunionese Hindus engages in the making of a diasporic consciousness, a probably larger part does not. The ways Reunionese Hindus create and practice diaspora as a claim (Brubaker 2005) and a politics of positioning (Hall 1994) reveal the importance of the local context. While possibilities of belonging to India remain limited, even those who create contact with India do so for an origin-conscious self-positioning in Reunionese and French society.

Aspirational Pride Rather than a mere inner state of feeling, pride is an emotion expressed in public, as well as a social practice, a discourse, and a strategy. Recent scholarship acknowledges the importance of the material and sensorial aspects of religion (Meyer 2009). Scholars of Hindu religion have emphasized the aesthetic and sensorial experiences of religion, which can engender particular emotions (Hüsken 2012; Polit 2014). The performance of rituals can cater to the multiple dimensions of Reunionese Hindus’ aspirations, including their economic, social, physical, spiritual, and emotional well-being. These are addressed during collective rituals, which best suit the needs of many aspiring devotees. Such rituals offer bodily and highly sensorial experiences, experiences of success, and possibilities to display wealth, faith, aesthetics, and emotions in public. Rather than focusing on the common differentiation between personal feelings, historically, socially, and culturally qualified emotions, and autonomous affects (Massumi 1995; Shouse 2005), I focus on learned and ritualized emotions (Michaels 2012) and rehearsed emotional spontaneity (Mahmood 2001). The public display of emotions during Hindu rituals and talking about these emotions, even anticipating them, repeatedly attracted my attention. Pride stands out among the other emotions expressed during Hindu rituals, like fear, pain, and relief. Although all these emotions are relational (Ahmed 2004) and can be oriented toward the public, pride in particular requires recognition from others. As Thomas Stodulka defines it, pride can be the “joy of acknowledged membership or felt inclusion within a social group” (2009: 334).

Introduction • 7

Scholarship acknowledges the importance of emotions in migration processes (Boccagni and Baldassar 2015) and the affective dimensions of transnational relations (Wise and Velayutham 2017). However, Reunionese Hindus’ pride appears less as a transnational affect that connects Tamils abroad with family and society in Tamil Nadu (Wise and Velayutham 2006), and more as an emotion grounded in the sociohistorical context of being French citizens with a colonial past of migration, (epistemic) violence, and cross-cultural interactions. This pride is linked to shame to a certain extent. Scholarly assumptions of a close relation between pride and shame go so far as to describe shameful experiences as necessary to even think about pride (e.g. Sueda 2014). Members of minorities invoke the term “pride” to encourage other members to justify their claims of living their minority specificities, as for instance in LGBT Pride parades. Pride refers to the celebration of difference in public, in contrast to hiding, isolation, and shame. Despite the transformative promise of social movements from shame into pride (Britt and Heise 2000), the relation between pride and shame is ambiguously juxtaposed, as attempts to assert pride do not typically eliminate shame but remain closely linked to it (Halperin and Traub 2009; Sedgwick 2009). Reunionese Hindus’ aspirational pride differs from shame-based pride to the extent that many aspiring Reunionese Hindus I met were constantly striving for a pride that focused less on a shameful present—many are indeed well-situated and selfconfident—and more on their desire for greater well-being, social status, and success. Nevertheless, some Reunionese Hindus feel expected to know about their origins and may therefore feel shame when a lack of knowledge is revealed. More importantly, one can trace a historical development from shame to pride when considering former accusations of Hindu religion as sorcery. The pride Reunionese Hindus claim in their religion is a historically grounded emotion. It embodies the awareness of the ancestors’ difficulties and efforts the current generation now benefits from, and the development from an often-negative stigma to a mostly positive image of Hindu religion in La Réunion. Reunionese Hindus understand this kind of pride as something positive that people aspire to, rather than in terms of arrogance or sin. When Reunionese Hindus talk about their pride, they employ the French term fierté (pride, as in national pride) instead of the term orgueil (pride or haughtiness). A common local discourse traces a historical development in the perception of Hindu

8 • Religion and Pride

religion from accusations of sorcery (especially by Catholic priests) in the (post)colonial era to greater recognition in Reunionese society as a legitimate world religion with orientation toward India and the world, beginning around the 1970s. Fierté in this sense is inherently justifiable and necessary for self-esteem, and resonates with ideas about recognition as vital for the self (Honneth 1996; Taylor 1994). In addition to justification (see Kristjánsson 2002), balance is important in Reunionese Hindus’ conceptions of pride as positive, in contrast to an imbalanced or unproportioned amount of pride, which is understood as vanity or conceit (see Kövecses 1986: 59–60). Fierté in this sense of claiming justified pride in one’s religion is different from honneur (honor), which Christian Ghasarian (1991) identifies as a key value to Reunionese of Indian descent and which is in many cases closely tied to the family and notions of purity.2 Fierté in the form of aspirational pride is closely linked to social class. The ways Reunionese Hindus claim pride often reflect their “capacity to aspire” (Appadurai 2004). The struggle for recognition of Hindu religion as it is formulated by religious associations and the orientation toward India are primarily socially mobile middle-class endeavors. Middle class is a vague term. In the Weberian sense of people’s economic life chances (Wright 2015), it is difficult to decide where to draw the boundaries and decide who is in the “middle.” When considering people’s social and cultural capital in addition to their economic capital (Bourdieu 1986), class becomes even more multifaceted. Furthermore, other aspects such as race, gender, or religiosity, as they intersect with class, can present important stratifiers. Analytically distinct from class, class consciousness denotes a “collective positional awareness vis-à-vis other groups,” as Andrew Dawson assumes for the “new middle class” (2013: 135). This conscious “middleness” shows in people’s acts and relationships (Chatterjee 1993: 35). Although the term “middle class” does not account for the complexity of people’s social situations and life chances, and although I cannot assume that all those I saw as pursuing “middle-class aspirations” share such a consciousness, I was still often able to relate the aspirations to “advance in one’s life”—as many Reunionese Hindus so often say—to their position of having both the means to engage in optimizing projects and the desire to reach out for more. “Class identities are always in the making and the ‘middle class’ is equally a site of belonging and a site of aspiration” (Donner 2017). Although the different forms of capital that Reunionese Hindus possess are complex, these people share the belief that they can and should reach higher. “Advancing,” which has an

Introduction • 9

economic dimension but also importantly includes social status, health, and well-being, becomes a major project in their lives. Claiming pride in Hindu religion can be part of this drive to advance. However, aspirational pride is not limited to aspiring middle class devotees. Reunionese Hindus are present in all social classes and find different ways to assert pride in their religion alongside, or even in opposition to the formulated struggle for recognition. Furthermore, the relation between Reunionese Hindus’ different social positions and their relationships with India is not always straightforward. Although a certain financial and educational capital is necessary to acquire knowledge about Hindu religion by traveling to India or to display wealth and devotional aesthetics during public processions, some who would have the necessary capital choose not to relate to India. The local context, which is decisive for the study of “Hindus” in La Réunion, is complex.

Reunionese Hindus My decision to speak of Reunionese “Hindus” was not an easy one. Many Reunionese employ the local appellations Malbar or Tamoul rather than the French term Hindou, but not everyone identifies with these terms, wherein religious orientation and ethnic origins are conflated. In addition to Malbar3 (denoting Hindu and/or Indian origins), local appellations in La Réunion include Kaf (African origins), Malgas/Malgache (Madagascan origins), Zarabe/Z’arabe (Muslim Indian origins), Sinwa/Chinois (Chinese origins), Yab (descendants of Petit-Blancs, European settlers who typically lived in the mountains rather than in coastal areas), and Zorey/Zoreil (Metropolitan French). All terms have variant spellings and can have negative connotations. As some people may even be offended by either of these local terms, I only use them when reproducing the exact terms people used. Writing about “Reunionese” Hindus emphasizes the local particularities of the historical and ethnographic context. Métissage, strict assimilationist politics, and the dominant role of the Catholic Church come together to produce a setting wherein most Reunionese Hindus have ancestors from different parts of the world, are also Catholic and/or pursue other religious orientations, and speak French and Creole, while very few can speak Indian languages. While there are Hindus of Gujarati and Pondicherrian origin, many of whom have maintained (ethnic) endogamy, the majority of Reunionese Hindus have South Indian

10 • Religion and Pride

roots combined with ancestors from places such as Madagascar, Africa, France, and China. Furthermore, linked to this importance of métissage, I witnessed very little evidence of caste during my fieldwork. While France does not allow a religious census, my interlocutors usually estimated the number of Hindus or people of Indian origin (Malbar/Tamoul/Hindou/Indien) at around 30 percent of island’s more than 850,000 inhabitants. This percentage may represent a generous self-assessment, especially by activists who work toward recognition of Hindus as a religious minority. The fact that religious and ethnic categories are often conflated in these estimations makes the percentage even more problematic.4 Both Hindu religion and Indian origin are difficult to define as categories in Reunionese society because of people’s diverse religious orientations and rich métissage. For the same reasons, estimated numbers I have heard of a Kaf-mixed majority population with more than 30 percent, and smaller minorities of Zarabe and Sinwa with less than 10 percent each, are equally problematic. Creole is particularly difficult to define. While Creole in the Caribbean refers to the encounter of African and European heritage, which excludes IndoCaribbeans ideologically and conceptually (Munasinghe 2006), and many Indo-Mauritians look down on those referred to as Creole in Mauritius (Eisenlohr 2006), many of my Reunionese interlocutors did not use the term to specifically denote a particular ethnic group. Despite perceptions that contrast Reunionese of Indian descent with Reunionese Creoles, here referring to descendants of French impoverished colonizers, also called Petits Blancs, who mixed with people of other origins (Andoche 2000; Benoist 1979: 13,19; Ghasarian 1991: 147), many of my interlocutors spoke of Creole more to refer to Reunionese society at large, with its diverse compositions of cultural forms. Malbar and Creole therefore do not necessarily exclude one another. Whatever the percentage of Hindus in La Réunion, Hindu religious activities are very visible in public and have especially attracted young Reunionese in recent decades. Hindus are more visible in La Réunion than in the French overseas departments Guadeloupe and Martinique in the Caribbean, where Indian immigration was not as numerous (Singaravélou 1990). Furthermore, the majority of Indian immigrants to these three French overseas departments came from South India, whereas many other postindenture contexts in the Caribbean, on Fiji, and on La Réunion’s neighboring island in the Indian Ocean, Mauritius, had more immigrants from North India. In La Réunion, the Hindu landscape of temples and practices therefore has primarily South Indian roots.

Introduction • 11

Just as it is impossible to describe the situation of Hindus in Reunionese society in numbers, their situation cannot be described in hierarchies. The relational field of religious, ethnic, and social identities is complex. In contrast to Caribbean societies, which scholars view as emerging from a dialectical relationship between white ruling and black subordinate classes and between white racism and black nationalism (Hall 1977; Mills 2010), ethno-social hierarchies are less clear in La Réunion. Ethnic differentiations and conflicts do exist, but they are complex in the context of rich métissage, where ethnic identification becomes even less self-evident as in some other societies. Furthermore, Reunionese Hindus can be found across all of La Réunion’s social classes. Thanks to their presence in prestigious professions, including the transport business, in the town hall administration, and as teachers, lawyers, or medical doctors, Reunionese Hindus are often associated with social mobility. The visibility of the community and the display of costly aesthetics during religious festivals contributes to this image. This reputation should, however, not overshadow the difficult economic situation of other Reunionese Hindus. I have met Reunionese Hindus of diverse social backgrounds who claim recognition of their religion and pursue the desire for social mobility relative to their social situation. La Réunion is a peculiar social-economic construct, where a high population density coincides with high levels of unemployment and simultaneously with a high cost of living. After the colonial sugar industry declined, La Réunion was left without any significant economy. In 1946, it became a French overseas department, but the 1950s and 1960s were still characterized by social disillusionment, increasing unemployment, and an understaffed health system (Combeau 2010). It was only in the 1980s that the French socialist governments introduced a social welfare system. Furthermore, as a result of their attempts at decentralization, La Réunion gained the status of a région, in addition to that of a département, which raised the level of self-governance, for instance with regard to economic development, infrastructure, and education. Today, the island’s economy is strongly subsidized by the French state and by the European Union. Some call the département’s strong dependency on France “neocolonial.” La Réunion had attained 65 percent of the national GDP per capita in 2015, the time of my fieldwork.5 Unemployment stood at 52.4 percent for young people aged fifteen to twenty-four, and 24.6 percent for the total population in 2015.6 Many young Reunionese are confronted with a combination of unemployment and an extremely

12 • Religion and Pride

high cost of living, with prices 7.1 percent higher than in Metropolitan France in 2015. For instance, the price of a car, an essential means of transport given the underdeveloped public transport system, is 24 percent higher than in Metropolitan France,7 an issue I also had to deal with. Despite unemployment, many Reunionese are reluctant to seek work overseas. Government schemes to encourage migration to Metropolitan France tend to be associated with coercion and negative experiences of desolate living conditions and racism (Ascaride and Vitale 2008). Against this trend, a recent increase in student migration (Watin and Wolff 2014) was also reflected in my young interlocutors’ paths, many of whom showed an interest in the world and went abroad for their studies or work, for example as au pairs. Furthermore, the official numbers of unemployment do not take into account the undeclared work that numerous Reunionese perform in addition to receiving state aid. Although the scolarization rate is still lower than in Metropolitan France, young Reunionese have benefited from longer education than their parents’ generation, who grew up in plantation-society-like conditions, and are said to have become more aspirational (Roinsard 2008). Reunionese Hindus’ religious practices and identification can help with working toward successful selves and pursuing aspirations for bodily, emotional, and economic well-being, and social status. Reunionese Hindus’ claims of pride in their religion are part of a wider trend to draw on ancestral religions for an origin-conscious self-positioning in Reunionese society, which can overlap with claiming pride in Reunionese Creole culture or other ancestral traditions. Although Hindu pride is an important aim and tool of Hindu nationalism in India and in the diaspora, also favored by experiences of racism, aiming at making people proud of their heritage, wherein “Hinduness” and “Indianness” are conflated (Falcone 2012), Reunionese Hindus’ quests for religious knowledge are not linked to Hindu nationalist organizations and ideologies. Those who travel to India have started to do so as individuals. Even those who frequent the Chinmaya Mission or Arsha Vidya Ashram, two of La Réunion’s ashrams, are in most cases unaware of these networks’ links to Hindu nationalism. Few Hindus in La Réunion are interested in Indian politics. At the same time, the Indian government seems less interested in the small French island than in neighboring island Mauritius, or in other places in the diaspora that have a large number of non-resident Indians who contribute considerable remittances. Rather than engaging in Hindu nationalist projects, Reunionese Hindus seek recognition from Reunionese society and the French state.

Introduction • 13

Furthermore, my focus on Reunionese Hindus’ claims of pride should not let the reader assume a “Hindu pride movement” similar to Gay Pride or Black Pride movements. No such thing has been proclaimed in La Réunion. Reunionese Hindus’ claims of pride do not have any institutional link to movements outside of the island either. Although the socio-historical circumstances of postindenture contexts differ, for instance in terms of the regional backgrounds of Indian immigrants (for example, coming more from North or South India), their percentages of the postindenture populations (presenting a majority or small/significant minority), and the state forms of the postindenture societies (for example, being an independent state or an overseas department), there are some similar themes and questions when it comes to local self-positioning and claiming pride in ancestral and local heritage. In a 2010 letter to the editor of a South African newspaper by a South African of Indian descent, the writer states four times that he is proud of his heritage and of his ancestors who carried out difficult work and fought for justice (Schröder 2015: 377–78). Such public assertions of pride demonstrate the necessity to point out this pride to others. They often explicitly claim pride in the background of Indian indenture. In 1973, the Guyanese poet Rajkumari Singh called for a self-confident identification with the term “coolie.” She asked descendants of Indian indentured laborers in postindenture societies to proudly valorize the historical hardships and achievements of their ancestors and to state the words “I am a Coolie” (Singh [1973] 1996). In the 1990s, the Mauritian poet Khal Torabully formulated coolitude in the style of négritude, considering the indenture background of people of Indian descent and emphasizing the dreadful transoceanic journeys that indentured laborers had to survive (Carter and Torabully 2002). However, Reunionese Hindus rarely claim the notions of coolitude, indianité, or malbarité.8 Rather than forming an official movement, claiming pride shows in many Reunionese Hindus’ everyday lives and presents a core aspiration that underlies their religious and social negotiations.

Following the People: Challenges and Serendipity The idea behind conducting twelve months of anthropological fieldwork in La Réunion (2014–2015), followed by five weeks in 2017, was to experience a full festival cycle. But long-term ethnographic fieldwork was beneficial in many more ways. It was necessary to see what more

14 • Religion and Pride

there is than what people say. It made me find out about what is beyond people’s claims for formal recognition and to recognize the importance of the emotional dimensions. Long-term ethnographic fieldwork also shows us how everything is in process. It impacted my attention to pride as one form of felt recognition and as a social strategy that works as a process rather than as a state of affairs. But anthropological fieldwork also comes with multiple challenges. In the following, I describe the insights I gained through my stays with two different host families. I reflect on how I conducted research about Hindu religion as a woman and without being Hindu. I also discuss how I dealt with the importance many of my interlocutors attributed to Facebook. Without any contact in La Réunion prior to arrival, I found my first host family in the capital Saint-Denis via airbnb.com. It was a Catholic family of Madagascan origins and consisted of sixty-year-old Michelle, her mother, her daughter Anaïs, and two sons who stayed at her house more or less regularly, while another son was living in Metropolitan France. I never met Michelle’s husband during my stay, but one of her brothers sometimes came over to lie drunk on the sofa. While I got along well with Michelle and Anaïs, conflicts between Michelle and a son’s girlfriend, Elodie, gradually evolved and also affected my stay. Elodie often talked to me about temples and her Hindu family on the west side of the island. By contrast, although Michelle skeptically allowed me to go to most temples in the beginning, she became less and less approving. As the tension between Michelle and Elodie increased, Elodie started telling me about Michelle reproaching me for bringing evil back home from the temple. My naïve act of once placing sacrificed cooked goat meat, which I had been given after a ceremony in a temple, in Michelle’s fridge did not help improve the atmosphere. At the time, I had not yet known about the severity of food distinctions between Malgaches and Malbars.9 Those Reunionese who value their Madagascan origins distinguish themselves through eating beef but refrain from eating goat. By contrast, those who cherish their Indian origins do not eat beef, but goat sacrifice is an important identity-establishing practice in many Hindu temples. In the first four months of my stay, I thus learned much about the mutual descriptions of Malgache and Malbar, and I myself experienced different levels of being an outsider/insider. I tried to be part of my host family and learned to be careful about how to describe them to people in the temples, who suspiciously asked me whether they even allowed me to come to the temple. As I became closer to the devotees in the temples, my perspective on my host family increasingly

Introduction • 15

vacillated between feeling part of it and belonging to another group. Then I decided that it would be good to move. Elodie invited me to her grandparents. These lovely grandparents, whom I call Mémé and Pépé, adopted me as one of their many (grand)children. After the first four months in the capital, I spent the remaining eight months of my fieldwork with them on the west side of the island. Their bright and colorful living room with glass doors leading to a terrace presented a big difference from my first accommodation—one of the small flat houses in the island’s capital with little sunlight and covered with corrugated iron, under which you almost suffocate during the hot nights. At the age of seventy-nine, my new host grandparents did not hesitate to take me, a new acquaintance of one of their grandchildren, as a long-term guest and treat me like a family member. Although I am around the same age as their grandchildren, Mémé affectionately called me ma fiy, which can mean “my girl” or “my daughter.” When meeting people on the street, Pépé jokingly presented me as his youngest daughter (ma dernière fille). I at once took part in family life with children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, who stopped by every day. They included me in their family rituals, and I observed everyday religious practices at home, such as Mémé lighting the lamp at the shrine in the living room, or a grandchild coming by with flowers to clean the family temple and pray. As George Marcus (1995) suggests for multi-sited ethnography, the researcher should define her field of study by following the people, the thing, the metaphor, the story, the biography, or the conflict. While I did not physically follow people in their transnational movements— although listening to several-hour narrations on their trips to India felt as if I had actually joined them—I nevertheless adopted the idea of following the people. Rather than limiting my fieldwork to some specific places of worship, I followed the practitioners. They led me to numerous different places, including public temples, their family temples, shops, Bharatanatyam classes and performances, Tamil classes at university, and India-related cultural events, as well as Facebook. But this also included activities and places without religious connections, such as hanging out in people’s homes or joining them at the beach, to go hiking or on road trips. This was sometimes pleasant and at other times exhausting; sometimes it felt rewarding and at other times like a waste of time. I loved hiking but could not develop a passion for driving around for hours just for the sake of a road trip. But whatever the case, I felt this was necessary to observe different ways of life.

16 • Religion and Pride

Although I had not known anyone in La Réunion before my fieldwork, after two months I was overwhelmed by the activities that I could take part in. Reunionese Hindus can choose from a vast number of temple festivals and other cultural events, which can also lead to social stress. Busy families sometimes become quite tense about the number of decisions they need to make, between invitations to life cycle rituals of family members held at the same time as important festivals in temples, bhajans10 at an ashram, and other cultural events. I was also quickly overcome by these stresses—I was invited to a Karly11 festival, an international Indian Arts festival, and Dipavali12 celebrations all at the same time—and the management of priorities remained a difficult task throughout my fieldwork. While being a white person never affected my permission to enter temples—and I was not the only white person—access to temples requires the respect of certain purity rules. These include, for instance, removing footwear before entering the temple, and very importantly, observing certain food restrictions. What is called karèm/carême (fasting) usually consists of the abstinence from meat, fish, eggs, alcohol, and sexual relations or other pleasures, such as attending parties. To be on the safe side, I always fasted at least three days before going to a temple, although some priests told me that one day was enough, so long as I ate only chicken or fish, but not pork or beef. Apart from some meals prepared by my first host mother in the first few weeks of my stay, who was not at all pleased to see me go vegetarian to assist ceremonies in Hindu temples, I never ate beef during that year. In addition to the usual three days of fasting, I also conducted the ten- or eighteen-day fasts for the kavadi13 and fire walking14 festivals that I participated in. While I was rather relieved not to have to eat meat twice a day, renouncing meat, and poultry in particular, was much harder for most Reunionese than for me. Fasting played an important role in many conversations in the temples. During the longer fasts, people often articulated their shared suffering or exchanged recipes that met the requirements. Furthermore, there are many different personal interpretations of fasting rules, including sleeping on the floor when fasting before an act of penitence, refraining from shaving, or abstaining from watching television or using Facebook, etc. Purity rules also prohibit women from entering the temple when menstruating, which I solved by carefully planning my intake of hormones to meet all important dates. In addition to certain access rules for temples, being a woman also influenced my willingness to follow

Introduction • 17

the people in certain situations. When my questioning about magical practices was answered with sexual advances by two men, I decided not to pursue the topic any further. I had been completely unprepared for these advances, as both were from men I thought I had built trust with and who were related to my host grandparents. This shows that increasing intimacy with people in the field can also increase ones’ vulnerability, and the “home” can become a particularly vulnerable place (Kloß 2016: 411). Although in retrospect, I think that the two men’s attempts would probably have happened independent of the topic of my inquiry, I did not feel like pursuing the topic much further at the time, and I unfortunately never met women who shared with me how they performed magic. From these and other fieldwork experience, I have come to understand fieldwork as a highly gendered and emotional experience. My status as a researcher undertaking participant observation changed gradually. In contrast to the role of a student, which people in the temples had often seen me as at the beginning of my research, the first time I was seen as a practitioner was during my car’s blessing ceremony. To follow the practitioners in their sometimes highly mobile religious lives to numerous temples on the island, I needed to buy a car. Aware of the dense traffic, the high number of road deaths, and the sometimes dangerous weather conditions (with heavy rainfalls and landslides during cyclone season), I was enthusiastic when Elodie asked me whether I wanted to have my car blessed. Her family planned to conduct a hair cutting ritual for a grandchild, and Elodie suggested that they could perform a car blessing ceremony on the same day. I immediately agreed and quickly managed all the paper work with the insurance company, which was not a problem when I told the insurance staff the reason for the rush. The staff told me that almost all of them had protective figures in their cars, although mostly Catholic ones. In the meantime, Elodie’s uncle had given her a list of the ceremonial utensils and offerings we had to buy. For me, a student, it all seemed quite expensive: 50 euros for the ceremonial items, plus another 50 euros as an offering to the temple. However, when I learned over the course of my research about the usual costs in other temples, especially during festivals, 100 euros seemed like nothing. We prepared my offering plate, and after prayers, wherein my name was included, to all the divinities in the family temple, and after the baby’s hair cutting ceremony, it was my car’s turn. Elodie, who had seen me film and take pictures of religious events before, suggested documenting us performing the ritual. Sitting

18 • Religion and Pride

on the veranda of the house, several meters away because she was menstruating and therefore considered ritually impure, she took pictures with my camera of her uncle’s and grandfather’s ritual acts in the courtyard. She then took a series of pictures of me as I was encouraged with gestures by her brother and grandfather to drive back and forth over limes on betel leaves in front of each wheel of my car. Throughout the remaining ten months of my fieldwork, I did not have a car accident. In addition to my car, my camera was an important tool. When I could not assist at another family ritual some months later, Elodie asked me to leave my camera with the family so that they could document it for me. People also sometimes asked me to print pictures I had taken during ceremonies. One family asked me to film a ceremony. My camera’s presence, in addition to my own presence, certainly impacted on the situations that I recorded and observed. However, I was not alone; many practitioners also take pictures. Some seem to observe the rituals more through the lenses of their cameras and smart phones than directly (Figure 0.1), and semi-official photographers document most temple festivals and upload their pictures on particular Facebook pages.

Figure 0.1. Spectators taking pictures and filming a fire walking ritual, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

Introduction • 19

My taking pictures rather lined up with the common practice of documenting Hindu practices in La Réunion. At the beginning of my research, several priests, temple presidents, and practitioners told me that they were proud of having a German student studying them. In contrast to Metropolitan French and other tourists, I was seen as a serious student, who even knew some Tamil and had been to India several times. Moreover, many appreciated that I was learning the Creole language, which helped me to better understand my interlocutors, in particular those who only spoke Creole with me. Furthermore, the families who were most involved with organizing the festivals acknowledged my engagement in helping the women with the cooking and other preparations in the mornings, while they often reproached some other practitioners for not helping enough. Although the intimacy with the women meant I was, unfortunately, sometimes caught up in conflicts and backbiting, it allowed me to listen to the women’s life stories and their daily problems. In the temples where I conducted the ten- and eighteen-day fasts, it was very important for the responsible families to tell me that I had become part of the family. My status as a student became increasingly unclear. I wore Indian clothes (necessary when entering most temples), I learned to always carry a piece of camphor to burn at the end of ceremonies, I held the fasts with the practitioners, I helped with the preparations, my name was included in the prayers. Eventually, I was asked whether I wanted to walk on fire! Two priests asked me this question several times, sometimes less and sometimes more seriously. Their inquiry in turn raised questions for me about my role as an ethnographer: Should I walk on fire or not? Carry kavadi or not? Contribute financially to the festivals? And if so, how much? These decisions not only concerned festivals, but already started when entering the temple. Should I make the tour of the temple to pray to all divinities when entering or not? Should I fall down on my knees in front of the divinities or not? Should I burn camphor at the end of the ceremonies or not? How should I find a balance between participation and observation? I dealt with these questions in a rather inconsistent manner. I did not walk on fire. I did not carry kavadi. But I did join the practitioners in many other practices. In effect, I did what many Reunionese Hindus do: I chose to perform certain acts and not to perform others. The fact that I usually do not practice any religion myself may seem problematic when it comes to finding out why people invest so much

20 • Religion and Pride

time, energy, and money into religion. However, this does not mean that I could not empathize with the practitioners or that I could not relate to the sensory aspects of religious rituals. I could, for instance, learn to experience certain emotions (see Hüsken 2012: 135). Despite my sensitivity and intrinsic hate for noise, I became so used to the deafening drums in temples during ceremonies, which create an atmosphere of intense excitement and have now come to symbolize the social atmosphere of the temple to me, that I missed these rhythms during the Reunionese church services I attended on important occasions like first communions and funerals. These emotional reactions to the drums still come back to me when I watch videos and listen to the sounds back home at my desk. After all, the difficulty of grasping religious experiences is similar to the fundamental challenge inherent in participant observation itself, the sheer impossibility to achieve an emic perspective. Furthermore, an important challenge of participant observation lies in the difficulty of uniting the contradiction between the closeness reached through participation and the distance needed for observation. It is the aim of the anthropologist to gain an inside perspective and at the same time see what is unnoticed by others. I have tried to find a balance. My attentiveness to pride results from my focus on the material, bodily, and sensory religious experiences and their social implications. Following the practitioners also included following their life stories and their hopes and dreams. I recorded narrative biographical interviews, which sometimes required several meetings. In contrast to interviews with officials in education and administration, which were loosely guided by more precise questions, I usually asked people to tell me about their lives and their religious practices since childhood, which they often positioned even earlier, starting their narrations with their grandparents and parents. I then tried to follow the topics that came up during this first narration. I tried to ask narration-generating instead of “why” questions to again encourage narrations instead of explanations. Only at the end of our conversations did I ask prepared questions that indirectly approached the aspirations behind their acts of penitence, their relations to other religions, to India, to Metropolitan France, and to other places. This approach allowed me to decipher the role that religion played in people’s lives. It particularly helped me to avoid thinking in terms of an Indian diaspora. However, even when unstructured, interviews have their limitations. I was impressed by how many interviewees were able to narrate their lives in such a coherent order, as if they had reflected upon it several times beforehand. What people say and what

Introduction • 21

people do can differ, and their actions may be more ambiguous than their narrations. By joining them in their daily lives, by sharing moments inside and outside the religious context with them, I tried to balance their narrations and my observations, which I see as complementary. Following the practitioners also included retracing people’s social networks, offline and online. The masses of information provided on the social platform Facebook were quite challenging for me as a researcher. I could have spent twenty-four hours a day scrolling through the happenings on Facebook. I therefore decided to focus my analysis on selected users I regularly spent offline time with to see the continuations and differences between their offline and online self-presentations. Even if “only” Facebook friends could see their profiles, one can perceive it as a rather public space, as the circle of Facebook friends often includes distant acquaintances. At the same time, Facebook users sometimes share very private moments. Observing the choices of what to display on Facebook and how to comment was extremely interesting from the beginning, and remained important, even after my fieldwork, especially when I realized that I wanted to write about pride. Many people pursue the ideals of pious and beautiful selves both in their offline and online lives, where they often take the form of selfies. Like in offline interactions, people seek others’ appreciation on Facebook. This appreciation can then be measured qualitatively through the comments and quantitatively through the number of comments and likes. The self can therefore be understood as “co-constructed” on Facebook, as it is “produced with an audience in mind, it is constructed through ongoing performative interactions, as well as consisting of the contributions of Friends” (Owen 2014: 2). Although the researcher needs to be aware of the different sets of data, I did not want to undertake a strict hierarchization in the case of Facebook. Interactions on Facebook are not less “real” than offline interactions, which is why I refrain from terming the online world “virtual.” Instead, communication on Facebook is often continuous with offline communication. For instance, discussions started in the temple are continued on Facebook and vice versa. In most cases, communication does not happen anonymously but is embedded in already existing social networks. Thus, rather than examining the online world as separated from the offline world, I regard them as “integrated spheres of interaction” (Campbell and Lövheim 2011: 1083). Every generation finds new ways of living and negotiating religion. The what could be called 1968 generation of Reunionese Hindus initiated a reorientation toward India and enjoyed increased visibility in

22 • Religion and Pride

public. Today’s younger generation introduced Facebook as an important space for religious negotiations. More developments will come. The insights I obtained during my fieldwork in 2014–15, with a five-week follow-up in 2017, therefore present a snapshot in time.

Structure of the Book In the chapters of this book, I show different ways Hindu religion can become a source of pride in La Réunion. Often presented as a historical development from accusations of sorcery to being able to take pride in Hinduism (1), Reunionese Hindus claim pride in their very acts of claiming recognition (2), in India and in local religious practices (3), in religious knowledge (4), which is diverse (5), and in ritual emotions and aesthetics (6). I open the book by contextualizing Reunionese Hindus (1) and how they relate to France (2) and India (3). In chapter 1, I trace some historical developments of Hindu religion in La Réunion and the complexity of the diverse Reunionese society with reference to the global phenomena of colonialism, slavery, indenture, and other contexts of migration, and with regard to La Réunion’s status as a French overseas department today. The chapter also includes a bird’s eye view on Reunionese Hindu temples, deities, and festivals. Recognition from Reunionese society and the French state is a key aspiration of some Reunionese Hindus. In chapter 2, I show how the creation of religious associations works toward shaping a religion administrable by the laicist French state and toward a knowledge-based religion through the creation of educational media. In particular, I look at two cases of “struggling” for institutional or formal recognition: the debate about public holidays and the presence of Hindu religion on television. These struggles show that the French state does not give Hindu religion the recognition that some Reunionese Hindus demand, but that the local administration finds ways to locally adapt French laicism. As the process of claiming recognition can itself be a source of pride to Reunionese Hindus, the felt dimensions of such recognition processes are at least as important as any achieved institutional recognition. In addition to their relation with Reunionese administration and the French state, India is important to some Reunionese Hindus for their self-positioning in Reunionese society. In chapter 3, I demonstrate how Reunionese Hindus create different senses of diaspora. To a prob-

Introduction • 23

ably larger part of Reunionese Hindus, India is of no particular interest, and some strategically reject India as a reference point in their lives. A probably smaller but visible part of Reunionese Hindus has been creating a diasporic consciousness since the 1970s that did not exist before. Contrary to assumptions that globalization merely leads to religious transformations rather than the other way round, these Reunionese Hindus’ orientation toward India reveals that religious aspirations can work as driving forces in initiating new globalizing processes. However, even for those who take part in such an orientation toward India, belonging to India remains limited as most lack the transcultural skills needed, and their interest in India goes largely unreciprocated. Instead, they benefit from the diasporic consciousness they have created by adopting an origin-conscious approach to self-positioning in Reunionese society. Chapter 4 is about how priests and practitioners pursue projects of self-making and recognition by acquiring religious knowledge, which can become an important source of pride vis-à-vis different audiences. Reunionese priests use both newly acquired religious knowledge from India and local Reunionese knowledge to claim that the Hindu religion should be recognized as a religion with the same standing as Catholicism. At the same time, priests and practitioners use religious knowledge to distinguish themselves socially and culturally among Reunionese Hindus. Gender differences in religious and social negotiations become especially apparent in some women’s use of Facebook. The performance of religious practices both to justify claims for recognition from Reunionese society and for drawing distinctions between Reunionese Hindus does not reveal clear hierarchies between different forms of religious knowledge. In chapter 5, I consider how Reunionese Hindus reveal different approaches to the locally important concept of “double religiosity,” as well as to different sacrificial acts, including animal sacrifices, and different attitudes toward magico-religious practices. Their acts of bricolage demonstrate how claims of pride and recognition need to be negotiated between creative possibilities and complex limits. Some Reunionese Hindus reveal strategic ways of engaging with diverse religious and magico-religious practices that reflect their economic, social, and personal aspirations. The relation between religious practices, personal aspirations, and attempts at distinction becomes even more evident in chapter 6. During my fieldwork, I was fascinated by the amount of time, money, and energy that people invested in religion. The decoration of temples and the

24 • Religion and Pride

wearing of expensive clothes reveal elaborate aesthetics, as well as great effort and financial expenditure. Indeed, social capital is sometimes literally bought with this expenditure. Emotions during rituals also become part of this religious aesthetics, and the ability to feel such strong emotions is itself something to be proud of. Practitioners need to find the right balance between exhibiting too much pride, which could be criticized as showing off, and claiming justified pride and recognition. I conclude the book by reflecting upon the importance of the emotional dimensions of recognition when studying religious, political, and other identitarian movements. Research with a sensitivity toward such felt dimensions of recognition would provide more comprehensive perspectives on the aspirations of people and social movements with their powerful emotional layers.

Notes 1. All names are pseudonyms that correspond to the person’s gender and to the origin of their actual names (Christian/European or Hindu/Indian). Many Reunionese Hindus of the elder generation have Christian names, reflecting the historical situation of La Réunion, where parents were not allowed to give their children Indian first names (chapter 2). To protect the people in this book further, I have changed details of their life stories. 2. Our different research foci might in part stem from the different milieus wherein we undertook our ethnographic fieldwork. Whereas Ghasarian concentrated his research on Reunionese families of Indian origin that maintained ethnic endogamy, my research included many Reunionese Hindus of multiple origins. 3. Different explanations exist for the term Malbar. Some suggest that the term originally denoted the migrants from the Malabar Coast in Kerala who arrived in La Réunion in the eighteenth century, and that the term was then used for all following migrants from India (René Kichenin in Barat 1989: 174– 75), or to differentiate South Indians in general from North Indians (Lacpatia 2009: 15). By contrast, Barat suggests that the Coromandel Coast used to be called al-Ma’bar by the Arabs in the Middle Ages, and the Portuguese and French later called the Tamil population Malabar. He documents use of the term in La Réunion in the eighteenth century, before the beginning of indenture (Barat 1989: 175–76). The Hobson-Jobson Anglo-Indian Dictionary offers more precise explanations: the term seems to originate from the Dravidian term malai (mountain) and the suffix –bār that Arabic-Persian mariners of the Gulf applied to the regions they visited. The Portuguese subsequently applied the term Malabar not only to the language and people in what today is Kerala, but also to the Tamil language and people (Yule

Introduction • 25

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

14.

1903: 539–42). The term was thus already used more generally in India before coming to La Réunion. Daniel Minienpoullé, president of the Fédération Tamoule, writes that 33 percent of the population are of Indian origin (2014: 153). In census estimations by the French National Institute of Statistics and Economic Studies (INSEE) from 1987, “Malbars” (here defined as descendants of South Indian indentured laborers) were estimated to make up 19.55 percent of the Reunionese population, presenting the third largest group behind 35.2 percent of “Caf,” who are here defined as Black and mixed Reunionese of slavery descent, and 29.33 percent of “Créole Blancs” (White Creoles) (Barat 1989: 172). Institut national de la statistique et des études économiques. “Bilan économique 2015–La Réunion: la croissance se maintient.” Retrieved 16 October 2017 from https://www.insee.fr/fr/statistiques/2018740?sommaire=2018756. Institut national de la statistique et des études économiques. “L’emploi augmente et le chômage recule: Enquête Emploi en continu 2015.” Retrieved 16 October 2017 from https://www.insee.fr/fr/statistiques/2019733. Institut national de la statistique et des études économiques. “Les prix sont plus élevés de 7,1% à La Réunion: Comparaison des prix avec la France métropolitaine en 2015.” Retrieved 16 October 2017 from https://www.insee.fr/ fr/statistiques/1908449. Apart from a research group in La Réunion that works on malbarité: Groupe d’Etudes et de Recherches sur la Malbarité (GERM). Retrieved 12 May 2017 from http://germ.monsite-orange.fr/index.html. I employ the local terms here, as people who explained these food restrictions to me usually contrasted these two appellations. Joint singing of religious or spiritual songs. Names of gods are written in Reunionese French or Creole and thus may differ from their Indian equivalents. Dipavali is a Hindu festival of lights. Carrying kavadi, which consists of carrying burdens in a procession, is a devotional practice for the god Mourouga. It often also includes body piercing. Fire walking is called marsh dann fé in Creole, or marche sur le feu in French, and sometimes tīmiti (Tamil).

References Ahmed, Sara. 2004. “Affective Economies.” Social Text 22(2): 117–39. Altglas, Véronique, ed. 2011. Volume 3: Religious Responses to Globalization. In Religion and Globalization, ed. Véronique Altglas. London: Routledge. Andoche, Jacqueline. 2000. “De l’hindouisme à l’héritage français : un autre regard sur la créolité réunionnaise. L’exemple du ‘pansement de secret’.” In Au visiteur lumineux: Des îles créoles aux sociétés plurielles. Mélanges of-

26 • Religion and Pride ferts à Jean Benoist, ed. Jean Bernabé, Jean-Luc Bonniol, Raphaël Confiant, and Gerry L’Étang, 485–499. Petit-Bourg, Guadeloupe: Ibis Rouge Editions, GEREC-F/Presses universitaires créoles. Appadurai, Arjun. 2004. “The Capacity to Aspire: Culture and the Terms of Recognition.” In Culture and Public Action, ed. Vijayendra Rao and Michael Walton, 59–84. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Asad, Talal. 2006. “Trying to Understand French Secularism.” In Political Theologies: Public Religions in a Post-Secular World, ed. Hent de Vries and Lawrence E. Sullivan, 494–526. New York: Fordham University Press. Ascaride, Gilles, and Philippe Vitale. 2008. “Immobilis in mobile: Bavardages autour des résistances juvéniles réunionnaises à la mobilité.” Faire Savoirs 7: 37–45. Barat, Christian. 1989. “Les descendants des engagés Indiens à la Réunion: L’affirmation d’une identité.” Carbet 9: 163–84. Bedorf, Thomas. 2010. Verkennende Anerkennung: Über Identität und Politik. Berlin: Suhrkamp. Benoist, Jean. 1979. “Religion hindoue et dynamique de la société réunionnaise.” Annuaire des pays de l’Océan Indien 6: 127–66. Boccagni, Paolo, and Loretta Baldassar. 2015. “Emotions on the Move: Mapping the Emergent Field of Emotion and Migration.” Emotion, Space and Society 16: 73–80. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1986. “The Forms of Capital.” In Handbook of Theory and Research for the Sociology of Education, ed. John G. Richardson, 241–58. New York: Greenwood Press. Bowen, John R. 2008. Why the French Don’t Like Headscarves: Islam, the State, and Public Space. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Britt, Lory, and David Heise. 2000. “From Shame to Pride in Identity Politics.” In Self, Identity, and Social Movements, ed. Sheldon Stryker, Timothy J. Owens, and Robert W. White, 252–68. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Brubaker, Rogers. 2005. “The ‘Diaspora’ Diaspora.” Ethnic and Racial Studies 28(1): 1–19. Campbell, Heidi A., and Mia Lövheim. 2011. “Introduction: Rethinking the Online– Offline Connection in the Study of Religion Online.” Information, Communication & Society 14(8): 1083–96. Carter, Marina, and Khal Torabully. 2002. Coolitude: An Anthology of the Indian Labour Diaspora, ed. Crispin Bates. London: Anthem Press. Chatterjee, Partha. 1993. The Nation and Its Fragments: Colonial and Postcolonial Histories. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Clifford, James. 1994. “Diasporas.” Cultural Anthropology 9(3): 302–38. Combeau, Yvan. 2010. “En attendant le social (1942–1958).” In Les avancées sociales à La Réunion (XVIIIe–XXIe siècle): Actes du colloque Semaine de l’His-

Introduction • 27 toire, Novembre 2009, ed. Prosper Ève, 129–39. Saint-Denis: Université de la Réunion. Csordas, Thomas J. 2007. “Introduction: Modalities of Transnational Transcendence.” Anthropological Theory 7(3): 259–72. Dawson, Andrew. 2013. “Entangled Modernity and Commodified Religion: Alternative Spirituality and the ‘New Middle Class.’” In Religion in Consumer Society: Brands, Consumers and Markets, ed. François Gauthier and Tuomas Martikainen, 127–42. Farnham: Ashgate. Dawson, Andrew. 2014. “Religion, Globalization and Modernity: From MacroProcesses to Micro-Dynamics.” Estudos de Religião 28(2): 31–58. Donner, Henrike. 2017. “The Anthropology of the Middle Class across the Globe.” Anthropology of this Century (AOTC). Retrieved 8 August 2020 from http:// aotcpress.com/articles/anthropology-middle-class-globe/. Eisenlohr, Patrick. 2006. Little India: Diaspora, Time and Ethnolinguistic Belonging in Hindu Mauritius. Berkeley: University of California Press. Falcone, Jessica Marie. 2012. “Putting the ‘Fun’ in Fundamentalism: Religious Nationalism and the Split Self at Hindutva Summer Camps in the United States.” Ethos 40(2): 164–95. Fernando, Mayanthi L. 2014. The Republic Unsettled: Muslim French and the Contradictions of Secularism. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Fraser, Nancy. 2000. “Rethinking Recognition.” New Left Review 3: 107–20. Fraser, Nancy. 2003. “Social Justice in the Age of Identity Politics: Redistribution, Recognition, and Participation.” In Redistribution or Recognition? A PoliticalPhilosophical Exchange, ed. Nancy Fraser and Axel Honneth, 7–109. London: Verso. Fuchs, Martin. 1999. Kampf um Differenz: Repräsentation, Subjektivität und soziale Bewegungen: Das Beispiel Indien. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Ghasarian, Christian. 1991. Honneur, chance & destin: La culture indienne à la Réunion. Paris: Editions l’Harmattan. Hall, Stuart. 1977. “Pluralism, Race and Class in Caribbean Society.” In Race and Class in Post-Colonial Society: A Study of Ethnic Group Relations in the English-Speaking Caribbean, Bolivia, Chile and Mexico, 150–82. Paris: UNESCO. Hall, Stuart. 1994. “Cultural Identity and Diaspora.” In Colonial Discourse and Post-Colonial Theory: A Reader, ed. Patrick Williams and Laura Chrisman, 222–37. Harlow: Pearson Education Limited. Halperin, David M., and Valerie Traub, eds. 2009. Gay Shame. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hausner, Sondra L., and Jane Garnett. 2010. “Introduction: Religion and Belonging in Diaspora.” Diaspora: A Journal of Transnational Studies 19(1): 1–8. Honneth, Axel. 1996. The Struggle for Recognition: The Moral Grammar of Social Conflicts, trans. Joel Anderson. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press.

28 • Religion and Pride Hüsken, Ute. 2012. “One Nine-Yard Sari, Two Elephants and Ten Sips of Water: Rituals and Emotions at a South Indian Hindu Temple.” In Emotions in Rituals and Performances, ed. Axel Michaels and Christoph Wulf, 117–39. London: Routledge. Kloß, Sinah Theres. 2016. “Sexual(ized) Harassment and Ethnographic Fieldwork: A Silenced Aspect of Social Research.” Ethnography 18(3): 396–414. Kövecses, Zoltán. 1986. Metaphors of Anger, Pride, and Love: A Lexical Approach to the Structure of Concepts. Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing Company. Kristjánsson, Kristján. 2002. Justifying Emotions: Pride and Jealousy. London: Routledge. Lacpatia, Firmin. 2009. Les Indiens de la Réunion: Origine et recrutement. SainteClotilde: Surya. Liogier, Raphaël. 2009. “Laïcité on the Edge in France: Between the Theory of Church-State Separation and the Praxis of State-Church Confusion.” Macquarie Law Journal 9: 25–45. Mahmood, Saba. 2001. “Rehearsed Spontaneity and the Conventionality of Ritual: Disciplines of ‘S.alāt.’” American Ethnologist 28(4): 827–53. Marcus, George E. 1995. “Ethnography in/of the World System: The Emergence of Multi-Sited Ethnography.” Annual Review of Anthropology 24: 95–117. Massumi, Brian. 1995. “The Autonomy of Affect.” Cultural Critique 31: 83–109. Masuzawa, Tomoko. 2005. The Invention of World Religions: Or, How European Universalism Was Preserved in the Language of Pluralism. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Meyer, Birgit, ed. 2009. Aesthetic Formations: Media, Religion, and the Senses. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Michaels, Axel. 2012. “Performative Tears: Emotions in Rituals and Ritualized Emotions.” In Emotions in Rituals and Performances, ed. Axel Michaels and Christoph Wulf, 29–40. London: Routledge. Mills, Charles Wade. 2010. Radical Theory, Caribbean Reality: Race, Class and Social Domination. Kingston, Jamaica: University of the West Indies Press. Minienpoullé, Daniel. 2014. “French Secularism and Insularity: A New Paradigm for the Tamil Diaspora in Reunion Island.” First International Conference on Tamil Diaspora: Preservation of Tamil Culture and Identity, Mahatma Gandhi Institute, Port Louis, Mauritius, 23-27 July 2014. Chennai: Institute of Asian Studies. Munasinghe, Viranjini. 2006. “Theorizing World Culture through the New World: East Indians and Creolization.” American Ethnologist 33(4): 549–62. Owen, Stephen. 2014. “Governing the Facebook Self: Social Network Sites and Neoliberal Subjects.” Ph.D. dissertation. Newcastle: University of Newcastle. Polit, Karin M. 2014. “Performative Ritual as Sensual Experience of Body, Place and Sociality.” In Exploring the Senses, ed. Axel Michaels and Christoph Wulf, 280–93. New Delhi: Routledge.

Introduction • 29 Roinsard, Nicolas. 2008. “Un avenir incertain: Socialisation, formation et perspectives d’emploi des jeunes à la Réunion.” Faire Savoirs 7: 47–54. Schröder, Ulrike. 2015. “‘Conceived in India, Made in South Africa’: Konstruktionen südafrikanisch-indischer Identität zwischen doppeltem Ursprung und doppelter Ausgrenzung.” Berliner Theologische Zeitschrift 32(2): 368–93. Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. 2009. “Shame, Theatricality, and Queer Performativity: Henry James’s The Art of the Novel.” In Gay Shame, ed. David M. Halperin and Valerie Traub, 49–62. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Shouse, Eric. 2005. “Feeling, Emotion, Affect.” M/C Journal 8 (6). Retrieved 8 August 2020 from http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0512/03-shouse.php. Singaravélou. 1990. “Indians in the French Overseas Departments: Guadeloupe, Martinique, Reunion.” In South Asians Overseas: Migration and Ethnicity, ed. Colin Clarke, Ceri Peach, and Steven Vertovec, 75–87. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Singh, Rajkumari. (1973) 1996. “I Am a Coolie.” In The Routledge Reader in Caribbean Literature, ed. Alison Donnell and Sarah Lawson Welsh, 280–82. London: Routledge. Stamatov, Peter. 2010. “Activist Religion, Empire, and the Emergence of Modern Long-Distance Advocacy Networks.” American Sociological Review 75(4): 607–28. Stodulka, Thomas. 2009. “‘Beggars’ and ‘Kings’: Emotional Regulation of Shame among Street Youths in a Javanese City in Indonesia.” In Emotions as Bio-Cultural Processes, ed. Birgitt Röttger-Rössler and Hans J. Markowitsch, 329–49. New York: Springer. Sueda, Kiyoko. 2014. Negotiating Multiple Identities: Shame and Pride among Japanese Returnees. Singapore: Springer. Taylor, Charles. 1994. “The Politics of Recognition.” In Multiculturalism: Examining the Politics of Recognition, ed. Amy Gutmann, 25–73. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Tully, James. 2000. “Struggles over Recognition and Distribution.” Constellations 7(4): 469–82. Vertovec, Steven. 2000. The Hindu Diaspora: Comparative Patterns. London: Routledge. Vertovec, Steven. 2004. “Religion and Diaspora.” In New Approaches to the Study of Religion, ed. Peter Johannes Antes, Armin W. Geertz, and Randi R. Warne, 275–303. Berlin: de Gruyter. Waldis, Barbara. 2008. “Citoyenneté, créolité et laïcité dans l’espace médiatique réunionnais.” In Anthropologies de La Réunion, ed. Christian Ghasarian, 137–60. Paris: Éditions des Archives Contemporaines. Watin, Michel, and Eliane Wolff. 2014. “Mobilités réunionnaises et société insulaire: Nouveaux enjeux.” In Identités, migrations et territoires dans l’océan Indien, ed. Jacqueline Andoche, Eileen Williams-Wanquet, and Michel Watin, 129–40. Saint-André, La Réunion: Epica Editions.

30 • Religion and Pride Wise, A., and S. Velayutham. 2006. “Transnational Affect and the Rebellious Second Generation: Managing Shame and Pride in a Moment of Cultural Rupture.” ARI Working Paper 65. Wise, A., and S. Velayutham. 2017. “Transnational Affect and Emotion in Migration Research.” International Journal of Sociology 47(2): 116–30. Wright, Erik Olin. 2015. Understanding Class. London: Verso. Yule, Henry. 1903. “Malabar.” Hobson-Jobson: A Glossary of Colloquial AngloIndian Words and Phrases, and of Kindred Terms, Etymological, Historical, Geographical and Discursive, new edition edited by William Crooke, 539– 42. http://dsal.uchicago.edu/dictionaries/hobsonjobson/.

CHAPTER 1

(Im)mobile in the Indian Ocean

Reunionese history is important to many of its people, and sharing knowledge about one’s ancestral backgrounds can be a particularly sensitive issue. In discussing their history, Reunionese may sound apologetic about the stories of their ancestors, many of whom were slaves or indentured laborers, or they speak proudly about their achievements in difficult conditions. While some Reunionese today do not discuss their ancestors—or at least those considered undesirable—others dedicate remembrance and worship rituals to them. Some undertake genealogical research to trace their names and geographical backgrounds and claim ancestral relations with different places in the world. Some of those Reunionese who emphasize their ancestral relations to India search for documents that prove their Indian descent to apply for a Person of Indian Origin (PIO) or Overseas Citizen of India (OCI) status, which would allow Reunionese Hindus to visit or work in India without a visa and to make certain investments there, and some even to claim to be of “pure” Indian descent. Given the importance of La Réunion’s past to contemporary ways of identification, I sketch some key historical developments with respect to the situation of Reunionese Hindus in this chapter. Mobility and immobility have played a significant role in shaping these developments. The island’s geographical distance from but structural connection to Metropolitan France, as well as Reunionese Hindus’ ancestral connections to India have facilitated somewhat ambiguous relations with these places at various stages in history. I will describe these in three parts. I first situate La Réunion in the colonial migratory movements of the southwestern Indian Ocean with a focus on Indian indenture. In the second part, I show how the multiple possibilities for identification that Reunionese Hindus have today, including “double” or “multiple” religiosity, emerged in the context of métissage (ethnic mixing or mixed ethnic origins) and interactions between religious tradi-

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tions, and therein the powerful position of the Catholic Church. In the third part, I trace the emergence of a new orientation toward India in the second half of the twentieth century, and show how inclinations toward India do not exclude the appreciation of locally created traditions. In the fourth section, I provide an overview of Hindu temples, deities, and festivals in La Réunion. I conclude the chapter by linking the theme of (im)mobility to a widespread perception of a historical development of Hindu religion on the island, from the stigma of accusations of sorcery to a source of pride.

Immigration and Indenture Migration has shaped relations of all kinds in the Indian Ocean region and is a key characteristic of La Réunion’s history. The island’s changing names, including “Ile Bourbon,” “Ile Bonaparte,” and today’s official name of “Ile de La Réunion” reflect different discoverers and rulers. Uninhabited until visitors arrived in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the island featured the first historically recorded settlements in 1663. The group of settlers, which consisted of two French and seven Madagascans, was followed by 220 French colonists in the following two years (Ève 2001: 13; Gerbeau 1997), who mostly came from the northern and western coasts of France (Barat 1989b: 16). According to the records, the first migrants from India arrived soon after. Fifteen prisoners of war arrived in 1672 and at least thirteen IndoPortuguese women were brought to La Réunion in 1678 to marry European settlers. From early on, colonizers used slave labor, with slaves coming from Madagascar, Mozambique, and Zanzibar in East Africa, as well as from some other places, including India. In 1687, an Indian slave became the first documented slave to be sold; and in 1703, the slave trade with India was made official. Slaves worked as artisans, cooks, shoemakers, or domestic workers. In addition, laborers from India entered into contracts to work as carpenters, masons, bakers, and so on (Gerbeau 1997: 37–38; Marimoutou-Oberlé 2008: 131–32). The majority of laborers, however, would be engaged in the cultivation and processing of sugar cane. Having produced coffee since the early eighteenth century, and having tried to cultivate tobacco, indigo, cotton, clove, nutmeg, and cocoa with little success (Ève 2001: 29–32), La Réunion entered the sugar industry in 1815. Sugar production quickly came to dominate

(Im)mobile in the Indian Ocean • 33

economic, political, and social life on the island (see Fuma 1989). In creating demand for a massive labor force, which was recruited through the systems of slavery and indenture, the sugar industry led to huge waves of migration. Although the slave trade was abolished in 1817, the clandestine slave trade to La Réunion continued until 1830, and slavery continued until 1848. After the abolition of slavery in 1848, East Africa, Madagascar, China, and primarily India, served as sources for indentured laborers. Colonists had already started to import indentured laborers from India in 1829. After the abolition of slavery, the number of Indian indentured laborers increased dramatically. Between 1674 and 1830, and between 1829 and 1881, nearly ten thousand Indian slaves and over 110,000 Indian indentured laborers were brought to La Réunion respectively (Fuma 1999: 8–37). Although over half the laborers who arrived in 1829–30 returned to India after two years (Fuma 1999: 22–23), Jean-Régis RamsamyNadarassin estimates that only 10 to 25 percent of indentured Indians were repatriated (2012: 195). In a contract issued in 1828, indenture was set for three years (this became five years in later contracts) and, should the laborer wish to return to India before the contract ended, the government of Bourbon would pay for the journey (Lacpatia 2009: 39). While planters readily allowed old and weak workers to return to India, landlords often gave healthy laborers advances to marry or to spend in the plantation’s shop, for example. With outstanding debts to the landlord, laborers could be tied into extending their contracts (Fuma 1999: 55, Marimoutou-Oberlé 1999: 89). Indentured laborers were also discouraged from returning to India by long waiting times for boats (often several months) and by moral pressure. These pressures and delays led many to renew their contracts, despite their wishes to return home (Fuma 1999: 145). Michèle Marimoutou-Oberlé suggests that even this low percentage of documented repatriations may be much higher than the reality, as there is a remarkable correspondence between rates of return and death in the period from 1860 to 1876. The difficult working conditions and the maltreatment by planters, as well as the difficulty of leaving the island once they had arrived, led to a high suicide rate. Suicide, it seems, may have been perceived as a way to return to India, as the saying Malbar mouri Bourbon, lèvé Madras suggests (The Malbar dies in Bourbon and is reborn in Madras, my translation, Fuma 2010: 77). In contrast to colonies with high numbers of North Indian immigrants like Mauritius or Trinidad, most Indian indentured laborers in La Réunion came from South India. While the neighboring island Mauritius

34 • Religion and Pride

received migrant workers from many parts of British India, the majority of the Indian population in La Réunion—no less than 93.5 percent between 1860 and 1882—came from South India (Marimoutou-Oberlé 1999: 28). Even though some laborers were also brought from Calcutta, Yanaon, Karikal, Mahé, Cochin, Goa, and Bombay (Lacpatia 2009: 8), the majority came from Pondicherry and Madras (Barat 1989a: 163). In contrast to African indentured laborers, who were contracted to work on the plantations for ten years, Indian laborers, protected by their British citizenship, mostly had five-year contracts. Furthermore, Indian laborers were more familiar with Western colonial administration and were therefore more likely than their African counterparts to address legal issues through “syndics.” Indeed, records show that Indian indentured laborers lodged a number of complaints about unpaid salaries, an insecure food supply, repatriation, and physical abuse, among other things (Fuma 1999: 36–37, 93–141). However, the British administration repeatedly interfered in French recruitment and indenture, criticizing the treatment of Indian indentured laborers in La Réunion (Prudhomme 1984: 311–12), and eventually ended the transportation of Indian indentured laborers to La Réunion in 1882 (Fuma 1999). The last arrival of indentured laborers from French India took place in 1885 (Fuma 2010: 76). With Indian immigration coming to a standstill, planters tried even harder to prevent their workers from repatriating—with labor contracts still being issued as late as 1918. A number of historians have looked at the conditions of the indenture system with regard to the question of free versus forced decisions, especially in comparison with slavery. Recruiters, called Mestrys in South India, often used fraudulent methods to convince Indians to sign a contract (Lacpatia 2009: 66–67), while the living and working conditions of indentured laborers were little better than those of former slaves, which prompted historian Hugh Tinker to call the system of indenture “a new system of slavery” (1974). Other historians, by contrast, argue for a more balanced account ascribing more agency to the laborers (Bates 2000; Carter 1997). Crispin Bates and Marina Carter also warn historians about the potential to overlook the fact that colonialist accounts usually pursued motives to either justify or criticize existing policies. Especially after the opening of migration to La Réunion, Natal, and other colonies from the 1860s, one should read criticisms in historical sources in the context of increased competition between interested parties, such as between Mauritian and French colonialists (Bates and Carter 1993).

(Im)mobile in the Indian Ocean • 35

Rather than continuing the discussion about whether indenture presents a new system of slavery or not, it is interesting to consider the perspectives on indenture of recruiters and the recruited. For example, as the recruitment and embarkation procedures for convict transportation throughout the Indian Ocean were used for indentured laborers, the two kinds of migration became blurred, both institutionally and in the imaginations of colonial administrators and Indian migrants. Rumors reflected fears of permanent separation, religious restrictions, and forced conversion to Christianity (Anderson 2009). Nevertheless, there were important reasons to migrate, especially with poverty, oppression, and agrarian distress in India. Droughts led to frequent famines that affected all social classes. Furthermore, rapid agrarian transition increased stratification. For instance, British efforts to ensure steady agrarian revenue concentrated control over land and other resources in the hands of local dominant groups, making survival in the agrarian economy for all but large landowners all the more difficult (Washbrook 1994). The various reasons for migration also explain the range of caste backgrounds of those arriving in La Réunion, which include many who had not previously carried out agricultural work (Marimoutou-Oberlé 1999: 18–19). Although historical documents are sparse, RamsamyNadarassin has shown that the names of Reunionese of Indian descent reveal diverse caste backgrounds, also including artisans and merchants. While he only found one example of a Brahmin immigrant, he did find evidence of a considerable number of Indian immigrants with name suffixes like -poullé, -pillai, -reddy, and -atchy, which he associates with land-related castes (Ramsamy-Nadarassin 2006: 78–81). However, historical sources suggest that socially mobile peasants of low caste background adopted the title Pillai in India in the early twentieth century (see Ramaswamy 2017: 268). It is probable that several immigrants to La Réunion changed their names during the registration processes to avoid revealing their low caste status. In addition to Indian immigrants who arrived within the systems of slavery and indenture, three other forms of Indian immigration should be mentioned, although they produced fewer immigrants. First, Gujarati Muslims (predominantly Sunni) from Mauritius and originally from the region of Surat came to La Réunion to set up the textile trade between approximately the 1850s and 1870s (Issop-Banian 2010: 106–7). It has been estimated that their descendants make up 5 to 7 percent of the Reunionese population today.1 Second, when French Indian Pondi-

36 • Religion and Pride

cherry became part of India, and Pondicherrians could choose between Indian and French citizenship in 1962, some Pondicherrians who chose French citizenship—many of them officials—came to live in La Réunion. Third, some Madagascans of Indian descent immigrated to La Réunion in the 1970s (Ramsamy-Nadarassin 2012: 12). In addition to French, African, Madagascan, and Indian immigrants, two other major migrant groups have contributed to the makeup of Reunionese society today: Chinese and Comorian immigrants. Toward the end of the nineteenth century, the development of the tertiary sector attracted Chinese immigrants from Canton and the Hong Kong area who established themselves in retail trade (Barat 1989b: 24). Migrants from the Comoros, in particular since the 1970s, present one the most recent waves of migration. Even without considering these diverse migration experiences in more detail, it is evident that mobility is a key characteristic of La Réunion’s history. But immobility is also an important theme, particularly in relation to Indian indentured laborers once they had arrived in La Réunion. In contrast to the focus on a long period of sparse contact between La Réunion and India in most literature on Reunionese Hindus, Carter (1997) and Bates (2000) point out that previous historical research often overlooked the important role of returning migrants and recruiting networks. While Bates and Carter reveal Indian migrants’ continued contact with India evident through letters and other documents, there is little historical evidence to suggest that Indian immigrants in La Réunion attempted to maintain contact with India. One exception is Indian immigrant Ramsamy Moutoussamy Naiken’s 1879 attempt to establish a mutual aid company that would send deceased people’s possessions and support back to their families in India (RamsamyNadarassin 2006: 99). Although there might have been more contact than historical sources suggest, the discourse about having been cut off from India is widespread in La Réunion today. In the following section, I describe how the Indian immigrants’ beliefs and practices developed under these circumstances.

Assimilation and New Creations Far from India Several important factors impacted the development of Hindu practices in La Réunion, including French assimilationist politics, a powerful Catholic Church, the distance from India, métissage, and contact with

(Im)mobile in the Indian Ocean • 37

different religious traditions. The French colonial model in La Réunion, which aimed at social integration and assimilation, is often contrasted with the British colonial model (in Mauritius, for example), which is typically understood as more liberal and tolerant toward cultural diversity. Those who stayed in La Réunion after indenture had to undergo formal assimilation, with French naturalization of immigrants’ children born on the island established by law in 1889. This law disregarded the FrenchBritish convention of 1860, which should have protected the immigrants’ nationality and provided them the right to return to India (Fuma 1999: 72–73). However, French assimilationist policies did not stop Indian indentured laborers’ religious practices. Slaves did not have the right to practice religion. As instructed by the king of France in 1664, Catholicism was the only religion to be practiced in territories administered by the Compagnie Française des Indes Orientales (Ève 2001: 49). In contrast to slaves, indentured laborers had less severe conditions. According to the regulations of the first arrival of indentured laborers from India in 1829, planters had to provide workers with a site to celebrate religious festivals. Funeral rites and inheritance customs were also to be respected (Fuma 1999: 15). Laborers were released for four days in January to celebrate Pongal, a Tamil harvest festival, even if they were actually only free after 9 o’clock in the morning, having completed daily tasks like maintaining the livestock, which were not conceived as work under the act of 30 August 1860 (Marimoutou-Oberlé 1999: 61–62). These holidays appear to have been respected, for while Indian laborers complained about working conditions, missing food supplies and so on, no complaints were made about employers failing to grant the Pongal holidays (Ève 2013: 240). Although, according to historian Claude Prudhomme, Indians—including Catholic Indians—were treated with suspicion (1984: 320), the colonial administration allowed religious processions and, in some cases, the construction of worship sites. Moreover, although some municipalities raised minor complaints about the noise of processions, for example, the general population seemed indifferent toward such practices, with some land owners even encouraging religious practice (Marimoutou-Oberlé 1999: 93–94) and donating animals for sacrifice (Ramsamy 2014: 190–91, 244). More severe opposition to Hindu religion came from the Catholic Church. The Church forbade the introduction of priests from India to La Réunion, and sought to prohibit Hindu ceremonies. Several Catholic priests claimed these ceremonies were pagan and even infernal

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(Marimoutou-Oberlé 1999: 99; Prudhomme 1984: 318), and such accusations were still documented a century later in the 1980s (Ghasarian 1997: 288–89). Furthermore, French assimilation policies often included Catholic baptism. With many Indian workers still considering returning to India after the end of their contracts, Christianization largely failed before the assimilation policies of the 1880s. However, this changed when Indians realized that they would stay in La Réunion (Prudhomme 1984: 322–23, 1985: 374). Historians are not sure how many immigrants were already Catholic in India before coming to La Réunion. While the number of Muslim immigrants from the ports of Karikal and Calcutta in the 1860s has been roughly estimated at 10 percent (Lacpatia 2009: 15), the number of Christian (including Catholic) immigrants is even more difficult to estimate (Gerbeau 1997: 42). Without wishing to enter discussions about conversion that juxtapose voluntary social integration and oppression, I would like to emphasize that the Catholic Church was very powerful at the time, and that Indian religious practices were highly stigmatized—two important themes that Reunionese Hindus often evoke today. Unlike the African slaves, who had been forbidden from any non-Christian practices, Indian indentured laborers’ ability to continue some of their (magico-)religious practices, as well as Catholic priests’ claims that these traditions were pagan, contributed to accusations of sorcery against Indians (Andoche 1988). In this context of assimilation and Catholicism, the ability to perform religious rituals in public necessitated administrative and adaptive negotiating skills. In 1870, Indian workers banded together to create a relief association with the aim of enabling workers to return to India and celebrate religious festivals (Fuma 1999: 56). Administrative skills were necessary as the construction of temples and the celebration of religious festivals needed authorization by the governor, and religious processions were authorized by the community’s mayor (MarimoutouOberlé 1999: 93). The movement to create temple associations, which began in the early twentieth century, is part of the attempts to adapt to the French context (Ramsamy 2014: 240). Similar to other indenture contexts, Indian laborers primarily brought “popular” religious practices with them to La Réunion. These practices were not static. Prudhomme describes various changes and mutual influences between different traditions: laborers of different caste backgrounds and from different regions were regrouped in camps near the sugar factories, thus producing a convergence of knowledge about religions and rituals (1984: 320–21). With Tamil laborers making up the

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majority, the festivals of Pongal and fire walking seem to have been important events and visible in public, as they are often mentioned in historical sources. Prudhomme suggests that the performance of processions and religious gestures was more important than the “theological meaning” of the festivals. Fire walking, for instance, which had been a minor element of festivals in Tamil Nadu, became a major ceremony in La Réunion. Prudhomme sees the reasons for this development in the purifying power of the fire, which was especially important for Indians in exile, and in the fact that the ability to walk on fire presented a certain form of resistance and mystic power that brought respect (Prudhomme 1984: 321). Although from an anthropological perspective, such material and sensory aspects are at least as important to people’s religious experiences as what Prudhomme calls the “theological meaning,” his claims are also reflected in a common Reunionese Hindu lament about the loss of knowledge about what these practices actually represent or mean. Muslim customs were apparently incorporated into the religious practices of Hindus (Lacpatia 1990: 37–40). More importantly, in response to Catholic leaders’ claims that their religious practices were infernal, Indians adopted a Catholic vocabulary to point out the parallels between Hindu and Catholic festivals (Marimoutou-Oberlé 1999: 93–99). Furthermore, various Indian/Hindu elements were integrated into Catholic practices (Prudhomme 1984: 323), and terms like promès/promesse (Creole for vow), karèm/carême (Creole/French for fasting), and servis/ service (Creole/French for ceremony) became shared concepts in Reunionese religious practice (see Nicaise 2010: 181). In addition to the powerful role of the Catholic Church, métissage, as the mixing of ethnic origins is referred to in La Réunion, had a significant impact on people’s religious practices. Between 1848 and 1883, the South Indian population was 80 percent men, 15 percent women, and 5 percent children (Lacpatia 2009: 22). The highly unequal numbers of male and female immigrants resulted in countless mixed unions, so that most Reunionese today have mixed origins and can relate to different religious traditions. Métissage also had a significant impact on caste, to the extent that caste has not remained an important social and marital category in La Réunion and rarely came up as an issue during my fieldwork. Similar to other postindenture diasporic contexts, and in contrast to diasporic contexts where migration from India has continued over a long period and immigrants still arrive with a notion of caste, as they tend to in

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the UK or the United States, caste has not been constantly renewed as a social category in La Réunion. During slavery and indenture, the transport on ships and the living and working conditions in La Réunion itself did not allow Indian immigrants to maintain caste divisions. Family names underwent changes in the process of colonial registration, and the ratio of men to women contributed to métissage becoming a major characteristic of Reunionese society. Anthropologists Jean Benoist (1979: 17, 1998: 22, 32) and Christian Barat (1989b: 26–46) observed few residues of caste appellations and distinctions during their field studies in the 1970s and 1980s. One of the few cases wherein caste appeared in my research in 2014–15 concerned the Indian priests who arrived in La Réunion since the 1970s. Some Reunionese told me that the Brahmin priests from India introduced a caste system to La Réunion. While an Indian priest in a Reunionese temple explained to me that there was no caste in La Réunion, he seems to maintain endogamy and commensality—he was married to a woman from India, and I never saw him eat with Reunionese practitioners. To what extent the presence of Indian priests might actually influence the awareness of caste in La Réunion is still to be seen. Twenty-year-old practitioner Sarasvati also spoke to me about caste, telling me that her father, a Reunionese priest, made a clear distinction between his “caste” of priests and the “caste” of the drummers. She explained that although the younger generations did not consider caste anymore, her father did not engage with the drummers at all, and drummers stayed further away than the other devotees. Sarasvati applies what she has learned about notions of purity in India to explain that her father considers the drummers lower caste as they touch the leather of the drums, which is impure. Sarasvati emphasized that these notions were as much about the differences between the rich and the poor and about being of mixed or dominantly Indian descent as they were about caste. When I asked her about marriage, she said that her friends’ parents mostly looked at the partner’s religion, the status of the family, the partner’s income, and the family’s level of métissage. Although I met a few women of Sarasvati’s generation whose parents consider these criteria, they did not link it to caste, and arranged marriage was the exception rather than the norm in the Reunionese Hindu families I met. The practical absence of caste contrasts the fact that the concept of ritual purity plays a significant role in Reunionese Hindu religion, especially when preparing oneself and the ritual space for ceremonies. Furthermore, in some cases, visible ethnic features become intermingled

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with residues of caste awareness as means of distinction. Despite the importance of métissage, ethnic differences can matter. Although most temples are open to people of all backgrounds, and although some people assert pride in their rich métissage, some Reunionese Hindus claim to be of pure Indian descent. As I have illustrated in this section, since the end of the nineteenth century, Indian immigrants and their descendants became both Catholic and French without completely abandoning their religious practices from India. While other cultural aspects, like Tamil and other South Indian languages, vanished to a great extent, religious practices were maintained and creatively adopted to the new context, often in interaction with other religious traditions. In the following section, I show how some later generations of Reunionese Hindus saw the new creations as deficient and began to orient themselves toward India, while others are proud of their locally created Reunionese heritage. Importantly, these tendencies do not exclude each other.

Orientation toward India and Valorization of Local Practices The orientation toward India by Reunionese of Indian descent started in a context of profound changes in Reunionese society. In 1946, La Réunion became a French overseas department. Departmentalization raised high hopes for social equality with Metropolitan France, but the new overseas department remained long neglected by the French government (Combeau 2010). The continuous decline of the sugar industry and lack of other profitable domains resulted in difficult socio-economic conditions. Only by the 1960s, significant economic and social improvements, including transport, communication and education were starting to become visible, although the majority of the Reunionese population still lived in poor conditions (Payet 2010). The 1970s and 1980s were a phase of general mutations in Reunionese society. After a long opposition between communist and right-wing politicians, representing autonomist and departmentalist ambitions respectively, the presidential elections of 1974 saw the emergence of a new political center (Combeau 2001: 170–73). Even more fundamental changes came with the 1981 French presidential elections, which saw socialist candidate François Mitterrand take power. In addition to the introduction of the social welfare support through the RMI (Revenu Minimum d’Insertion) in 1989, the French socialist governments of the 1980s favored a policy of decentralization.

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La Réunion was given the status of Région in 1982, which allows for more authority in decisions, particularly in the realm of infrastructure and education. The 1980s also saw a diversification of public media (e.g. Idelson 2013), and La Réunion opened up on a regional level by becoming a member of the Indian Ocean Commission in 1986 (Combeau et al. 2002: 148). The opening up also affected ancestral cultures and the recognition of Reunionese regional language and culture, including the Creole language (Gerbeau 1997: 53). Many Reunionese told me that President François Mitterrand had enabled greater recognition of local and ancestral cultures in La Réunion. After a long history of rejecting Hinduism, both by Catholic priests and other segments of Reunionese society, a more open attitude emerged toward religious and cultural diversity. Growing recognition was also linked to some Reunionese Hindus’ social mobility. While only few Reunionese of Indian descent reached middle-class status through commerce and the acquisition of land in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, access to education after departmentalization in 1946 promoted greater social mobility (Marimoutou-Oberlé 2008: 136–37). With growing economic, political, and social success, Reunionese of Indian descent have become spread throughout society, taking on positions ranging from agricultural and factory workers to middle-class businessmen and bureaucrats to highly educated economic and political leaders. This increased social mobility has also been reflected in the construction of concrete temples (which also began to appear in the mid-twentieth century), and in the increased visibility of Hindu practices in public. In this context, young Reunionese Hindus, especially in upper- and middle-class families, developed an interest in religious knowledge from India. The interest in ancestral religion and culture was accompanied by a feeling of having lost Indian culture or of having maintained false religious knowledge, a trend that Barat remarked upon both among researchers and religious practitioners in the 1960s (1989a: 178–79). With the exception of only one estate, the children of indentured laborers had not gone to school. While some children were taught the Tamil alphabet by educated Indians in exchange for a small amount of money or food, by and large, these children adapted to the local Creole culture (Marimoutou-Oberlé 1999: 85). Sanskrit literature was largely absent, but popular religious knowledge was transferred through the available epics and other sacred texts in Tamil script, and more importantly through oral transmission (Benoist 1979: 38–39). In the young generation’s ori-

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entation toward sacred texts in the 1960s, Barat sees the wish to correct false religious beliefs and practices and give them textual meanings (1989a: 178–79). The quest for religious knowledge from India resulted in the creation of several associations, and their associated magazines from 1970 onward. In the course of this orientation toward India, some Reunionese Hindus abandoned Catholicism and sometimes even locally created traditions in favor of religious knowledge from India. The magazine Présence, first issued by Le Club Tamoul in 1980, already featured debates about animal sacrifices. The association president noted that animal sacrifices presented an important social part of the get-togethers of Reunionese Hindus, and he criticized those who only attended service for the shared meals afterward (Barat 1989a: 180–83). His comment reflects the emerging feeling among many Reunionese Hindus that their traditions were depraved. While many of these magazines and associations do not exist anymore, the Fédération Tamoule (short for Fédération des Associations et Groupements Religieux Hindous et Culturels Tamouls de la Réunion), created in 1971, continues to play an important role in promoting religious education (chapter 2). With the social, political, and religious opening of the 1970s and 1980s, as well as the greater ease and affordability of travel, Indo-Mauritian and Indian priests became increasingly important figures in the spread of religious knowledge. As Mauritian priests were considered closer to Indian norms than their local Reunionese counterparts (Callandre 2009: 31–32), Reunionese organized stays in Mauritius to learn from them. From the late 1950s onward, Reunionese temple associations began arranging for Indo-Mauritian priests to conduct rituals in Reunionese temples. In 1976, La Réunion’s prefect granted the Fédération Tamoule’s request for six-month visas for priests and arts teachers from India. This date corresponds to the phase when priests from the Minakshi temple in Madurai in South India went abroad for the first time to work in Malaysia, Singapore, the United States, and so on (Fuller 2003: 50–51). Pierre-Yves Trouillet (forthcoming) observes that South Indian and Sri Lankan priests became increasingly mobile in the 1990s as the South Indian and Sri Lankan Tamil diaspora grew and became more connected, and perceptions changed from the negative stigma of crossing the “black water” associated with impurity to more positive attitudes toward overseas work experience as a means for social status. In addition to inviting priests from Mauritius and India, some socially and economically successful young Reunionese of Indian descent

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began to travel to India to develop their religious knowledge. Back in La Réunion, some of these priests could attract even larger audiences than Brahmin priests from India, who, according to Benoist, always remained “foreigners” (Benoist 1998: 74–75). Young people also started learning to read Tamil, as well as Indian music and classical dance, with some traveling to India for their studies. Over the last few decades, the search for knowledge has spread to other cultural realms like Indian film and fashion, which are now imported to La Réunion. More recently, connections to India have also intensified through student exchange programs between universities in La Réunion and Tamil Nadu, broader interest in genealogical research, and the development of tourism in India more generally. Thus, the orientation toward India, which started with interest in religious knowledge, has subsequently also created economic, political, and social connections. The orientation toward India was also accompanied by an increased visibility of the Hindu religion in public. Reunionese priest Robert and his wife Danya, with whom I often chatted after the ceremonies in their temple, believe that the recently created contacts with India have had a direct impact on Hindu religiosity. According to the couple, before the 1990s, there were many “believers” in La Réunion who did not necessarily practice religion in the temple, but from the 1990s onward, and especially in the 2000s, a lot of young people began to regularly go to the temple. Robert and Danya see the reason for this increased religiosity through the greater ease of contact with India today through travel, Indian shops in La Réunion, television, and Facebook. Furthermore, the establishment of direct flights from La Réunion to Chennai initiated by La Réunion’s Regional Council in 2013 has made travel to India easier and more affordable. Orientations toward India developed from individual initiatives and without the support of Hindu nationalist organizations. An important underlying aim was recognition in Reunionese society. The term tamoul (and to lesser extent hindou) that Reunionese began to use strategically in the course of this orientation to emphasize a relation to an ancestral culture presents a case in point. Florence Callandre observes a shift in terminology for the names of newly founded religious associations, from titles that included names of divinities via ones that included the term religion hindoue or religion tamoule (not malbar) to the use of hindouisme, all of which now simultaneously coexist (2009: 52–76). Barat and Callandre also point out that adherents went from calling their religion

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malbar to calling it religion tamoule (Barat 1989b: 87; Callandre 2009: 32). The use of the term religion tamoule may have been influenced by Hindus of South Asian origins in Mauritius, who use the term tamoul/ Tamil to distinguish their religion from Hindus of North Indian descent (Trouillet 2010: 372–73), an observation also made in South Africa (Kumar 2012: 393). Florence Callandre-Barat suggests that the name was chosen to avoid stigmatization and the negative connotations associated with the term malbar, but also because of the presence of those Pondicherrians who had opted for the French nationality and came to La Réunion (Callandre-Barat 2013: §1). Indeed, one of the founding members of the Fédération Tamoule explained to me that while the term malbar is less problematic today, it was negatively loaded before: “the word malbar was used more often to insult us than to address or name us.” As such, the initial associations sought to alter broader public perceptions of Reunionese of Indian descent and emphasize the term tamoul. He explained further that the mentioning of the term tamoul in the media was so important for publicity that sporting associations were renamed and created to make it more widely known: “When they announced the results on TV, even if we were defeated, this did not matter, but they said Tamoul defeated 15:12 or I don’t know, but the word tamoul featured.” The acquisition of knowledge about Hindu religion and India reflects Reunionese Hindus’ desires and attempts to be associated with a world religion, rather than being associated with and accused of sorcery. However, the pride that Reunionese Hindus have developed does not merely concern religious knowledge imported from India, but also a self-confident valorization of locally created traditions. While scholars primarily describe these religious negotiations with terms such as “tamoulisation,” “re-indianisation,” “orthodoxisation,” and “brahmanisation” (Callandre 2009: 19), the latter two indicating the important role of Brahmin priests from South India in these processes, the negotiations have been much more diverse. Many other Reunionese Hindus do not even link their religious practices to India. Most of the practitioners in priest Robert’s temple, for instance, have not traveled to India and seem equally interested in local Reunionese practice as in knowledge about practices in India. In other words, the tendency to orient oneself toward India and to valorize Reunionese traditions do not necessarily exclude one another. Similar to ethnographies on Hindus in other postindenture contexts which emphasize the importance of the local plantation context

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(e.g. Claveyrolas 2017; Younger 2010), most works on Hindu religion on the island discuss the question of the extent to which Hinduism in La Réunion is related to India, and how much it is to be seen as a local product. Christian Barat (1989b), Jean Benoist (1979, 1998), Florence Callandre (2009; Callandre and Barat 2009), and Christian Ghasarian (1997, 1999, 2008) stress the importance of the local socio-historical context, with creolization, métissage, and other related factors on the one side, and an orientation toward India on the other. Barat (1989b: 7) emphasizes the newness of the locally created forms, speaking of a new malbar religion. Benoist speaks of “two authenticities,” which relate to India, and historical and local entrenchment in La Réunion (1998: 57–58). In Benoist’s opinion, the various adaptations that have been made—the crossing of religious boundaries, which is not unknown in India, the decline of the caste system without abandoning notions of purity, and the apparent delinking of religious and ethnic identity—have not changed the essential character of Hinduism, and therefore allow us to speak of a “non-Indian Hinduism” (1998: 189). As a researcher, I tried to find a balance between my hesitancy to compare Reunionese practices with practices in India or even talking about “authenticities,” which I find unhelpful, and instances when my interlocutors themselves made comparisons and discursively mobilized such authenticities.

Temples, Deities, and Festivals Many Reunionese Hindus pray at home, as well as in “small” and “big” temples. The local classification into small and big temples is not possible to make for all temples and gradual differentiations are rather fluid. In addition to shrines in people’s homes, many families have built family temples (Creole: sapèl familial, French: temple familial) on their properties (figure 1.1), which vary in shape and size. Some families open their temples to (semi-)publics, and temples in people’s courtyards or in the field can be enormous. The terms “small” and “big” therefore do not necessarily refer to the size of a temple. Small temples (French: petit temple) were built in Reunionese architecture in formerly rural areas near the sugar cane plantations (figure 1.2). Reunionese priests perform the rituals, which often include animal sacrifices. Small temples are often primarily run by a family, although they mostly have the status of an association as well. Big temples (French: grand temple), sometimes called urban temples (French: temple urbain), were built or renovated

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Figure 1.1. A family temple viewed from the inside of a house, La Réunion, 2014. Photo by the author.

in South Indian architectural style in urban areas, and Indian Brahmin priests perform exclusively vegetarian rituals. However, some renovate their small temples in a South Indian style; and although some temple associations explicitly claim to be small or big, others are perceived as intermediate, with some even praised as a perfect mix. Depending on what one counts as big, there are about seven big temples on the island, and an uncountable number of small or family temples, some of them not even visible to the public, especially those constructed in courtyards or in the fields. Most small temples I visited host Ganesh/Vinaryeguel/Vinayaga (Tamil: Vināyakar), who is usually prayed to first; Nargoulan/Nagour Mira, a Muslim saint the ancestors are said to have asked for safe journey before leaving India; the goddess Karly (Tamil: Kāl.i), venerated for (economic) success among other things; the goddess Marliemmen/ Marliémèn (Tamil: Māriyamman-), primarily worshiped for health issues; Pétiaye/Kartéli (Tamil: Periyācci/Kāt.t.ēri), associated with child birth and the health of children; the goulous (ancestors); and other gods/saints/ spirits, like Mardévirin (Tamil: Maturaivīran-) and Mini/Mouni/Minisprin/

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Figure 1.2. A “small” temple with sculptures crafted and painted by Reunionese artists, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

Mounisvaran (Tamil: Mun-īsvaran-).2 Those temples known to conduct fire walking for Pandialé/Pandialy/Dolvédé (Tamil: Tiraupati) also feature characters of the Barldon (Mahabharata) like Aljounin (Tamil: Arjun-an-) and Alvan (Tamil: Aravān-). This list of divinities is not exhaustive, and temples can host fewer or more deities over time. The priorities in terms of powers and realms of action associated with these goddesses are not exhaustive either, and also depend on the devotees’ personal relationships with the divinities. Many small temples celebrate annual festivals for Karly (fêt Karly), Marliemmen (fêt Marliemmen), and Pétiaye (fêt Pétiaye). While all Karly festivals I attended included numerous sacrifices of roosters and goats, and ceremonies for Pétiaye necessitated the ritual sacrifice of black hens, the Marliemmen festivals I attended included only vegetarian sacrifice. In addition to such festivals, which can attract up to several hundred devotees, many small temples hold ceremonies on a monthly or even weekly basis, for instance on Fridays or Sundays, which attract fewer devotees, and most small temples are closed to the public on days without ceremonies.

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Fire walking, called marsh dann fé in Creole or marche sur le feu in French, and sometimes tīmiti (Tamil), is dedicated to Pandialé or Marliemmen and consists of walking over a field of glowing embers in honor of the respective goddess. Many practitioners take a vow3 to Pandialé, who is associated with Draupadi, a main character of the Indian epic Mahabharata. The eighteen-day build-up to the ceremony consists of fasting, prayer, and in the evenings, the singing and performance of scenes from the Mahabharata. Whereas fire walking for the goddess Pandialé has been documented since indenture, several Reunionese Hindus of the elder generation told me that fire walking for Marliemmen was introduced from Mauritius around the 1960s. In contrast to the eighteen-day fast for Pandialé, fire walking for Marliemmen is preceded by a ten-day fast. In addition to festivals for Karly, Marliemmen, Pétiaye, and Pandialé, kavadi for Mourouga (Tamil: Murukan-) is a very visible religious festival in La Réunion, organized by “big” temples. Mourouga is said to especially help young people progress through different stages of life. Devotees carry heavy burdens in a procession for Mourouga, such as decorated

Figure 1.3. A procession leading to the fire walking, La Réunion, 2014. Photo by the author.

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Figure 1.4. A “big” temple early in the morning of the kavadi, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

wooden structures (kavadi, Tamil: kāvat.i), and they often pierce their bodies. Mourouga requires vegetarian Shivaite worship, even though some of these temples had sacrificed animals to Karly before their renovation. Kavadi is widely perceived as a new practice and associated with the orientation toward India. According to Jean Benoist, the big urban temples in which kavadi festivals are held had initially been constructed by merchant associations (instead of indentured laborers) since the end of the nineteenth century (1998: 66). For a long time, only merchant and other urban Hindus celebrated the ten-day festivals for Mourouga, while descendants of indentured laborers only started to participate much later, which is also due to the dates of these festivals, which did not correspond to the harvest holidays (Benoist 1998: 63). While Benoist assumes that the ten-day festivals for Mourouga have existed since the indenture period, and one big temple claims to have celebrated kavadi since 1888, historian Jean-Régis Ramsamy suggests that kavadi was introduced more recently in La Réunion and is not aware of any written accounts of kavadi during indenture.4 A ten-day festival was mentioned in 1882, but it was not called kavadi. Ramsamy assumes that there may

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have been celebrations for Mourouga that had not yet been named kavadi.5 Several of my interlocutors of the older generation told me that kavadi was introduced later than other practices linked to deities like Karly, Marliemmen, and Pandialé. One practitioner believed that kavadi arrived after World War II, and he remembers that in 1958, when he was six years old, few people carried kavadi. He himself first carried kavadi the following year, at the age of seven. This is the oldest testimony I was able to collect. Although I cannot date the introduction of kavadi to the island, the fact that the practice is not associated with indentured laborers is important, as well as that it is widely perceived as a new practice and associated with the orientation toward India. While dates of Karly, Marliemmen, or fire walking festivals often reflect the historical importance of the agricultural season and Christian holidays and are held on weekends for practical reasons, “big” temples organize their kavadi processions to correspond with the dates of the Tamil months cittirai, vaikāci, āvan.i, taippūcam, and pan - kun - i. Furthermore, the Fédération Tamoule’s 2009–10 calendar (for the year 5110 of the Kali Yuga calendar) announced that for the first time, the pandjangam (Tamil: pañcān˙kam), a Hindu calendar and almanac that indicates the auspicious weekdays and hours for rituals, was calculated not by adapting the Indian pandjangam to the GMT zone, but by taking into account the geographical position of La Réunion with regard to orbs and stars. The festival calendar of Reunionese (mostly “big” but also “small”) temples can include many more ceremonies for other divinities, such as Shiva, Vinayaga, Vishnou (Tamil: Vis.n.u)/Govinden (Tamil: Kōvintā)/Peroumal (Tamil: Perumāl.), and Krishna, which again demonstrates the difficulty of differentiation between big and small. This summarized glimpse of Reunionese Hindu temples, deities, and practices can merely give a rough idea of how Hinduism in La Réunion looks. There are many more divinities, saints, spirits, and practices, and new ones are continuously added and old ones are negotiated. In addition to small and big temples, La Réunion has three wellknown ashrams (Chinmaya Mission, Arsha Vidya, and Amma/Amritanandamayi), and a few smaller, more private institutions. The ashrams were founded in the 1980s by Reunionese who took the initiative to go to India, often through connections in Mauritius. The island’s ashrams are places of education that Reunionese visit for classes or rituals, rather than places to live. Most Reunionese Hindus who go to the ashrams are not aware of any implicit Hindu nationalist project. The educational significance of the ashrams is clear, with practitioners frequently pointing

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me toward the ashrams for religious explanations. One practitioner told me “Fortunately, we have the ashrams,” as if he wanted to say that otherwise, Reunionese would be completely without religious education or knowledge. However, in contrast to postindenture contexts where institutions like Arya Samaj or Sanatan Dharm schools have a high profile, such as in the Caribbean, La Réunion does not have an overarching Indian institution. Furthermore, although the ashrams contribute to the image of Hinduism through their educational offers, they do not adopt an important role in the struggle for recognition of the religion, which is largely managed and promoted by the Fédération Tamoule and by individual priests and practitioners. Driven by aspirations for recognition, some individuals and organizations have created festivals, notably the Tamil New Year and Dipavali, that go beyond the ritual space in the temple to mark the public presence of Hinduism and Tamil or Indian culture.

From Sorcery to Pride Mobility and immobility characterize the historical developments of Hindu religious practices in La Réunion. During colonialism, Indian immigrants came in large numbers to the island. Those who stayed did not maintain much contact with India and adapted religious practices to the new context. After a long period of sparse contact, an interest in Hinduism and India has resulted in an orientation toward India since the second half of the twentieth century. This initial quest for religious knowledge also developed into increasing interest in economic, social, and political interactions. Whereas Indian immigrants and their descendants previously lived in a French plantation society, where there was great pressure to assimilate and where the Catholic Church wielded great power and influence, the more recently established attitude toward and relationship with India as an ancestral place has allowed them for an origin-conscious self-positioning in Reunionese society. From people’s narrations and self-perceptions, after being stigmatized and accused of sorcery, this orientation toward India has allowed Reunionese Hindus today to proudly perform Hindu rituals in public. Although Indian religious traditions were not always stigmatized, and although there are still some accusations of sorcery today, this is how many perceive the historical development of the Hindu religion in La Réunion. Today, Hindu religion and Indian culture are highly visible in the many public events,

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such as temple festivals and processions, concerts, and dance performances. This presence, and its mostly positive perception in Reunionese society, is often explained by the new possibilities to inform people about the religion, explanations that may at times emphasize its distinction from magical practices. The discursive development from sorcery to pride is thus linked to (im)mobility in terms of historical migration, recent trans-local interactions, as well as aspirations for social mobility.

Notes 1. Interview with a representative of the Fédération Tamoule. 2. All names of divinities, saints, and spirits have multiple name variants and spellings. I only provide a few. 3. Creole: promès, French: vœu. 4. Coromandel, de l’Inde à La Réunion, exhibition displayed at the indenture commemoration day at Lazaret La Chaloupe on 11 November 2014. Text: Jean-Régis Ramsamy-Nadarassin. Direction: Association Sauvegarde Mémoire Réunionnaise. 5. Personal communication with Jean-Régis Ramsamy.

References Anderson, Clare. 2009. “Convicts and Coolies: Rethinking Indentured Labour in the Nineteenth Century.” Slavery & Abolition 30(1): 93–109. Andoche, Jacqueline. 1988. “L’interprétation populaire de la maladie et de la guérison à l’île de la Réunion.” Sciences Sociales et Santé 6(3–4): 145–65. Barat, Christian. 1989a. “Les descendants des engagés Indiens à la Réunion: L’affirmation d’une identité.” Carbet 9: 163–84. Barat, Christian. 1989b. Nargoulan: Culture et rites malbar à la Réunion. SaintDenis: Editions du Tramail. Bates, Crispin. 2000. “Coerced and Migrant Labourers in India: The Colonial Experience.” Edinburgh papers in South Asian studies 13: 1–33. Retrieved 9 August 2020 from http://www.csas.ed.ac.uk/__data/assets/pdf_file/0005/ 38471/WP13_Crispin_Bates.pdf. Bates, Crispin, and Marina Carter. 1993. “Tribal and Indentured Migrants in Colonial India: Modes of Recruitment and Forms of Incorporation.” In Dalit Movements and the Meanings of Labour in India, ed. Peter Robb, 159–85. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Benoist, Jean. 1979. “Religion hindoue et dynamique de la société réunionnaise.” Annuaire des pays de l’Océan Indien 6: 127–66. Benoist, Jean. 1998. Hindouismes créoles: Mascareignes, Antilles. Paris: Editions du C.T.H.S.

54 • Religion and Pride Callandre, Florence. 2009. Koylou: Représentation divine et architecture sacrée de l’hindouisme réunionnais, 1990—1998, 2nd ed. Saint-André, Réunion: Océan éditions. Callandre-Barat, Florence. 2013. “Les engagés des koylou à La Réunion.” Études océan Indien 49–50. Retrieved 9 August 2020 from http://oceanindien.re vues.org/1970. Callandre, Florence, and Christian Barat. 2009. “Interview: Présentation de Koloss.” Retrieved 9 August 2020 from http://www.indereunion.net/actu/ koloss/interkoloss.htm. Carter, Marina. 1997. “Indian Indentured Migration and the Forced Labour Debate.” Itinerario 21(1): 52–61. Claveyrolas, Mathieu. 2017. Quand l’hindouisme est créole: Plantation et indianité à l’île Maurice. Paris: EHESS - Ecole des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales. Combeau, Yvan. 2001. “Colonie, Département, Région (1940–1982).” In Combeau et al., Histoire de La Réunion, 129–73. Paris: Sedes. Combeau, Yvan. 2010. “En attendant le social (1942–1958).” In Les avancées sociales à La Réunion (XVIIIe–XXIe siècle): Actes du colloque Semaine de l’Histoire, Novembre 2009, ed. Prosper Ève, 129–39. Saint-Denis: Université de la Réunion. Combeau, Yvan, Prosper Ève, Sudel Fuma, and Edmond Maestri. 2002. Histoire de La Réunion: De la colonie à la région. Paris: Nathan. Ève, Prosper. 2001. “Une colonie française dans l’océan Indien cccidental: Bourbon de 1665 à 1848.” In Combeau et al., Histoire de La Réunion, 11–34. Paris: Sedes. Ève, Prosper. 2013. Au coeur de la société réunionnaise. Saint-André, La Réunion: AHIOI (L’Association Historique Internationale de l’Océan Indien). Fuller, Christopher J. 2003. The Renewal of the Priesthood: Modernity and Traditionalism in a South Indian Temple. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Fuma, Sudel. 1989. Une colonie île à sucre: L’économie de La Réunion au XIXe siècle. Saint-André, La Réunion: Graphica. Fuma, Sudel. 1999. De l’Inde du Sud à l’Ile de La Réunion: Les Réunionnais d’origine indienne d’après le rapport Mackenzie. Saint-Denis, La Réunion: Université de La Réunion. Fuma, Sudel. 2010. “Esclavage et engagisme: Deux systèmes cousins?” In La diaspora indienne dans l’histoire des îles et pays de l’océan Indien, ed. Sudel Fuma and S. Pannirselvame, 67–78. Saint-Denis, La Réunion: Université de La Réunion. Gerbeau, Hubert. 1997. “The Indians of the Mascarenes: A Success in Diaspora: Mauritius and Reunion (17th–20th Centuries).” Bengal, Past and Present 116: 35–79. Ghasarian, Christian. 1997. “We Have the Best Gods! The Encounter between Hinduism and Christianity in La Réunion.” Journal of Asian and African Studies 32: 286–95. https://doi.org/10.1163/156852197X00079.

(Im)mobile in the Indian Ocean • 55 Ghasarian, Christian. 1999. “Patrimoine culturel et ethnicité à La Réunion: Dynamiques et dialogismes.” Ethnologie française 29(3): 365–74. Ghasarian, Christian. 2008. “La Réunion: Acculturation, créolisation et réinventions culturelles.” In Anthropologies de La Réunion, ed. Christian Ghasarian, 235–51. Paris: Éditions des Archives Contemporaines. Idelson, Bernard. 2013. “Les services publics de radio-télévision dans les DOM à l’ère du numérique: Continuité des discours enchanteurs à propos de la ‘proximité,’ du ‘local’ et de ‘l’ouverture sur le monde.’ Le cas de Réunion 1ère (France Télévisions).” Les Enjeux de l’Information et de la Communication 14 (2: Les services publics de radio-télévision à l’orée du XXIe siècle): 135–48.. Issop-Banian, Idriss. 2010. “La diaspora gujarati dans les Iles du sud-ouest de l’océan Indien aux 19e et 20e siècles.” In La diaspora indienne dans l’histoire des îles et pays de l’océan Indien, ed. Sudel Fuma and S. Pannirselvame, 105–11. Saint-Denis, La Réunion: Université de La Réunion. Kumar, P. Pratap. 2012. “Hinduism in South Africa.” In The Wiley-Blackwell Companion to African Religions, ed. Elias Kifon Bongmba, 389–98. Hoboken, NJ: Blackwell Publishing. Lacpatia, Firmin. 1990. Les Indiens de la Réunion: La vie religieuse. [Saint-Denis]: Association Des Ecrivains Réunionnais. Lacpatia, Firmin. 2009. Les Indiens de la Réunion: Origine et recrutement. SainteClotilde: Surya. Marimoutou-Oberlé, Michèle. 1999. Les engagés du sucre. Saint-Denis: Conseil Général de la Réunion. Marimoutou-Oberlé, Michèle. 2008. “Les Indiens à La Réunion, une présence ancienne.” Hommes & Migrations 1275: 130–37. Nicaise, Stéphane. 2010. “La conjugaison du religieux à La Réunion.” In La Réunion, une société en mutation, ed. Eliane Wolff and Michel Watin, 167– 85. Paris: Economica. Payet, Frédéric. 2010. “La question sociale et le discours parlementaire réunionnais dans les années 1960.” In Les avancées sociales à La Réunion (XVIIIe– XXIe siècle): Actes du colloque Semaine de l’Histoire, Novembre 2009, ed. Prosper Ève, 141–48. Saint-Denis: Université de la Réunion. Prudhomme, Claude. 1984. Histoire religieuse de La Réunion. Paris: Karthala. Prudhomme, Claude. 1985. “L’immigration indienne à La Réunion.” Omaly sy Anio 21–22: 361–78. Ramaswamy, Vijaya. 2017. Historical Dictionary of the Tamils, 2nd ed. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Ramsamy-Nadarassin, Jean-Régis. 2006. La galaxie des noms malbar: Les débuts de l’intégration des engagés à la Réunion (1828—1901). Sainte-Marie: Azalées Editions. Ramsamy-Nadarassin, Jean-Régis. 2012. “Les travailleurs indiens sous contrat à La Réunion (1848—1948): Entre le retour programmé et le début des intégrations.” Ph.D. dissertation. Saint-Denis: Université de La Réunion.

56 • Religion and Pride Ramsamy, Jean-Régis. 2014. La Turquoise: L’aventure des Réunionnais d’origine indienne. Saint-Denis: Région Réunion. Tinker, Hugh. 1974. A New System of Slavery: The Export of Indian Labour Overseas, 1830–1920. London: Oxford University Press. Trouillet, Pierre-Yves. 2010. “Une géographie sociale et culturelle de l’hindouisme tamoul: Le culte de Murugan - en Inde du Sud et dans la diaspora.” Ph.D. dissertation. Bordeaux: Bordeaux Montaigne University. Trouillet, Pierre-Yves. Forthcoming. “Que reste-t-il de kālāpāni ? Prêtres brahmanes migrants et nouvelles frontières de l’hindouisme”, Purushartha, 38, Paris, Éditions de l’EHESS. Washbrook, David. 1994. “The Commercialization of Agriculture in Colonial India: Production, Subsistence and Reproduction in the ‘Dry South’, C. 1870– 1930.” Modern Asian Studies 28(1): 129–64. Younger, Paul. 2010. New Homelands: Hindu Communities in Mauritius, Guyana, Trinidad, South Africa, Fiji, and East Africa. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

CHAPTER 2

Pride Politics and the Making of a Religious Minority

“It’s a pleasure and pride for me to assure you that actually [the] Tamil community in our small country is stronger and challenging the new issues in a French political area with the global world at our doors” (Minienpoullé 2014: 154). This statement by the then president of La Réunion’s Fédération Tamoule, Daniel Minienpoullé, reflects his perception of leading a struggle for recognition. This struggle is as much about institutional recognition of religion in terms of multicultural politics (Honneth 1996; Taylor 1994) and its relation to laïcité (Willaime 2007) as about social status, political participation, and redistribution (Fraser 2000, 2003). Furthermore, their continuous efforts despite visible instances of state-sponsored public celebration of Hinduism demonstrate the importance of the felt dimensions of recognition. Even though only a minority of Reunionese Hindus participate in such attempts to become a recognized minority, their pride politics are important when framing this ethnography, as their activities and discourses impact the situation of Hinduism in La Réunion. French politics are usually described as hostile toward multiculturalist approaches and as pursuing strict assimilationist and centralistic approaches. Scholars have observed that Hinduism can only play a limited role in public in Metropolitan France, and identification with a Hindu community is difficult (Altglas 2014: 173–77; Trouillet 2013). In La Réunion, however, Hindu religion is highly visible in public spaces in the form of temples, processions, and festivals. According to local newspapers, the 2015 Thaipoussam kavadi procession in Saint-André, a town with a considerable Hindu population, attracted eight or nine hundred penitents, and about ten thousand people in total, including family members, friends, and spectators. Similarly, fire walking becomes a public event in some temples, also attracting non-Hindu Reunionese, and

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is announced in tourism newsletters that praise it as an exotic and colorful spectacle.1 This presence of Hindu religion in the form of temples, processions, and collective rituals requires interactions with the Reunionese administration. Traffic is stopped for Hindu processions, and temple associations can apply for financial support from the municipality. La Réunion exemplifies a plural handling of laïcité (Waldis 2008). As several scholars have pointed out, the French principle of laïcité2 is not a general state attitude with exceptions, but rather consists primarily of exceptions and adaptations (Asad 2006; Bowen 2008; Fernando 2014: 11). Important steps in the laicization in France include the secularization of primary education in the 1880s, the introduction of the 1901 law of freedom of association, and the 1905 law on the separation of church and state. Philippe Portier (2008) suggests that the strict separation of church and state began to loosen in the 1960s, and continued over time, for instance, through the indirect financing of cults by providing grounds and buildings for reduced rent, allowing for religious programs on public media, granting tax relief, and the willingness to include churches and other social institutions in governmental decision-making processes. More recently, public and legal debates associated with the term laïcité have shifted from how to separate church and state, to the question of how to integrate Islam into French society (e.g. Wieviorka 2014). Tensions between republican universalism and the recognition of difference in an ever-diversifying French society are at the heart of contemporary debates about laïcité (see Scott 2005). In La Réunion, laïcité appears to be relatively unproblematic. Often understood as respect of religious diversity, laïcité is perceived as having emerged out of forced historical conditions, but has today become associated with the notion of vivre-ensemble—the art of peacefully living together. While vivreensemble also presents a politics of publicly recognizing diversity in Metropolitan France (Fernando 2014: 109), members of Reunionese society seem to have internalized this concept, evoking it at numerous occasions. During my fieldwork, people often proudly explained that you can hear Muslim calls to prayer, church bells ringing, and Hindu drums beating. In the same way they praise the unproblematic handling of laïcité in La Réunion in contrast to Metropolitan France, Reunionese often mention the fact that the first mosque in France was actually inaugurated in La Réunion in 1905. The emphasis on the remarkably peaceful manner people live together also informs official perspectives on laïcité. I spoke to representatives in schools and higher education, as well as to officials in the cultural and heritage departments of the local administration. The

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general tenor of these conversations was that the multicultural nature of La Réunion’s society does not cause any problems, and people of all different backgrounds live together peacefully. Although Jean-Paul Willaime sees a “laïcité of recognition of religions” (Willaime 2014, my translation) in other European Union countries in contrast to France, where the notions of laïcité and recognition are usually perceived as oppositional, the Reunionese case demonstrates that understandings of French laïcité can indeed be about recognition of religious diversity. However, what many Reunionese perceive as a relaxed situation in terms of recognition of religious diversity, others present as the outcome of an ongoing struggle for recognition. As one representative member of the Fédération Tamoule frames it, all achievements have resulted from more than thirty years of struggle. He means this figuratively in some cases and literally in many others. Tracing their struggle for recognition, the question then becomes recognition of what, exactly? The adaptation to categories that nation-states prescribe can promote the formation of groups as minorities in order to demand recognition from the state, and states’ expectations about such categories can be ambiguous (Eisenlohr 2015; Roy 1999; Viswanath 2015). Despite the official state discourse, scholars have pointed out that French state institutions do indeed recognize religions, and in doing so sometimes reveal different attitudes toward different religions (Bowen 2008; Liogier 2009). In La Réunion, both laicism and the Catholic Church play important roles in the recognition of different religions. In contrast to the assumption that religion stands in contradiction with secularism, scholars have demonstrated that religious diversity can be constitutive of secular states (Eisenlohr 2006b, 2012; Nandy 1990). Historically, the secular and the religious—in its modern sense of a sphere different from others such as politics, economics, and science—were discursively created as mutually constitutive categories (Asad 1999). Talal Asad (1993) highlights the importance of power relations in these historical discourses, exemplified in authorizing processes by the Church, which decided what was part of religion and what was not. Until today, the Church seems to inform the image of a “world religion” to what many Reunionese Hindus feel expected to adapt. In this chapter, I first show how some Reunionese Hindus work toward a religious minority through the creation of associations and negotiations with French authorities. I then take a closer look at unsuccessful claims for public holidays and the simultaneous public celebration of religious festivals. In the third section, I show how Reunionese Hindus

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locally negotiate the relation between religion and the state through their presence on Reunionese television. I conclude that the processes of struggling for recognition themselves are strategies to assert pride as Hindus in this French overseas department, and that attempts to self-determine as a religious minority reflect Reunionese Hindus’ aspirations for social status.

Religious and Cultural Associations for Recognition Marco, a Reunionese priest of a fire walking temple, states that Hinduism is now recognized as the second largest religion in La Réunion. Although his estimate cannot be backed by official figures, as the French census does not include religious affiliation, the visibility of Hindu religion in the Reunionese public arena supports his claim. Furthermore, Marco does not complain about any obstacles with regard to religious practices or identification. This priest in his forties is from a socially aspiring middle-class family. The (hi)story of the temple starts with Marco’s grandfather, who had acquired large areas of land in the 1940s and 1950s and provided a parcel of land to some young adults who wanted to build a small temple. Initially, the temple was made of straw and corrugated sheets of metal, and the divinities were worshiped in the form of river stones. Over time, it has emerged as an important Reunionese temple, built of stone and concrete, relocated, rebuilt, and enlarged several times, which attracts devotees from different parts of the island. Marco’s father created an official temple association in 1975. With the status of associations, temples are allowed to apply for financial support for festivals. The municipality provides logistic support in terms of staff, as well as barriers and signs to block the streets during processions. A town hall official called this a “laicist” support for religious manifestations. The laws of 1901 and 1905 relate to associations in general and to religious associations3 respectively. The 1905 law grants different rights to religious associations with respect to receiving donations or employing people, including tax exemptions. Because many temples in La Réunion are still registered as associations under the 1901 law, the Fédération Tamoule conducted some awareness training about the benefits and rules of creating and conducting religious associations in 2009. Scholars writing about Metropolitan France have pointed out that, although the 1905 law forbids the state from recognizing any religion, the State Council (Conseil d’État) decides whether a group is eligible for religious

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association status. The state grants recognition to what it perceives as “good” or “harmless” religions like Buddhism, whereas religions like Islam, which are “bad” or “harmful” in the eyes of the state, have more trouble gaining recognition (Liogier 2009). Access to association status under the 1901 and 1905 laws can vary locally, as John Bowen demonstrates in the case of Bobigny, a suburban Paris commune, where more religious associations under the 1905 law exist than elsewhere (2008: 39–42). In La Réunion, I understood from my conversations with temple presidents and local officials that financial support often depends on personal and political affiliations with the current mayor and the officials. Furthermore, while the members of an association are expected to periodically elect a new president, in some temples one president holds office for longer periods, especially when his family has a close attachment to or owns the grounds of the temple. Nevertheless, the status of an association is an official requirement for applying for funds. The creation of associations is an important means of making Hindu religion “official.” A representative member of the Fédération Tamoule prefers to describe the developments of Hindu religion after the departmentalization in 1946 as “officialization” rather than with the common notion of “Tamil revival” or “Tamil renaissance.” Interlinked with aspirations to render Hinduism official are aspirations to improve the social status of this religion. The wish for recognition in Reunionese society has led to the creation of religious and cultural associations with an educational approach to religion. Temple associations offer courses on a range of topics, including Hindu mythology, devotional chants, reading a Hindu calendar, Tamil language, English language, Bharatanatyam, and yoga. Some temple associations also provide educational material. For example, in a temple where I observed a kavadi procession, the temple association sold their own booklets explaining the mythological background of Mourouga and kavadi, its spiritual implications, the iconic symbols associated with Mourouga, including some Tamil terms, and the lyrics of devotional songs. The explanatory text, by referring to Mourouga with the spear in his hand symbolizing concentration and precision, concludes with a call to make an effort to learn and to understand. Furthermore, the temple association distributed an information sheet about the procedures and rules of the kavadi procession to the penitents. It lists the necessary preparations, along with a form to sign to absolve the association from responsibility. It also contains some short explanations, as if the temple committee wanted to prevent anyone from carrying kavadi without knowing why.

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The felt need for religious education to support claims for recognition from both Reunionese society and the French state, and the realization that certain aims could only be fought for collectively through a federal organization, led to the foundation of the Fédération Tamoule in 1971. The federation brings together a number of temples and cultural associations. In my conversations with a founding member and several current representatives, all explained that French assimilationist politics made it necessary to establish the federation to fight for education and recognition of their Hindu religious and Tamil cultural backgrounds. One of the federation’s priorities is the “vulgarization of education,” as one representative member called it. Education is here understood as teaching knowledge about Hinduism, Indian culture, and languages. The Fédération Tamoule was interested in bringing priests, teachers, painters, and architects from South India and succeeded in obtaining the first long-term visa for a priest in 1974. As many Reunionese conduct Catholic life cycle rituals, it encourages the conduct of Hindu life cycle rituals and provides explanations about their meanings, which shows, for instance, in the creation of a funeral organization to facilitate the conduct of Hindu death rituals (Lang 2020). The federation also invests great effort in the creation of educational media. It has published an annual calendar since 1985 with all the Hindu festival dates and explanations about Hindu concepts, gods, practices, and so on. It has its own radio program, and more importantly, its own television program. In addition to offering its own education programs, the federation demands programs related to their interests in public education. One representative of the federation pointed out that the French state, through its school system, had “molded” its students as French citizens by prioritizing French identity over ancestral cultural knowledge. One of the most recent collaborations with public education, which was put together with the local administration, was the introduction of learning the Tamil language as an option in selected primary schools in 2016. The Fédération Tamoule announced this new program on a flyer as follows: “The Fédération Tamoule of La Réunion encourages students’ parents to enroll their children in this new measure that marks significant progress in the recognition of our culture and our community” (my translation). Whereas the historical importance of Hinduism receiving more recognition, especially because of religious education, also comes through Marco’s narrations, the priest does not participate much in the formulated struggle of the Fédération Tamoule despite his temple associa-

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tion being a member of it. After I had had several conversations with members of the Fédération Tamoule, I felt somewhat puzzled about the amount of time and effort that some invested in what they perceived as a continuous struggle for recognition. The contrast between content attitudes like Marco’s and the constant complaints by others led me to look a little deeper for the aspirations underlying this struggle for recognition. Indeed, people’s aspirations when complaining about experiencing injustice in terms of recognition of Hinduism are subtle, and reveal the importance of the institutional, social, and felt dimensions of recognition. The creation of organizations like the Fédération Tamoule reflects the desire and need to adapt to a category of religion that can be governed. French clerks assured me that there were no officially recognized religions in France, as the 1905 law officially separates church and state. Nevertheless, the first of the thirteen main objectives listed in an information leaflet from the Fédération Tamoule is “recognition of Hinduism in the French Republic.”4 A meeting with the Prefect of La Réunion in 1976 presented an important accomplishment for the federation. One of the founding members of the federation sees the “audience” at the prefecture in 1976 as “the first time that the community was recognized by the French authorities.” In the meeting, the federation’s delegates demanded visas for a certain number of priests from India, which the prefect granted.5 Other demands, which included offering an additional meal as an alternative to beef in school canteens, the right to cremation, and the teaching of Tamil language, were also granted. However, the claim for public holidays was rejected and, as I will show later in this chapter, even today, has not been approved. A representative of the federation explains that the lack of recognition manifests itself in various further examples, such as the right to use Indian first names. I have heard from many sides about an unwritten law that Christian first names were compulsory until recently, despite the fact that many Reunionese Hindus have family names that reflect their South Indian origins, such as Ramsamy, Virapoullé, or Marimoutou. Many of my interlocutors insisted that no civil registry office would have allowed parents to give their children Indian first names, and that only French (usually Christian) names and Muslim names were accepted. Indeed, a French law introduced in 1803 only allowed names of the calendars and some historic personalities. The law was modified by a ministerial instruction of 1966 that indicated a list of characteristics that the names should have and advised parents who give children names

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from the Quran to add a French name for better assimilation with the national community (Coulmont 2010). Further important steps in the liberalization of first names in France were the decree of 1981, which still however allowed the registrar to refuse names, and the decree of 1983, which annulled this qualification. According to a representative of the Fédération Tamoule, a family in La Réunion won the right to give their child an Indian first name in a court case in the 1970s. However, some Reunionese parents have faced this problem until the 1990s. The fact that there are Reunionese with South Indian names who were born before the 1990s suggests that not all registries were as restrictive. But when a member of Tamij Sangam (a cultural association that unites aims for education and recognition like the Fédération Tamoule, though with less impact, see below) wanted to give his son a Tamil name in 1989, the civil registry office first refused. Only after he addressed several delegates did they agree to make an exception. While he states that it was thanks to Breton and Corsican claims that France liberalized naming, Tamij Sangam undertakes efforts to fight for the right to give Tamil names in La Réunion. The Fédération Tamoule also undertakes such efforts and announced in a 2010 letter that it was now possible to give children legal Tamil first names, and they provided contact information for supporting advocates. The demand for authorized leave during Hindu festivals is another example of how the Fédération Tamoule is fighting for amendments to laws issued in Metropolitan France at a time when Hinduism did not play a role, so that they would consider the local, contemporary context. A circular decree issued by the Ministry of Civil Service in 1967 allows civil servants to take leave during major ceremonies of the religious confession that they adhere to, as long as this leave is compatible with the normal functioning of the service.6 Every year, the ministry distributes a list with religious ceremonies of some of what it considers the “major confessions” for which leave can be granted. The list that a member of the Fédération Tamoule showed to me included Catholic, Protestant, Orthodox, Armenian, Muslim, Jewish, and Buddhist celebrations.7 The member pointed out the paradox of the separation between religion and state when the state then issued paragraphs that recognized certain religions. He stated that this list should either be discarded or include Hinduism. When the Fédération Tamoule suggested three dates that correspond to three major Hindu festivals that are locally celebrated and that could be acknowledged for authorizations of leave to the Prefect of La Réunion in 2014, the Prefect answered in a letter8 that the list

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of religious festivals the Ministry of Civil Service published each year was not exhaustive, and leave could be granted, as long as it was compatible with the functioning of the service. While Hinduism is still not on the list, the Fédération Tamoule issues blank forms for employees who want to ask for authorized leave during the Tamil New Year (figure 2.1). When members of the Fédération know that one has the right to demand leave for Hindu holidays, why is so important for them to struggle for official recognition of leave authorization? And why is it so important to be recognized as a religion in the French state? James Tully suggests that by already fighting for recognition and by these attempts to make others aware of their lack of recognition, even if these attempts do not turn out to be successful, groups gain self-esteem and pride. At the same time, by engaging in such actions, in such struggles for recognition, people establish a sense of belonging in the larger political society (Tully 2000: 479–80). The Fédération Tamoule seems to pursue such a strategy—by making people aware of the lack of official recognition and by staking claims for recognition of the specificities of their religious minority, they are actively producing pride. However, the struggle is not only about institutional recognition as a religious mi-

Figure 2.1. A blank form to ask for authorized leave, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

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nority. Although many members of the Fédération Tamoule are socially, politically, and economically well-situated, they continue to pursue an aspirational attitude that they or the generation of their parents have developed since the 1960s and 1970s. This struggle therefore also reflects Reunionese Hindus’ ongoing aspirations for social status and for compensatory justice. Even though postcolonial contexts differ in their historical experiences and social compositions, several groups in postcolonial societies pursue such compensatory logic. For instance, Mauritian Hindu nationalists justify Hindu dominance in the Mauritian state on the basis of historical injustices and the often lamented discrimination in the Franco-Mauritian-dominated job market in the private sector (Eisenlohr 2006a: 43). Although the Fédération Tamoule is the Hindu organization with the most impact in La Réunion, it also has its opponents. These include the Fédération Tamoule Populaire (FTP), a federation of “small” temples recently founded by one Reunionese priest in particular and supported by a few others. The FTP objects to the presence of Indian Brahmin priests in “big” temples, and sees the practice of animal sacrifices as threatened. Although the members of the Fédération Tamoule insist that they do not want to abolish animal sacrifices, members of the FTP seem to associate the Fédération Tamoule with the vegetarianism in “big” temples, and thus ultimately with Indian Brahmin priests whom they accuse of having oppressed their ancestors and of having sold them as slaves. Even though standardization of religious knowledge is not the primary goal of the Fédération Tamoule, and its educational material tries to present diverse forms of religious knowledge, members of the FTP accuse the Fédération Tamoule of representing “big” temples first-and-foremost. Such conflicts between interested parties do not render the struggle for recognition easier. The Fédération Tamoule and the FTP attribute different social implications to different kinds of religious knowledge. Most representative members of the Fédération Tamoule are university-educated professionals from middle-class backgrounds with effective social networks. A combination of saving and transmitting the knowledge of their ancestors, as well as developing knowledge from India through the Brahmin priests and other forms of exchange, fits their interests well. By contrast, most members of the FTP present themselves as economically and socially oppressed, which they use to justify why they despise the Brahmin priests and wealthy “big” temples. While the Fédération Tamoule formulates a struggle for recognition reflecting its members’ social aspirations, the FTP’s members,

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who would need redistribution even more, do not participate in this formulated struggle. Reunionese Hindus’ struggle for recognition thus reveals a certain irony when taking Nancy Fraser’s (2003) emphasis on recognition as redistribution to heart, as the struggle for recognition is primarily led by Reunionese Hindus who already have the status necessary to engage in negotiations with the state about recognition, rather than by those who need both recognition and redistribution at a more fundamental level. Although those who engage in negotiations with the state are rather well-situated, their struggle for recognition nevertheless reflects their desire to further increase their social status. This becomes more evident in the negotiations about public holidays.

No Public Holidays, but “Festivals of Our Origins” The allocation of public holidays can present a key issue to minorities, symbolizing to the minorities the amount of recognition they receive within state politics of secularism and multiculturalism. The argument that the Fédération Tamoule and other organizations, like the Tamij Sangam, formulate for claiming a Hindu or Tamil public holiday is that despite the French principle of laïcité, all French public holidays are either “Republican” or Catholic. Instead, they argue, public holidays should consider the specific local history of the overseas department. Fêt Kaf, commemorating the abolition of slavery on 20 December 1848, has been a public holiday in La Réunion since 1983. Since 2003, La Réunion has also commemorated the end of indenture on 11 November 1882 with the Journée à la Mémoire des Engagés. When I observed these celebrations at the historic lazaret site on 11 November 2014, representatives of Reunionese of Chinese descent, Reunionese Muslims, and other associations joined representatives of Reunionese of Indian origin. However, the Journée à la Mémoire des Engagés itself is not a public holiday. It only coincidentally falls on Armistice day, which commemorates the end of World War I. Although the argument for religious public holidays refers primarily to laïcité, the negotiations also include different ethnic or cultural terminologies. Reunionese initiatives have been demanding a public holiday for the Hindu or Tamil community for quite some time. The Tamij Sangam first demanded a public holiday in a public speech during its Tamil New Year manifestation in 1990. The Fédération Tamoule has been fighting for a Hindu public holiday since the 1970s. In 2002, the

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Fédération Tamoule started to cooperate with the Interreligious Dialogue (Groupe de Dialogue Inter-religieux de la Réunion, GDIR), which was founded in 2000, to make these claims. Written communication between the Fédération Tamoule, the Bishop of La Réunion, member of the Interreligious Dialogue group, and an important representative of Islam in La Réunion, president of the Interreligious Dialogue group, not only reflects the ongoing efforts to claim alternative religious holidays, but also reveals different terminologies in the framing of the claim. In a letter9 to the bishop in 2008, the president of the Fédération Tamoule evokes the notion of vivre-ensemble and equity in the context of the debate about public holidays. He asks the bishop for his collaboration in making a joint proposition to the local and national authorities concerning the changes to public holidays. He chooses the term “Tamil ethno-cultural population” (la population ethno culturelle tamoule) to refer to the group that is expressing its claims. The bishop’s answer10 asserts his openness to cooperation, and he writes that the Catholic Church of La Réunion was examining whether Ascension could be celebrated on a Sunday. In addition, Easter Monday and Pentecost Monday could be negotiated. However, the bishop also points out that he would be more careful to frame the holiday as meaningful for the region rather than for one ethno-cultural group. The conversation between the president of the Fédération Tamoule and the bishop reveals the importance of what categories to choose to make such claims. In addition to a “Tamil” holiday, negotiations also include a “Muslim” and a “Chinese” holiday. From 2008 onward, the Interreligious Dialogue group has taken over communication with French politicians and institutions. In a 2009 letter, the president of the Interreligious Dialogue asks the Fédération Tamoule to conduct a poll about which holiday to choose.11 In his answer, the president of the Fédération Tamoule writes: Since 1976, the Hindu Tamil community of La Réunion by means of the Fédération has voiced the desire for better consideration of the different cultures and religious traditions of the island by asking for holidays. . . . We repeat our wish to obtain two non-working holidays synonymous to the necessary space-time for Hindu spiritual and Tamil cultural practice. (my translation, my emphasis)12

The decision to employ the terms Hindu and Tamil reflects a response to both local Reunionese and more general categories. The term tamoul often refers to religion (religion tamoule) or culture in La Réunion and has an ethnic connotation as well. The term hindou is

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used only by a few people in La Réunion and seems to reflect the federation’s attempt to attain the status of a recognized religious category. Indeed, since its creation in 1971, the official full name of the Fédération Tamoule, Fédération des Associations et Groupements Religieux Hindous et Culturels Tamouls de la Réunion (Federation of Hindu religious and Tamil cultural associations and groupings of La Réunion), has included both terms. The struggle for public holidays continues. A member of the Fédération Tamoule narrates to me how, in 2012, the Interreligious Dialogue group, with the Fédération Tamoule breathing down its neck, met with important state representatives like François Hollande and Nicolas Sarkozy, who pointed out that La Réunion’s delegates needed to file a petition. The Interreligious Dialogue group and the Fédération Tamoule eventually found a delegate who agreed to file this petition in 2014. The socialist Reunionese deputy Erika Bareigts suggested an amendment to the Macron Law. She argued that it was paradoxical to attribute legal status only to holidays of one religion in a laicist republic, and that this paradox became even more untenable in the overseas departments, where the historical developments of religions are very different to those in Metropolitan France.13 The communications about how to frame the claim for public holidays thus included ethnic, cultural, and regional categories and led to its formulation in relation to laïcité and religious holidays. When the amendment was voted on by the National Assembly, this was seen as a first success. However, the amendment was then rejected by the Senate of the French Parliament. A member of the Fédération Tamoule noted that the timing was inconvenient, as the vote took place shortly after the Charlie Hebdo attacks.14 Furthermore, he noted that the Church saw the petition as anti-Catholic, and that the bishop of La Réunion was later criticized for his open dialogue. The initial proposition for the amendment made by Bareigts and joined by other overseas deputies had suggested that Easter Monday, Ascension of Christ, Pentecost Monday, Assumption of Mary, and All Saints’ Day could be subject to discussion and be replaced by locally specific holidays, such as that to mark departmentalization or certain popular religious festivals. As the final proposition voted on by the National Assembly simply said that the Republican holidays (May 1 and 8, July 14, November 11) could not be replaced, this implied that Christmas and New Year could also be open for replacement. The spokesman of the French bishops saw this proposition as a “strong attack against Catholic religion,” and a member of the

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right-wing party Front National declared the proposition a threat to the unity of the Republic and its laïcité.15 Reactions to the failure to establish more regionally specific religious public holidays were divided in La Réunion. Priest Marco was not especially upset: “We are French in the first place, and either we accept these French principles, or we have to become autonomous.” By contrast, the Fédération Tamoule called upon “Tamils” in La Réunion to take leave on Tamil New Year, either by asking for official leave for those who work in the civil service or by taking shorter working hours (réduction du temps de travail, RTT) or taking a leave of absence.16 A deputy mayor also told me that many outside the religious communities in question also felt that the failure of the bill was a pity, and that the claim to have such public holidays had come from more than just the Hindu population. Others would also have appreciated the opportunity to see and learn about these communities’ festivities during public holidays. The deputy mayor spoke of a mutual interest in other religions. Although not (yet) a public holiday, I witnessed vivid Tamil New Year celebrations in numerous towns on the island. These celebrations were often financially supported by the municipalities. The Tamil New Year reveals intertwining religious and cultural or ethnic identity ascriptions. Although I saw some Reunionese Hindus going to the temple on the morning of the Tamil New Year on 14 April 2015, I saw more people at the numerous public cultural festivities that took place around that date. A magazine article titled “Where to Celebrate Tamil New Year?” points out the numerous options available to the Reunionese. Diverse offers such as artistic performances, including Indian dance and music, as well as exhibitions, conferences, and cooking workshops demonstrate the importance of the new year, which is celebrated for over two weeks in all Reunionese towns with a significant Hindu population. While the public celebrations display cultural identity, these are obviously closely linked to religious identity. In contrast to religious ceremonies like fire walking or Karly festivals, Tamil New Year celebrations are a recent invention, just as people only started recently using the word tamoul. One of the founding members of the Fédération Tamoule (and its forerunner Club Tamoul) told me that, together with a group of friends, he founded the Club Tamoul in 1968 on Tamil New Year to create awareness of the date. Their aim was to make the date known, and he repeated several times that he was proud to see that the Tamil New Year was now widely known and celebrated. He had also introduced four public holidays—Chinese,

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Afro-Malgache, Tamil, Muslim—in the town he was mayor of in 1983. While a delegate at the Conseil Général (Departmental Council), he organized the Tamil New Year in the name of the Conseil Général for the first time. While some voices criticized this as favoring communalism as in Mauritius, other municipalities soon followed by publicly celebrating these festivals. According to an official in charge of the organization of the festivities in the capital’s town hall, the Tamil community was the first community to “move,” before the Chinese, Malgache, and Muslim communities started expressing their claims. Today, several mayors, as well as the presidents of the Département and the Région host elaborate festivities on occasions such as the Tamil or Chinese New Year or Eid (for the extravagant entrance to the Région’s Tamil New Year celebrations see figure 2.2). The city council in the capital prints official invitations to the celebrations for the Tamil and the Chinese New Year and Eid, as well as wishes in the respective languages. For the Tamil New Year celebration, the town collaborates with the Consulate General of India, the Fédération Tamoule, Tamij Sangam, and other associations in the organization. The city pays for the cultural performances and the reception, and the consulate general covers the costs of Indian guest performers or Indian films. The Tamil New Year celebrations exemplify how the possibility of displaying pride developed through claims by Reunionese of Indian origins, and through the local administration’s acknowledgement of their

Figure 2.2. The entrance to the Tamil New Year celebrations by the Région, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

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importance in Reunionese society. The Tamil New Year in the capital’s town hall in April 2015 featured speeches by representatives of different cultural associations and the Reunionese administration. The topics addressed included the efforts undertaken by Reunionese Hindus to promote their religious and cultural heritage, and the richness and diversity that this heritage brings to Reunionese culture. The consul general and the mayor even engaged in friendly and humorous negotiations on the podium about several demands and promises. The mayor repeatedly emphasized how proud he was of his ancestors and his Indian heritage. Several officials would mention to me later that the leftist and “nonwhite” mayor pursued an explicitly open policy toward the celebration of the festivals, in contrast to his conservative, “white” predecessors. I here refer to the characterizations used by the officials, who all emphasized an important opposition between left and right or conservative politics and its effects on the administration’s attitudes toward local cultural diversity. In his Tamil New Year speech, the mayor stated that he sensed the pride among the Reunionese in relating to modern India. The celebration of festivals like the Tamil New Year reveal different interpretations of laïcité. Although many officials in the administration or education whom I spoke to asserted that religion was a private thing, its public character is clearly acknowledged in these festivals of religious and cultural character. A representative in the culture and heritage department in the capital gave me several examples of the distinction between the “cultural” (le culturel) and the “cultual” (le cultuel), meaning religious. Following the delegate’s argumentation, the Tamil New Year can be celebrated in collaboration with the municipality in the town hall because it is a “laicist” celebration (fête laïque). Similarly, the organizers of Dipavali or Eid can ask for financial support for “cultural” elements, such as to pay artists coming from India. While the official made a clear distinction between the religious and the cultural, a representative of the cultural development department in the capital speaks about how the department engages with religions and religious communities: We at the cultural development department, we apply a political principle . . . there are two ways of seeing laïcité. Either laïcité means for the collective to remain neutral and to disengage from all relation with the cultuel, which is a bit paradoxical in our territory because there is a presence of the cultuel which is very strong and very varied, very diversified. Or, the second posture, and this is the posture we’ve chosen, it’s rather than retreating behind a principle of neutrality, to participate

Pride Politics and the Making of a Religious Minority • 73 in cultural activities, in all the life of the religious communities which exist in our area of Saint-Denis [La Réunion’s capital] by suggesting everyone conduct activities related to the life of this community. So this is the political principle, meaning rather than working with no one, we work with everyone. Laïcité, for us, is to consider the entirety of religions of the area.

The representative argues on the basis of the locally important presence of the religious, which renders an understanding of laïcité as not engaging with the religious paradoxical. He emphasizes that “all communities” are celebrated. Rather than working with no one, the municipality works with “everyone.” The notion of “everyone” includes “(religious) communities” that celebrate some chosen festivals in collaboration with the town. He points to the independence of Madagascar, Eid, Guandi, the Chinese New Year, the Tamil New Year, and the Christmas Village as examples. The officials working for the town call these events fêtes de nos origines (festivals of our origins). At the time of my fieldwork, the more recent immigrants from the Comoros and Mayotte were asking about a festival for them as well. This list of festivals shows the creation and overlap of religious and cultural or ethnic categories when it comes to “communities” and their festivals. Not all such community festivals have religious meanings, such as the independence of Madagascar. Moreover, several practitioners whom I would associate with the respective “communities”—although association with multiple communities is frequent—told me that they do not see the public Chinese or Tamil New Year or Eid festivals as religious. Nevertheless, conflation of ethnic and religious categories happens both at the level of administration and of the practitioners. Furthermore, several officials emphasize that the festivals in the town hall are not intended to be exclusively for the communities that are celebrating, but that the council invites representatives of all communities. They stress the idea of an “interreligious dialogue” and of enabling everyone to get to know about La Réunion’s diverse practices, which is often seen as a condition for vivre-ensemble. This was also the reason that several officials were disappointed that the claim for public holidays had been rejected. Several officials see the public celebration of the Tamil New Year in the town hall and on the level of the Département and the Région as a way of dealing with locally specific demands. According to one official, the public celebration of different religious communities’ festivals is particular to La Réunion and not done in Metropolitan France.

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The public celebration of the Tamil New Year thus presents a point at which different perspectives meet: whereas the Fédération Tamoule presents itself as fighting on the national level with the state for recognition, and the negotiations about the public holidays have not yet been successful, the Reunionese local administration presents itself as recognizing “all religious communities” and emphasizes the importance of knowing about others’ diverse practices for a successful vivre-ensemble. Like the Tamil New Year, Dipavali is also a recently introduced festival. Introduced by Tamij Sangam to promote visibility, Dipavali however seems less important to members of the Fédération Tamoule. A representative member of Tamij Sangam explained that the association wanted to organize two public celebrations per year. They had first thought about celebrating Pongal, a harvest festival that was celebrated in La Réunion during the period of indenture but later declined. However, Tamij Sangam saw the revitalization of the festival as impractical, as there is no rice cultivation in La Réunion and the date of the sugar cane harvest does not correspond to the date of Pongal in South India. They therefore chose to introduce Dipavali, which was unknown in La Réunion. Like the founding members of the Fédération Tamoule, the Tamij Sangam member explained to me that this choice also resulted from considerations of the negative image of Hindu religion and its apparent association with sorcery. By introducing the beautiful festival of Dipavali, a “spiritual” festival of light that celebrates the victory of good over evil, they could help change the negative image of Hinduism. Tamij Sangam first organized a parade for the Tamil New Year and the Dipavali in 1990. According to my interlocutor, the aim was to organize something cultural in addition to the religious ceremonies that are rather celebrated inside the temples, “to show that we existed,” and “to mark our presence, to mark our identity in society.” He continues: “on the level of the religious and political authorities, for them, Hinduism is not at all a religion in its own right. Because even those who practice Hindu religion were baptized Catholic.” Tamij Sangam and the Fédération Tamoule thus share the aim of recognition in Reunionese society. Both associations also claim that they have initiated festivals and memorials, and both distinguish themselves through the knowledge they bring to La Réunion. Moreover, both demand public holidays and claim they are fighting for the possibility to take leave during other Hindu festivals, for the instruction of Tamil language in schools, and for the official recognition of Tamil first names (Panot 2011). Some members of the Fédération Tamoule look down on

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Tamij Sangam, telling me that the association was not worth mentioning. Although Tamij Sangam’s output and reach is indeed smaller, they nevertheless organize important events and display connections to India on several occasions throughout the year. In a 2011 issue of the Tamij Sangam magazine, the association is said to have been created by activists “returning to their roots” who championed identity affirmation (militants de retour aux sources et d’affirmation identitaire) (Panot 2011: 30). The choice of vocabulary alludes to a conscious movement toward an identity that is directly linked to India. While the celebrations for Dipavali that I witnessed seemed more festive, and the Tamil New Year celebrations contained more public speeches and made the negotiations between the community and the administration more visible, both festivals are cases of official recognition by the respective town councils. When Tamij Sangam took the initiative to celebrate Dipavali, the town of Saint-André offered the organizational framework. The town has a significant population with Indian origins, including the mayor, and today, the largest Dipavali celebrations on the island take place there. In 2014, around seventy India-related associations took part in an impressive parade that featured decorated floats, some of which were created by Mauritian artists. Some estimated that the parade and spectacle would have cost more than 500,000 euro. The bombastic character of the festivities was especially promoted by the mayor. For the past few years, when he was not in power, the festival had not been so lavishly celebrated, but now that he had just been reelected, he staged his return to power with its revitalization. The seemingly paradoxical situation of unsuccessful claims for public holidays alongside the public celebration of the Tamil New Year and Dipavali exemplifies how laïcité may be rigid on the state level, but nevertheless manifests itself in its local adaptations. While some functionaries in the local administration speak of celebrating all religions or religious communities instead of none, other functionaries explain the festivals as laicist festivals, and the financial support for religious processions as laicist support. The debates about public holidays also reveal how religious, ethnic, and cultural categories become conflated in the struggle for recognition. In a context of métissage, where the majority of Reunionese have mixed origins, the formation of neither religious nor ethnic communities is self-evident. Moreover, the struggle for recognition is also about affirming social status. However, one cannot draw a clear connection between the lack of recognition of Hindu religion and social or ethnic suppression. Reunionese with Indian ori-

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gins can be found in all social classes, and some are among the richest, as the expression Malbar nana largen (the Malbar has money) indicates. Moreover, it is not the most socially deprived who lead the struggle for recognition. The creation of religious associations and the negotiations about public holidays are interlinked with Reunionese Hindus’ image of a socially mobile middle class. The social status that some Reunionese Hindus have achieved shows in the display of fine clothing and beautiful decorations during Hindu processions, in the important roles that some play in politics and in the administration, and in that some are major land and company owners, for instance in the transport and construction industries. Priest Marco states that Hindus have asserted themselves and their power in the state. This perspective is shared by an official responsible for heritage in a town with a “big” temple and a large population of Indian descent. Of Indian origins himself, the official points out to me that many Reunionese priests have a family member working at the local council. Furthermore, the mayor and four of his five deputies in the town have Indian names, which is similar in other towns with an important Hindu presence. Indeed, while some of those whom I would describe as socially deprived are rather indifferent vis-à-vis the efforts of larger religious and cultural associations, or even perceive them as neglecting the needs of smaller, less powerful temples, most of those Reunionese Hindus who engage in the struggle for recognition already have a certain social status in Reunionese society, a status which is in fact necessary to engage in negotiations with the state in the first place. Their aim is to increase the status of Hinduism even further. Members of the Fédération Tamoule in particular pursue this agenda, which combines religious education with claims to a public presence. Television serves as an important mouthpiece for this endeavor.

Presence on Local Television On a Sunday afternoon, Josephine, a Reunionese Hindu in her forties, and her family are sitting around a large table in their living room. A cousin with her husband and child have stopped by, and in the course of the conversations of a lively family get-together, Josephine brings up the local Hindu TV show Padèl, which that morning featured some Reunionese Hindus carrying out a ceremony for their ancestors at the sea front. Josephine explained almost guiltily that she has just learned through this morning’s program that they had carried out the ritual for

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her deceased husband the wrong way some days ago. The cousin and her husband do not know how to perform the ritual either, and Josephine makes the decision to ask a priest for more explanation. Two local Hindu TV shows in particular attracted my attention in several Reunionese Hindu households. Padèl is the educational television show produced by the Fédération Tamoule’s production company, Vanakkam Réunion. The word padèl in Creole refers the plate with offerings for Hindu deities and appears to come from the Tamil word pat.aiyal, meaning devotional offering. Padèl is broadcast on the local television channel Télé Kréol, which also features the second Reunionese show that was important during my fieldwork, Culture Indienne. In contrast to the educational setup of Padèl, Culture Indienne shows Reunionese Hindu festivals such as fire walking ceremonies in considerable length and with little commentary. Being featured on the local programs Padèl or Culture Indienne can earn esteem. Being solicited to give explanations as an expert on Padèl provides individuals the opportunity to distinguish themselves through their knowledge. Devotees are also proud to be filmed during their religious practices, such as the impressive fire walking ceremonies, for Culture Indienne. However, being shown on local television can also bring embarrassment, for instance when running instead of walking over the burning coals or when displaying other behaviors that are mocked by some spectators. Furthermore, being featured on local television also requires a certain social status. Priest Marco told me that he became friends with journalists and filmmakers and benefitted from the resulting publicity for his temple. By contrast, another Reunionese priest, Pajani, complained that his temple’s fire walking had not yet been broadcast, although it was already three months after the event, and he had paid all the channels to air it, with some taking 50 euros, and others taking 200 euros. In addition to the locally produced programs, like Padèl and Culture Indienne, French-dubbed Indian series are popular among many Reunionese Hindus, in particular Saloni, which is the French and international title for the Hindi TV serial Saat Phere–Saloni Ka Safar, and Laali, which is the French and international title for Agle Janam Mohe Bitiya Hi Kijo. Elodie once told me that her grandmother was always so captivated when watching Saloni that she would forget her curry on the stove and let it burn while watching the series. I later realized that Elodie had meant it literally. The possibility of watching locally produced Hindu programs and French-dubbed Indian series is rather recent. The history of Hindu re-

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ligious visibility and Creole cultural expression in public ran parallel to the history of media in La Réunion. The liberalization processes of the country and the media were both closely tied to rapid transformations within Reunionese society, which scholars perceive as the emergence of the Reunionese public sphere (Watin and Wolff 1995). Significant changes in the Reunionese media landscape took place from the late 1970s onward, with an increase in daily newspapers, radio stations, and public television channels, and with the emergence of private and local channels (Idelson 2002). Newspapers and radio and television channels that considered local Reunionese interests emerged in the 1980s, around the same time that the Reunionese began to establish contacts with different ancestral cultures and when religious practice became more visible in public. Michel Watin observes a shift in the coverage of religious festivals in the Reunionese press: from the first attempts to explain the Dipavali festival in 1989, to emphasizing the rich Tamil culture and its contribution to Reunionese society in the mid-1990s, to making socio-political claims about a public holiday for Tamil New Year since 1998. From 2004 onward, Tamil religious festivals have received ample coverage in the newspapers through New Year’s wishes from municipalities, sponsored announcements, numerous articles and photographs. Similarly, other ethno-religious communities and their festivals—like Chinese New Year, Eid, and the liberation of slaves—have been widely covered and indeed celebrated in the Reunionese press over the last decade. Watin argues that the media’s role in the opening made this display of cultural difference in public possible. He sees this as a process of fragmentation, and away from the artificial unity formerly created by the colonial regime and the Catholic Church (Watin 2007). The opening around 1980 included both localizing and globalizing tendencies. Creole language was finally allocated space on radio and on television channels. Television played a significant role in promoting attention to and appreciation of local Reunionese Creole culture, and simultaneously allowed for a global opening, including India and the Indian Ocean (Idelson 2013: 144–45). The focus on the local became especially apparent in the private channel Télé Kréol, which is fully locally produced. Since 2010, Télé Kréol is one of the ten freely accessible channels thanks to the arrival of digital terrestrial television (TNT, Télévision Numérique Terrestre). The director of Télé Kréol developed the slogan “local culture and creation” (my translation)17 for the year 2011. With the arrival of TNT, the Fédération Tamoule created the production society Vanakkam Réunion and arranged with Télé Kréol to broadcast

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their programs. While Télé Kréol started broadcasting on the symbolic date of the abolition of slavery, 20 December 2010, Vanakkam Réunion decided to launch on the symbolic date of the Tamil New Year, 14 April 2011. During my fieldwork, Vanakkam Réunion produced a monthly program that treated different political, economic, and social topics and includes news from India, and the Sunday morning educational program Padèl, which provides explanations about religious content and practices and shows recently filmed events. The local production of the program Padèl meets both the wish for explanations about Hindu religion and India, and the need to provide explanations in French. Except for the introduction and ending, which contain welcome greetings and thanks in the Tamil language, including “Vanakkam,” a Tamil greeting formula that is also part of the company name Vanakkam Réunion, the program is presented in French, with interviewees, such as Reunionese priests, Indian priests, or spiritual teachers from La Réunion’s ashrams, speaking French or Creole. While language can play a crucial role in the construction of imagined communities through media (see Anderson 2006) and ancestral languages may serve themselves as media of diasporic relationships (Eisenlohr 2013), most Reunionese with Indian origins lack the necessary knowledge in Tamil or other Indian languages. They therefore also rarely watch Indian television channels unless subtitles are provided. Instead, they use media facilities available in the French overseas department to negotiate religion, identity, and status. The presence of Hindu religion on a local Reunionese television channel that broadcasts in Creole and French points toward a specifically local way of dealing with specifically local demands. Although the constitutions of European Union countries ensure freedom of information and guarantee a certain allocation of airtime to religious programs on radio and television (Messner 2000: 126), and although religious programs have been imposed by law on channel France 2 since 1986 (Ève 2005: 227) and partly financed by the channel and to a greater extent by the supporting association (Guyot 2007: 58–59), I am not aware of any Hindu religious program on any Metropolitan French channel. Airtime on French television is allocated to religious groups that are important in terms of numbers and that are not considered socially “controversial” (Messner 2000: 131). The presence of Hindu programs on Reunionese television reflects the relative importance of Hindus in La Réunion. The broadcast of Catholic, Protestant, and Muslim programs from the Metropolitan channel France 2 on Réunion 1ère may also help explain why

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there are no local programs for these religions. The program Évangile pour Tous (Gospel for all) from the Reunionese Pentecostal church Mission Salut et Guérison is the only other locally produced religious program on Télé Kréol that I came across during my fieldwork. The fact that the two programs Culture Indienne and Padèl are broadcast on a local private rather than a public channel does not mean that there is no relation with the state. Télé Kréol has partnerships with the Région, the Conseil Général, and with the municipalities of the capital Saint-Denis and two further cities in the west, Saint-Paul and SaintLeu. Furthermore, the Superior Council of the Audiovisual (CSA, Conseil Supérieur de l’Audiovisuel) has to authorize channels, and channels have to provide information about their programs. Télé Kréol first started broadcasting in 1999, but was rejected by the CSA, and only received authorization to begin in 2004 (Idelson 2006: 150–51). Interestingly, the official statement by the CSA on the authorization of Télé Kréol until the year 2020 does not mention religion among the contents or shows broadcast on the channel.18 Despite the historical development from a state monopoly to ten channels including one fully locally produced—which offers a mediatic space for Hindu religion and Indian culture, a representative of the Fédération Tamoule is not yet satisfied when it comes to the federation’s access to airtime on audiovisual media. He remarks that the ultimate aim would be a proper channel for the Tamil community in La Réunion. As the ten TNT channels are occupied and no further channels have been granted, this project remains unaccomplished.

Claiming Institutional, Social, and Felt Recognition I was quite impressed by the amount of energy that some members of the Fédération Tamoule invest in their struggle for recognition and in telling me about it. The so far unsuccessful claim for public holidays and the simultaneous public celebration of the Tamil New Year, as well as the Fédération Tamoule’s demanding attitude in regard to airtime in audiovisual media and the simultaneous presence of Hindu religion on local television, reveal conflicting perspectives. While many Reunionese people and officials praise La Réunion’s vivre-ensemble and its flexible handling of laïcité, the Fédération Tamoule present their work as a continuous struggle for recognition. Their fight for recognition is not only about the aspired end product—such as a public holiday or a public tele-

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vision channel—but the attempts themselves to gain recognition, and the continuous activities to make people aware that they feel they lack recognition, can engender pride. Their struggle seems to be as much about the process of claiming recognition itself, as about recognition as a desired or achieved thing. The pride that some Reunionese Hindus express is not only linked to their important presence in Reunionese society, but also to the continuous acts to claim recognition. Taking their perspective seriously, one can indeed observe that the French state, despite its official assertion that it does not recognize any religion, treats different religious groups in different ways. While the state lists selected religions for leave authorizations, grants selected religions public holidays, and allocates selected religions airtime on public television, Hinduism is not one of these selected religions. Aiming to receive such recognition, Reunionese Hindus seek to form a religious community that can be governed by the state. The fact that they first need to create associations and feel expected to shape Hindu religion in the form of a religion that they think would be recognized, in particular through religious education, points out the relation of tension inherent in recognition processes. Any group that seeks to gain recognition must first form together as a group, in order to become recognizable as something (see Bedorf 2010). The irony is that the shape that such groups that claim recognition must take already conforms to a great extent to what the state prescribes. In La Réunion, cultural reinventions and resistance to assimilation need to work through the existent metropolitan French institutional frames (see Ghasarian 2008:243). The Fédération Tamoule was founded with the very aim of functioning as a federal structure that can engage in negotiations with the state. And the Tamil New Year and Dipavali were only introduced recently in La Réunion with the very aim of making Hindu religion more visible. The continuous efforts to increase the presence of Hindu religion in public reflect the wishes of socially mobile middle and upper middle class Reunionese Hindus to assert themselves. Their relatively settled social status is necessary to engage in negotiations with state institutions in the first place, and to have the necessary “capacity to aspire” (Appadurai 2004). They work toward compensatory justice with regard to historical inequalities and French assimilationist policies. And they continue to pursue aspirations for social status that they or the generation of their parents began to develop in the 1960s and 1970s. In continuously working toward a better image of Hindu religion, its official recognition, and its presence in public, they contribute to this aim.

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Taking pride and recognition as a lens of analysis has allowed me to consider the conflicting attitudes and tensions in the negotiations between Reunionese Hindu associations and the local and national authorities. Focusing on pride as a driver of people’s actions reveals the social aspirations underlying the making of a religious minority, and the importance of felt recognition to them. Even though those who are involved in this pride politics on the institutional level present themselves a minority of Reunionese Hindus, the importance of pride and recognition resonates in many Reunionese Hindus’ life stories and their aspirations.

Notes 1. Newsletter “Ile de la Réunion Tourisme” January 2015. 2. Acknowledging the discursive formation of the notion laïcité (Altglas 2010; Bowen 2008: 2–3), I will not try to define the term. I refer to it when employed by authors and people in La Réunion. 3. I translate associations cultuelles (lit. cultual associations) as religious associations. 4. F.A.G.R.H.C.T.R.: Tamil Federation of Reunion Island. Information leaflet in English language given to me in 2015, page 5. 5. Letter from the Fédération Tamoule to its members, 1976. 6. Ministère d’état chargé de la fonction publique et de la réforme administrative, Circulaire FP n° 901, 23 September 1967. 7. Ministère de la fonction publique, Circulaire NOR:MFPF1202144C, 10 February 2012. 8. Préfecture de La Réunion, Bureau du cabinet, n° 0488, 17 April 2014. 9. Letter from the president of the Fédération Tamoule to the bishop, 5 May 2008. 10. Letter from the bishop to the president of the Fédération Tamoule, 8 August 2008. 11. Letter from the president of the GDIR to the president of the Fédération Tamoule, 8 December 2009. 12. Letter from the president of the Fédération Tamoule to the president of the GDIR, 28 September 2009. 13. Clicanoo, “Les jours fériés catholiques pourraient être remplacés Outre-mer par d’autres fêtes.” Retrieved 4 December 2018 from https://www.clicanoo .re/node/320938. 14. The attacks by two terrorists on the offices of the magazine Charlie Hebdo in Paris on 7 January 2015, in which twelve people were killed, were extensively discussed in France and worldwide in the months to follow. 15. Clicanoo, “L’Eglise contre la mise en cause des jours fériés chrétiens.” Retrieved 4 December 2018 from https://www.clicanoo.re/node/320611. Cli-

Pride Politics and the Making of a Religious Minority • 83 canoo, “Les jours fériés catholiques pourraient être remplacés Outre-mer par d’autres fêtes.” Retrieved 4 December 2018 from https://www.clicanoo .re/node/320938. 16. Calendar of the Fédération Tamoule 2015/16 (the year 5116 of the Kali Yuga calendar). 17. Zinfos 974, “Télé Kréol présente sa grille de rentrée.” Retrieved 4 December 2018 from http://www.zinfos974.com/Tele-Kreol-presente-sa-grille-derentree_a25204.html. Although the grammar of the expression “la culture et la création locale” suggests a translation of “culture and local creation,” I think my alternative translation was the intended meaning. 18. Legifrance, “Décision n° 2015-178 du 25 mars 2015 portant reconduction de l’autorisation délivrée à l’association Télé Kréol.” Retrieved 4 December 2018 from http://www.legifrance.gouv.fr/affichTexte.do;jsessionid=C4BDB E7B895B93FC7781D962B06C7B13.tpdila21v_3?cidTexte=JORFTEXT000 030556189&dateTexte=20150507.

References Altglas, Véronique. 2010. “Laïcité Is What Laïcité Does: Rethinking the French Cult Controversy.” Current Sociology 58(3): 489–510. Altglas, Véronique. 2014. From Yoga to Kabbalah: Religious Exoticism and the Logics of Bricolage. New York: Oxford University Press. Anderson, Benedict. 2006. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso. Appadurai, Arjun. 2004. “The Capacity to Aspire: Culture and the Terms of Recognition.” In Culture and Public Action, ed. Vijayendra Rao and Michael Walton, 59–84. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Asad, Talal. 1993. Genealogies of Religion: Discipline and Reasons of Power in Christianity and Islam. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Asad, Talal. 1999. “Religion, Nation-State, Secularism.” In Nation and Religion: Perspectives on Europe and Asia, ed. van der Veer, Peter and Helmut Lehmann, 178–96. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Asad, Talal. 2006. “Trying to Understand French Secularism.” In Political Theologies: Public Religions in a Post-Secular World, ed. Hent de Vries and Lawrence E. Sullivan, 494–526. New York: Fordham University Press. Bedorf, Thomas. 2010. Verkennende Anerkennung: Über Identität und Politik. Berlin: Suhrkamp. Bowen, John R. 2008. Why the French Don’t Like Headscarves: Islam, the State, and Public Space. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Coulmont, Baptiste. 2010. La libéralisation du choix des prénoms. [cited Entry 16/07/2010]. Available from http://coulmont.com/blog/2010/07/16/liberalisa tion-choix-prenoms/. Eisenlohr, Patrick. 2006a. Little India: Diaspora, Time and Ethnolinguistic Belonging in Hindu Mauritius. Berkeley: University of California Press.

84 • Religion and Pride Eisenlohr, Patrick. 2006b. “The Politics of Diaspora and the Morality of Secularism: Muslim Identities and Islamic Authority in Mauritius.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 12(2): 395–412. Eisenlohr, Patrick. 2012. “Cosmopolitanism, Globalization, and Islamic Piety Movements in Mauritius.” City & Society 24(1): 7–29. Eisenlohr, Patrick. 2013. “Mediality and Materiality in Religious Performance: Religion as Heritage in Mauritius.” Material Religion 9(3): 328–48. Eisenlohr, Patrick. 2015. “Media, Citizenship, and Religious Mobilization: The Muharram Awareness Campaign in Mumbai.” The Journal of Asian Studies 74: 687–710. Ève, Prosper. 2005. La laïcité en terre réunionnaise: Origines et originalités. Saint-André, La Réunion: Océan Éditions. Fernando, Mayanthi L. 2014. The Republic Unsettled: Muslim French and the Contradictions of Secularism. Durham, NC : Duke University Press. Fraser, Nancy. 2000. “Rethinking Recognition.” New Left Review 3: 107–20. Fraser, Nancy. 2003. “Social Justice in the Age of Identity Politics: Redistribution, Recognition, and Participation.” In Redistribution or Recognition? A PoliticalPhilosophical Exchange, ed. Nancy Fraser and Axel Honneth, 7–109. London: Verso. Ghasarian, Christian. 2008. “La Réunion: Acculturation, créolisation et réinventions culturelles.” In Anthropologies de La Réunion, ed. Christian Ghasarian, 235-251. Paris: Éditions des Archives Contemporaines. Guyot, Jacques. 2007. “Médias audiovisuels publics et laïcité: De l’actualité d’un concept ambivalent.” In Laïcité: Enjeux et pratiques, ed. Singaravélou, 53– 63. Pessac: Re.Val.Ed. Honneth, Axel. 1996. The Struggle for Recognition: The Moral Grammar of Social Conflicts, trans. Joel Anderson. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Idelson, Bernard. 2002. “L’espace médiatique réunionnais, hier et aujourd’hui.” Hermès 32–33 La France et les Outre-Mers: l’enjeu multiculturel: 101–10. Idelson, Bernard. 2006. Histoire des médias à La Réunion: De 1946 à nos jours. Paris: Le Publieur. Idelson, Bernard. 2013. “Les services publics de radio-télévision dans les DOM à l’ère du numérique: continuité des discours enchanteurs à propos de la ‘proximité,’ du ‘local’ et de ‘l’ouverture sur le monde.’ Le cas de Réunion 1ère (France Télévisions).” Les Enjeux de l’Information et de la Communication 14 (2: Les services publics de radio-télévision à l’orée du XXIe siècle): 135–48. Lang, Natalie. 2020. “Learning Death Rituals from Scratch: The Search for Meaning and Recognition of Hindus on Réunion.” Paideuma 66: 151–69. Liogier, Raphaël. 2009. “Laïcité on the Edge in France: Between the Theory of Church-State Separation and the Praxis of State-Church Confusion.” Macquarie Law Journal 9: 25–45. Messner, Francis. 2000. “L’accès des religions aux médias audiovisuels publics dans certains pays de l’Union Européenne: Perspectives juridiques.” In Mé-

Pride Politics and the Making of a Religious Minority • 85 dias et religions en miroir, ed. Pierre Bréchon and Jean-Paul Willaime, 123– 38. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Minienpoullé, Daniel. 2014. “French Secularism and Insularity: A New Paradigm for the Tamil Diaspora in Reunion Island.” First International Conference on Tamil Diaspora: Preservation of Tamil Culture and Identity, at Mahatma Gandhi Institute, Port Louis, Mauritius, 23–27 July 2014. Chennai: Institute of Asian Studies. Nandy, Ashis. 1990. “The Politics of Secularism and the Recovery of Religious Tolerance.” In Mirrors of Violence, ed. Veena Das, 69–93. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Panot, Catherine. 2011. “Les 20 ans de Tamij Sangam.” Tamij Sangam 30: 30–33. Portier, Philippe. 2008. “Laïcité: La Fin de l’exception française?” Cahiers français 342: 53–57. Roy, Srirupa. 1999. “Instituting Diversity: Official Nationalism in Post-Independence India.” South Asia: Journal of South Asian Studies 22(1): 79–99. Scott, Joan W. 2005. “Symptomatic Politics: The Banning of Islamic Head Scarves in French Public Schools.” French Politics, Culture & Society 23(3): 106–27. Taylor, Charles. 1994. “The Politics of Recognition.” In Multiculturalism: Examining the Politics of Recognition, ed. Amy Gutmann, 25–73. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Trouillet, Pierre-Yves. 2013. “France.” In Brill’s Encyclopedia of Hinduism, ed. K. Jacobsen, H. Basu, A. Malinar, and V. Narayan, 235–39. Leiden: Brill. Tully, James. 2000. “Struggles over Recognition and Distribution.” Constellations 7(4): 469–82. Viswanath, Rupa. 2015. “Silent Minority: Celebrated Difference, Caste Difference, and the Hinduization of Independent India.” In Routledge International Handbook of Diversity Studies, ed. Steven Vertovec, 140–50. London: Routledge. Waldis, Barbara. 2008. “Citoyenneté, créolité et laïcité dans l’espace médiatique réunionnais.” In Anthropologies de La Réunion, ed. Christian Ghasarian, 137–60. Paris: Éditions des Archives Contemporaines. Watin, Michel. 2007. “Emergence des communautés ethno-religieuses et laïcité républicaine à l’île de La Réunion: Une société tolérante à l’épreuve de l’espace public médiatique.” In Laïcité: Enjeux et pratiques, ed. Singaravélou, 67–81. Pessac: Re.Val.Ed. Watin, Michel, and Eliane Wolff. 1995. “L’émergence de l’espace public à La Réunion: Un contexte socio-historique singulier.” Études de Communication 17: 19–39. https://doi.org/10.4000/edc.2480. Wieviorka, Michel. 2014. “L’ambivalence de la laïcité en France.” In Laïcité, laïcités: Reconfigurations et nouveaux défis (Afrique, Amériques, Europe, Japon, Pays Arabes), ed. Jean Baubérot, Micheline Milot, and Philippe Portier, 87– 99. Paris: Éditions de la Maison des sciences de l’homme. Willaime, Jean-Paul. 2007. “Religion et sécularisation: Les formes de la laïcité dans l’Union Européenne.” Cahiers français 340: 26–31.

86 • Religion and Pride Willaime, Jean-Paul. 2014. “La prédominance européenne d’une laïcité de reconnaissance des religions.” In Laïcité, laïcités: Reconfigurations et nouveaux défis (Afrique, Amériques, Europe, Japon, Pays Arabes), ed. Jean Baubérot, Micheline Milot, and Philippe Portier, 101–22. Paris: Éditions de la Maison des sciences de l’homme.

CHAPTER 3

Relating to India in Different Ways

Lakshmi, a 31-year-old university student, queues in a long procession of about nine hundred devotees. Like most devotees in the procession, she wears a rose-colored combination of tunic and trousers. Her mouth is covered by a rose color cloth as a symbol of her vow of silence. She carries a kavadi on her shoulders, a wooden structure she decorated yesterday with branches and leaves of different plants, peacock feathers, and rose-colored cloth. Lakshmi waits for the procession to move forward. The sun burns down on the bitumen road on which we stand barefoot. About a hundred meters separate us from the temple Lakshmi will enter with her kavadi in honor of the god Mourouga. One week later, I sit with Lakshmi in her small, messy flat in the midst of junk and children’s toys piling up on the table, chairs, and sofa, with a view on piles of dirty clothes in the bathroom and a kitchen sink overloaded with unwashed dishes. Lakshmi wears a tight top and leggings and tells me about her life. The contrast to her aesthetically elaborate appearance during the kavadi procession could not be more extreme. Apart from two pedestals on which she had placed flowers, a prayer lamp, sesame oil, incense, and rose water during her preparations for the kavadi, nothing in her flat revealed her religious affiliation or Indian origins. When I asked her about her relation to India at the end of a long conversation, she replied rather hesitantly: “India, it’s the land of my ancestors, but at the same time it’s so far away, and for now, I do not feel like visiting India yet. . . . It’s not the curiosity that I lack, it’s the misery [poverty there] that I [would] have difficulty confronting.” I have encountered very different ways Reunionese Hindus relate to India and the different images they have of India. Anthropologists have pointed out that diaspora does not result from mere migration, but includes an imagined connection to a place of origin that is important

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to collective identities (Eisenlohr 2003: 181; Vertovec 2004: 282). Scholars have emphasized that diaspora is about difference instead of an essence and entails a politics of positioning (Hall 1994; Tölölyan 2007). Even though defined and contested in different ways, definitions of diaspora as a community outside of a homeland yet with a symbolic and/ or material tie to this homeland are still widespread (Grossman 2019). Rather than thinking of diaspora in terms of a community, I am interested in diaspora in terms of a consciousness (see also Clifford 1994; McNeal 2011: 307–8; Vertovec 2000: 146–53). Scholars have observed that diasporic consciousness in the double sense of relating to a “home” and of relating to others who also consider this place a “home” is stronger in contexts of more recent migration, whereas the supposed home rather becomes a place of ancestry in contexts of more historical migration (Hausner 2018). Reunionese Hindus’ ancestors’ migration from India dates back several generations, with little possibility of remaining in contact with India. Many Reunionese Hindus do not develop a diasporic consciousness that entails attributing importance to India as a place of origin or even relating to a wider diasporic community worldwide. Others, however, create a diasporic consciousness that did not exist before. My aim is here to look at how these Reunionese Hindus use diaspora as a “category of practice . . . to make claims” (Brubaker 2005: 12), while considering the importance of history in examining how subjectivities are made and make themselves in relation to place and power relations across time (Alexander 2017; Brubaker 2017). The orientation toward India by some Reunionese Hindus confirms the idea that religious aspirations can work as a driving force of globalization, rather than merely the other way round. Theoretical debates on the relation between religion and globalization vacillate between focusing on mutual influences and focusing on intrinsic relations. In contrast to research that perceives religious transformations as reactions to globalization, scholars have pointed toward the intrinsic relationship between religious and other globalization processes. Thomas Csordas even suggests speaking of “globalization as religion” (2007: 265), referring to the religious dimension of economic globalization processes and how they are perceived. Similarly, Peter Stamatov (2010) reveals the importance of religious activists in the emergence of long-distance advocacy networks against slavery. Religion can thus play a major role in globalization processes, also influencing other aspects of social life. In La Réunion, it was interest in Hindu religion that led to an orientation toward India. What had started with this religious orientation has even-

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tually developed into broader relations with India. Religious aspirations have thus worked as the driving force in the recent establishment of trans-local connections. These global interactions helped Reunionese Hindus realize that they adhered to and were part of a “world” religion that they could be proud of. Thus, the diasporic consciousness of Reunionese Hindus not only includes the historical awareness of ancestral migration under colonial power relations but also involves “feeling global” (Clifford 1994: 312) through claims to relate to a global religion. Furthermore, those who relate to India do so primarily with regard to their self-positioning in Reunionese society, rather than to create belonging to India or to other places in the diaspora, for which possibilities are limited. Their global interactions first of all serve them for local self-making projects and local claims for recognition. In this chapter, I first demonstrate that many Reunionese Hindus do not relate their religious practices or identities to India or claim so. I then show how some Hindus in La Réunion create a diasporic consciousness that did not exist before. Hindu religious knowledge and practice are core aspects of this created diasporic consciousness. However, as I point out in the third section, India’s interest in La Réunion and Reunionese Hindus’ abilities to communicate transculturally mostly remain limited when creating diasporic belonging to India. Instead, their diasporic consciousness presents an important tool for their self-making in Reunionese society. I conclude that religion can produce different senses of diaspora and work as a driving force behind global interactions while above all having local impact.

Strategic Disinterest in India I met Lakshmi, the university student whom I accompanied when she carried kavadi (figure 3.1) and who had stated that she did not plan to visit India in the near future, during the daily ceremonies preceding the kavadi in 2015. In the days before the kavadi procession, she went back and forth between her studies at university, the ceremonies in the temple that I attended with her mother, and her grandmother’s home where her kavadi was being prepared. Although it was important for Lakshmi to have a “simple” kavadi without elaborate and heavy decoration so that she would be able to carry it by herself without any help, preparing her kavadi took several days and the help of her godfather, her partner, a cousin, and me. On the day of the kavadi procession, I accom-

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Figure 3.1. A kavadi decorated with flowers and peacock feathers, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

panied her while she carried it. It was an emotionally intense day for her, which included organizational stress and anxieties about whether all would go well, as well as family stress due to tensions between her and her mother. The day also included moments of tears when she received the benediction of her elders, including her mother, to perform this penitence during the final preparations among several thousand devotees near the riverside in the morning. This was followed by moments of devotion, of reflection about her life, and exhaustion during the procession in the midday heat until we reached the temple at one o’clock in the afternoon among the first third of about nine hundred devotees who carried milk pots, kavadi structures, and other items. At home in the evening, Lakshmi felt relieved yet exhausted. Only on the next day, her relief seemed to transform into new energy to confront the challenges of her life she now felt more optimistic about. One week after the kavadi, I videotaped a two-hour biographical interview with her, which was followed by many more conversations. When I asked Lakshmi to narrate her religious life to me, she started by explaining that she was attached to both Hindu and Catholic prac-

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tices because she had grown up with them, and because she had asked favors from both religions, which had been granted. Her religious life seems closely linked to her grandmother who introduced her to Hinduism and Catholicism, as well as to wishes concerning Lakshmi’s and her partner’s professional lives. She lives in a small subsidized flat with her unemployed partner and their child. Satisfied and grateful for having a partner and a child, Lakshmi found that the only important thing missing in her life was that she had not advanced enough in her professional career. She therefore performed kavadi, an act of penitence, to thank Mourouga for having found a partner, for having started a family, and for having attained a certain stability in her life—and to request the divinity’s help in her and her partner’s professional careers. One week after the kavadi procession, Lakshmi is proud of having carried her kavadi entirely on her own. She states that she feels energetic and positive about confronting the year, which she knows will be a difficult one. As I later found out, she did not only mean her partner’s unemployment but also the fact that she was anticipating leaving university without a degree. After I completed fieldwork, Lakshmi left university without a degree and spent some time searching for jobs. When I met her again in 2017, she had started training to become a kindergarten teacher. She has not carried kavadi for several years in a row in 2017 as she had planned in 2015, when she carried for the first and so far only time. She seemed stuck in a situation of not succeeding as she would like to. Although Lakshmi carries an Indian name and carried kavadi—a practice that is often associated with India—and even though she impressed me with her knowledge about Hindu mythology and philosophy, which she acquired as a child by going often to the “big” temple where she later carried kavadi and where Indian priests officiate, she had little interest in India. She never mentioned India in our conversations apart from the one time I asked her during the interview, and I did not observe India playing a role in her religious life. India as a point of reference seemed far away and unimportant to Lakshmi’s daily life and worries. India was even less important to many Reunionese Hindus I met in family and “small” temples. Those who traveled to India were a minority. In contrast to Lakshmi, many were neither familiar with the worship by Indian Brahmin priests in “big” temples nor with mythological knowledge about kavadi and Mourouga. In the conversations I had and overheard, family issues, relations between couples and friends, education, health, well-being, employment, as well as daily routines were the

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current themes. Discussions only rarely went beyond daily lives, relationships, and well-being to address world politics. India did not come up in many people’s religious and daily lives. Despite its ancestral connection to many places in the world, Reunionese society is often highly self-referential. There was also a widespread lack of interest in India in many interviews I conducted. I always made clear that I was interested in people’s life stories. Starting biographical interviews with a question like “could you tell me about how you started to practice religion and how your religious life has continued until today?” often led to long initial narrations. These narrations did not necessarily begin with Hindu religion, indeed, they often started by focusing on their Catholic upbringing. Furthermore, this question allowed me to see whether India came up in the conversation at all, to see if it played an important role for the practitioner. Several did not mention India of their own accord, and when I asked them about their relationship to India toward the end of some interviews, some openly said that it did not matter to them at all, they did not link their religious practices to India, and they did not intend to go there. The temple where Lakshmi often went as a child and now carried kavadi has established connections with India through Indian Brahmin priests, and the temple association organizes trips to India. Her disinterest in India could be explained by the more pressing daily worries, but it may also be connected to her limited financial resources—she would not have been able to afford such a journey to India. Others have been simply overwhelmed by all the changes that have come along with the introduction of Indian priests and knowledge. The 79-year-old Colette, who never learned how to read and write, and who prays in Hindu temples, at church and at home on Hindu and Catholic occasions, told me: “You are supposed to go to the temple to pray. But there are always new rules, always new prayers, so in the end, you don’t know how to pray anymore.” Even if a diasporic consciousness was something desirable to Reunionese like Lakshmi and Colette, it would be difficult for them to keep up with those who have the capacity to create closer identification with India. In these cases, disinterest in India might also present a strategy to avoid making attempts to reach for something unattainable. At the same time, some well-educated and well-situated Hindu practitioners also claim that they do not want to go or adopt practices from India. Raphaël is a 21-year-old banker I met in a temple where he was involved in the preparations of the fire walking festival. In addition to participating in all the festivals of this “small” temple, he has carried

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kavadi in a “big” temple, participates in worship in a Chinese temple,1 and is generally interested in various religious orientations (chapter 5). In his car, he has attached a Chinese pendant featuring a rooster, as he was born in the Chinese year of the rooster, as well as a small flower garland with a pendant featuring the goddess Karly. His apartment is decorated in a modern style with statues of a Buddha and a Shiva. In contrast to Lakshmi and many of my other interlocutors who were not much interested in world politics, Raphaël is a politically informed person, who sarcastically noted that a French politician had just placed La Réunion in the Pacific Ocean in the national news that we were watching in his apartment—a detail that had slipped my attention as I was busy thinking about what Raphaël had told me about his religious life. Replying to my question about his relationship to India at the end of our interview, he stated that he did not relate his religious practice or identity to India, and that he felt first and foremost French. However, he had learned Tamil for three years in order to be able to read prayers in Tamil. Furthermore, I observed on Facebook that Raphaël traveled to India two years later, which renders his claim not to relate to India interesting. Raphaël’s proclaimed disinterest in India shows how people’s attitudes can change. It also reveals an ambiguity in his self-conscious pride in locally created traditions. I assume that Raphaël’s hesitancy to admit interest in India was also informed by his close relationship to Pajani, the priest of the temple where Raphaël fire walks. Pajani, in his seventies, reveals a concrete aversion to knowledge from India. Instead, he is proud of his grandfather who built the temple where he now officiates. He acquired his knowledge from his father and took some Tamil classes in La Réunion and Mauritius. Having a Tamil name is quite remarkable, as most Reunionese of his generation have French Christian names. He even traveled to India once, but was so shocked by the poverty he saw there that he returned home after five days, rather than staying the fifteen days planned by the group tour. Seeing India’s poverty seems to have greatly affected Pajani and made him state in a sarcastic tone that the Indian priests who come to La Réunion “feel superior to us although they are more miserable than us.” In Pajani’s case, claiming disinterest in India is also a socio-political decision. Pajani’s aversion to traveling to or retrieving knowledge from India, which he associates with Brahminical Hinduism and with the Brahmin priests in La Réunion’s “big” temples, is linked to social class and is highly politically charged. With caste being practically absent in the context of rich métissage among Reunionese Hindus with indenture background,

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the link that Pajani makes between Brahmin priests and class suppression reflects his political affiliation with a leftist party. Pajani is also member of the Fédération Tamoule Populaire (FTP), a federation of “small” temples that objects to the presence of Indian Brahmin priests in “big” temples, and sees the practice of animal sacrifices as threatened (chapter 2). In a press conference of the FTP I attended, Pajani complained about the Indian priests who officiate in the “big” temples: “But when these Indians come here, when they step in front of the bondié,2 do you understand what they are saying? Do you understand what prayer these Indians say? Do you understand, when they talk, what these Indians say? . . . But he [the Indian priest] doesn’t touch us, no. It’s only our money he takes. . . . They don’t respect us.” Pajani continued that after President François Mitterrand had allowed animal sacrifices in the 1980s, the “big” temples now wanted to abolish them. In his discourse as well as in his religious practices, Pajani links local traditions with the island’s colonial history of indenture his ancestors suffered from. When he addresses the divinities Marliemmen and Karly and the ancestors in his temple by singing prayers, he does so in a very emotional manner, probably incorporating his grandfather’s style and suffering. In these moments, it was as if I could feel the ancestors and divinities listen and respond. Linking this emotional relation with his ancestors’ past to contemporary socio-political conflicts and his claims of presence in Reunionese society, Pajani mobilizes pride as a strategy that links the past with the present and future. The self-confident awareness of the new and creative aspects of Reunionese Hinduism, which Pajani and others are very proud of rather than perceiving Reunionese practices as lacking knowledge and authenticity from India, resembles what Paul Younger terms “new homeland” communities (2010). When listening to the stories of Hindus in the mainly postindenture societies of Mauritius, Guyana, Trinidad, South Africa, Fiji, and East Africa, Younger was repeatedly confronted by claims of having created something new. After the initial loss of cultural heritage under indenture conditions, people started to form communities on the basis of symbols from their memories. These were negotiated up to the point when Hindu communities could claim their own self-developed religious traditions, which drew on “correct” memories adapted to the local context so that they could be understood by local society. Younger contrasts the self-conscious emphasis on religious tradition as newly created in “new homeland” communities to religious identities in India, where most Hindus seem to take Hindu

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religious traditions for granted, and to Hindu communities in Europe and North America, where negotiations of different memories were not as important as in postindenture societies. Pajani shows the sort of self-conscious awareness of one’s own “newly” created traditions that Younger observes. The proud appreciation of Reunionese practices also drives some priests and devotees to teach the “Reunionese” style to their children. Nevertheless, it is difficult to define what exactly this newly created style would be. Reunionese styles of worship are very diverse, and remain subject to critique by other Reunionese priests and devotees. Some Reunionese priests set examples and introduce new styles, which some priests and devotees take over, and others do not, or they even criticize such new styles. Scholarship on the relationship between religion and diaspora vacillates between focusing on preservation of traditions and creative aspects. Knut A. Jacobsen states: “Religions often function as preservers of traditions inherited from the past notably because their rituals are repeated and their norms considered eternal or transcendent” (2008: 200). In contrast to this focus on preserving the link to the place of origin, other scholars conceive religion in diasporic contexts in terms of new creations (e.g. Barat 1989; Younger 2010). In La Réunion, understandings of newly created practices as local practices are particularly important among both practitioners and researchers. These different perspectives are partially linked to the different historical conditions of the diasporic contexts. While more recent migration experiences, as in Jacobsen’s examples of Sikhs and Sri Lankan Tamils in Norway, enable people to stay in closer and more regular contact with their homelands, people in postindenture contexts often had long phases of sparse contact before they started to (re)establish these connections. The different perspectives raise questions about whether one can speak about diaspora at all in postindenture contexts. Steven Vertovec suggests that although many Hindus abroad neither visit India regularly nor wish to return to India, “sentimental respect if not spiritual reverence for that place and its civilizational heritage remain exceptionally strong,” which is why one can speak of a “Hindu diaspora” (2000: 4). Jean Benoist, by contrast, sees the notion of diaspora as problematic for La Réunion, as people have been long detached from India and deeply immersed in Reunionese society (1988). Rather than thinking about Reunionese Hindus as a diasporic community in general, I am interested in the diverse ways some Reunionese create a diasporic consciousness while others do not. Creating a diasporic consciousness or

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not is linked to local social negotiations and political attitudes. So far, this chapter has shown that claiming disinterest in India and concomitant pride in local traditions is one of diverse strategies to achieve pride through Hindu religion in La Réunion, which contrasts with others’ desire to retrieve ancestral knowledge from India. However, these two stances toward India do not necessarily exclude one another, as many Reunionese esteem both kinds of knowledge (chapter 4). Furthermore, although those who undertake travels to India are mostly aspiring middle-class devotees who can afford the journey, this does not mean that all who claim pride in local practices and even express disinterest in India are from a lower class background. Raphaël, for instance, claims disinterest in India, probably to support Pajani, and simultaneously acquires knowledge about and from India to distinguish himself from Reunionese with—in his opinion—lesser knowledge.

Creating Diasporic Consciousness for Local Pride Religious knowledge and emotions present key aspects in how Reunionese Hindus create a diasporic consciousness. The emotional relation to India that some develop is clearly visible in their narrations about their trips to India. Priest Marco still remembers his first visit to India in 1996 in great detail. He describes it with great passion and excitement (imagine him speaking very fast with a lot of hand gestures and with a high-pitched voice at the end of the sentences).3 When I arrived there? Oté,4 Natalie! . . . When I went there, I was seventeen the first time, and well, it touched me, it really touched me! When I arrived at the airport already, there was this strong smell. . . . This strong smell, this old smell. You understand, a smell like . . . it doesn’t smell good! But nevertheless, I, I have directly adapted to this smell. I liked this smell in fact, because this was a return back to the roots, you understand this? I can’t even explain how big this was for me. . . . It was the old airport . . . , it was dark, it was dirty everywhere. But this is my country after all. I perceived this as my country. As soon as I stepped outside, I had a shock, because I have seen in fact La Réunion of my ancestors. When you arrive in India, it’s like going back fifty years. You see old cars, you see . . . The first thing that I did when I came out of the airport, . . . the parking [lot] was still made of earth. . . . I directly looked for a piece of earth and I kissed this earth of India because in fact, I had this feeling that this was the earth of my gods. . . . I say this every time,

Relating to India in Different Ways • 97 this is the earth of bondié Karly, of bondié Pandialé . . ., this is the earth of Arjouna, this is the earth where the war of Kurukshetra took place, it’s this earth. It was a big, big moment for me.

Marco emphasizes that his first arrival in India was emotionally intense. Due to his fascination with the Mahabharata, which is the textual basis for the fire walking ritual in his temple, it was important for him to see key settings of the epic, which also led him to places in northern India. Marco’s interest in the Mahabharata is both an interest in religious and mythological knowledge, and a highly emotional matter. Marco has read the Mahabharata so many times and thinks so much about the stories and the characters, in particular the goddess Pandialé, who is associated with the heroine Draupadi, that he has developed an emotional relation to the goddess and the Mahabharata. During the eighteen-day preparation for fire walking, he relives these stories by telling them to the devotees during the lire Barldon in the evenings after the ceremonies. Lire Barldon literally means “read the Barldon,” which includes singing and performing the passages, accompanied by explanations. Marco’s turn to the Mahabharata (more on that in chapter 4) and his way of traveling in India show that the establishment of contacts with India and the desire for social status and recognition do not only result in Brahminizing tendencies in La Réunion. When writing about some Reunionese Hindus’ feeling of having lost their ancestral traditions, as well as the expressions renouveau tamoul (Tamil revival) (Callandre 2009: 19; Ghasarian 1999), renouveau de l’hindouisme (revival of Hinduism), and retour aux sources (return to the roots) (Prudhomme 1984: 324), or “return to ancestral cultural traditions and religious values” (Médéa 2002: 135) used by several scholars and by practitioners themselves, one needs to bear in mind that the practices that Reunionese Hindus adopt from contemporary India are often different to those of their ancestors. In particular, the orientation toward the Hinduism of South Indian urban temples is a “project” rather than Reunionese Hindus’ heritage (Benoist 1998: 263). However, Reunionese Hindus’ projects are not only directed toward urban South Indian temples and Brahminical traditions. Reunionese Hindus’ ways of engaging with India are much more diverse. Instead of only visiting well-known big temples, Marco is proud of his way of traveling, which he notes is distinct from the usual South Indian temple tourism that Reunionese Hindus undertake. He travels to villages in South India and observes rural rituals, including animal sacrifices. Since his first trip, Marco has been to India seventeen times. He

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is also proud that he now knows several priests in India, and was once even asked to officiate in a temple. This moment presented an important challenge to him, as he was not sure how people would like his way of officiating. But in the end, the local Indians were apparently happy to see that his practices resembled those of their great-grandparents. The importance of religious knowledge and emotional relations with divinities in the creation of a diasporic consciousness also becomes apparent in Marie’s relation to India. Marie is twenty years old and the first of her family to go to “big” temples. Marie’s father does not practice any religion, and her mother only attended “small” temples for family rituals until Marie joined a music group that sang in temples and started learning Tamil and Bharatanatyam. Like many young, aspiring Reunionese Hindus, she is interested in learning more about Hindu religion, and spends a lot of time with online research and sharing posts related to Hinduism on Facebook (chapter 4). While she was familiar with the goddesses Karly and Marliemmen from the small temples she had gone to with her mother, she was attracted to Mourouga during her first trip to India. Marie took three hours to tell me about this trip. She explained every step of her journey in such detail that afterward, I felt as if I had almost been there with her. Marie distinguishes herself from others who are more interested in shopping than in religion during these trips. She even stated that she did not find Kerala interesting because you visit nature instead of temples: “I go to India because of the temples.” While she was and is still inclined toward “the shakti side,” as she summarizes her veneration for Karly and Marliemmen, this trip to India has opened up an entirely new relationship: But from 2014 on, when I went to India, and when I went to Pajani Malai,5 it’s, I don’t know, as if, like a magic strike. And now, I really adore the god Mourouga very much! Voilà, it’s like it is part of my priorities now, like the goddess Karly and all. . . . Now I love this! When I hear a song for Mourouga, it’s as if my heart explodes, voilà. And so, I’ve already thought about maybe doing a penitence for Mourouga.

Many narrations about journeys to India reveal this sort of emotional relationship to India, regardless of exactly how they imagine India. Divya, a 21-year-old university student who feels very close to Marliemmen and Mourouga, for whom she fire walks and carries kavadi respectively, also emphasizes her emotional relation to India. She often contrasts the simple ways of life in India to the stressful and materially oriented way of life in Reunionese society, and the particularly spiritual atmosphere in

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temples in India. She went to Tirupati and describes the short moment of seeing the divinity as highly emotional. On seeing the divinity, Divya and her family started crying. She contrasts this feeling to the temples in La Réunion where it is rather about “being seen by others.” Divya also states that she loves India and is proud of it because it has the oldest sacred texts. Indeed, she said her dream is to live a simple life in India one day. While I am convinced that Divya will never go to live in India, she longs for a world without the stress that is part of her life in La Réunion. She thinks India would be this hoped-for sanctuary. Many travel accounts, like Divya’s and Marie’s, read like pilgrimages. Several of my interlocutors show particular admiration for Pajani Malai, an important Murugan- temple in South India. Divya has carried kavadi in Pajani Malai; Marie’s dream is to visit all six Mourouga temples and carry kavadi in Pajani Malai. Sarasvati, the daughter of a priest who has a notion of caste that not many of my interlocutors had (chapter 1), has not traveled to India yet but dreams of going there one day. She told me: “You have to go to India once. It’s like Mecca. The Tamil goes to Pajani Malai.” The places that Reunionese Hindus visit often have a special mythical significance that Reunionese Hindus know through the mythological explanations about the story of Mourouga given during kavadi or through the recitals of the Mahabharata during the eighteen days of fasting that precede the fire walking ceremony. The experience of visiting the land of these mythological or divine characters, whom they perform for and adore during religious festivals, is overwhelming for some. On actually seeing those temples in India he had learned about through mythological accounts in La Réunion, Alexandre, a 35-year-old practitioner, realized that his ancestors had passed on significant religious knowledge to the following generations: “It’s always this mythological link in fact, and to tell yourself, well, well, my ancestors were not wrong. It’s not idiotic what we’re doing here.” The experiences during trips to India can allow Reunionese Hindus to become more self-confident about their religious practices. Furthermore, these trips also include moments of realization that what is often perceived as a very restrictive religion—mainly due to the notion of (im)purity that requires many precautions and frequent fasts—can be lived less strictly elsewhere. Monique, who lives in a house full of decorations and souvenirs from her travels to India and is the mother of priest Robert, repeatedly stresses that there are too many prohibitions in the religion that their ancestors have transmitted and that many more

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Reunionese of Indian origin would practice the religion if it were less severe. She has seen an important change since the opening toward India, as people began to see how things were done in India. She herself was impressed to see the relative freedom in the practice of Hindu religion in India during her travels. Despite her limited English language skills, she even asked priests in India whether women could enter temples when menstruating, how long to refrain from entering a temple in India after a death in the family, and whether one had to fast before going to the temple. When coming back from their India travels, the family’s way of practicing and viewing religion changed. Monique explains that she does not feel afraid anymore to do something wrong, she enters the temple “like a house.” She adds that the gods are not called bondié in vain, they are good (bondié in Creole literally means “good god”). Like her son Robert, Monique sees a direct link between the new ease of traveling to India and the increasing number of practitioners in Reunionese temples today. She is proud of how her son tries to alleviate the fears of practitioners who come to their temple. The image of India as it is informed by mythological accounts, emotional relationship with divinities, and the desire for religious knowledge and concomitant social status, illustrates how religious aspirations can work as a driving force behind trans-local interactions. Although the historical labor migration and the subsequent religious adaptions to the new place demonstrate effects that globalization can have on religious experiences, Reunionese Hindus’ orientation toward India exemplifies as much how religious aspirations can have globalizing dimensions. Reunionese Hindus’ travel accounts reveal interest in Hindu religion as the driving force in the establishment of trans-local connections with India. Consequently, this interest spread to other aspects of Indian life in general. In addition to bringing out priests and temple sculptors from India, cultural items like Indian films and fashion started to be imported. With the spread to other cultural realms, identification went beyond Tamil Nadu and increasingly spread to India more generally. More recent relations to India have also included an intensified student exchange between universities of La Réunion and Tamil Nadu and attempts to set up business relations. Since the 2000s onward in particular, Indian consumer goods, media and travel have increasingly become part of Reunionese Hindus’ lifestyles. A direct flight from La Réunion to Chennai, started in 2013, has made travel to India significantly easier and cheaper. In addition, Reunionese travel agencies offer journeys labeled “return to roots” and allow people with limited English language skills to

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discover the country, although many trips focus on Tamil Nadu. These mainly consist of bus tours from one temple to the next and include some “free time” for shopping in between. What had started with the establishment of religious connections has thus developed into broader economic and social connections. Different images of India seem to be linked to people’s decision about relating to India or not. In contrast to Alexandre, Marie, and Marco, who are attracted by the mythological sites of the divinities they adhere to, Lakshmi and Pajani think of India first in terms of poverty. This perspective may also be informed by their limited possibility to engage with India in the first place or by the difficulty to keep pace with those who regularly acquire new religious knowledge in India. By contrast, others choose to outweigh the image of a poor India by portraying India as a global power that one can proudly relate to. Marco views India as a “great world power” and is convinced that the screening of Bollywood films in Reunionese cinemas and on television has led broader Reunionese society to appreciate Hindu religion: Bollywood has given this pride to the Reunionese Malbars in fact. This pride. [Cette fierté-là.] And we have seen, in fact, that we were not a small people. You understand? . . . Our religion was universal, international! India is known in the whole world! India is a great world power! This has given this pride to the Malbars. And it’s because of this in fact that we have now opened up more. Now, we are not ashamed of our religion anymore. We don’t do things hidden anymore. You understand? And because there is knowledge, too. When we now do a thing, we know what we’re doing.

The experiences during trips to India can allow Reunionese Hindus to become more self-confident about their religious practices, which is linked to the idea of a “world religion” many Reunionese Hindus conceive of through their contact with India. The very notion of “religion” almost exclusively referred to Catholicism in La Réunion until the 1960s (Nicaise 2010: 168–70). Reunionese Hindus of the older generation told me that it was during their trips to India that they realized that their religion is practiced by millions of people and that they are part of a large Hindu community worldwide, rather than only a minority in La Réunion, which had often been accused of sorcery by Catholic missionaries and other Reunionese. This realization allowed them to develop a certain sense of pride in being Hindu, in being part of a major world religion. The fact that Hindu religion is not only perceived as the religion of

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Reunionese’ Indian ancestors, but also as one of several globally existing religions, reflects the important role of claiming recognition in the local society when diasporic consciousness is created. Despite Reunionese Hindus’ trans-local interactions, which go beyond religious pilgrimages today, their India-related projects pursue very local aims. From Marco’s and others’ life stories, it becomes evident that their newly established connections to India contribute both to their possibility of social distinction among Hindus in La Réunion and to an increased self-confidence and pride in being Hindu in Reunionese society.

Limited Possibilities for Diasporic Belonging In addition to claiming recognition in the Reunionese society, I have seen a lot of disappointment among Reunionese Hindus with regard to their misrecognition from India. Belonging and non-belonging are not necessarily mutually exclusive but can overlap and change in people’s lives (Low 2018). In La Réunion, I have observed diasporic belonging as a project with many obstacles and moments of alienation. The background of this complicated relationship with India partly lies in structural obstacles. La Réunion is, after all, a French overseas department with limited local political realms of authority and, seen as an economically insignificant and culturally distant island, has attracted little interest from the Indian government. Compared to the neighboring island Mauritius, where an elite of North Indian descent maintains close connections with India, such an influential elite is largely absent in La Réunion. Furthermore, Mauritius is an independent state with greater interest in maintaining and developing economic and other relations with India and more lucrative in terms of remittances. Moreover, most Reunionese have limited language skills, both in English and Indian languages. Priests and practitioners can take Tamil and Sanskrit classes in La Réunion, but few are able to converse in Tamil. As such, it is fair to say that many Reunionese Hindus lack the necessary cultural skills for transcultural communication. Limited skills for transcultural communication also become apparent in comparison to other diaspora Indians during Reunionese experiences of participating in the Pravasi Bharatiya Divas (PBD), the annual Non-Resident Indian Day introduced by the Indian government in 2003. Delphine, a well-educated middle-class Reunionese in her late thirties, was excited to be able to create links with the Indian diaspora and participated in a Regional PBD

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in Mauritius in 2012. Delphine is one of a few of my interlocutors who developed an interest in India that was not primarily about Hindu religion, relationships with divinities, or interest in religious knowledge. Instead, she has academic and personal interest in Reunionese history and was eager to meet Mauritians of Indian descent to present and exchange experiences on being part of the Indian diaspora in panels. But later, when participating in a large PBD event in India, Delphine and others told me that they felt lost with everyone speaking English. Furthermore, Delphine realized that sessions were organized according to professional sectors and the English-speaking members of the diaspora engaged economically and scientifically and created close ties. Like Delphine, most Reunionese lack the skills to satisfyingly communicate with Indians. I came across few exceptions. For instance, two Reunionese Bharatanatyam dancers, Aparna and Pierre, are distinct from most other Reunionese who have traveled to India in that they lived in India for several years to complete their education in classical South Indian dance and music. Their long-term stays allowed them to learn to speak Tamil and take part in daily life in South India, two important experiences out of reach for most Reunionese. Aparna now travels to India regularly and gives performances in India and in other parts of the Indian diaspora, such as South Africa and Australia. In contrast to most Reunionese Hindus, she wears Indian clothes on a daily basis. Pierre also goes to India regularly, and I have heard him conversing in fluent Tamil on the phone with an Indian priest employed in a Reunionese temple. Reunionese Hindus have to learn the skills for transcultural navigation from scratch. While Pierre considers himself first of all French-Creole, he states: “I have a part of Indianness (indianité) that came to me from my ancestors. Let’s say, genetically speaking, there is an affiliation. But I am after all proud to say that my part of Indianness is not only genetic, I have earned it by living in India for ten years.” Pierre’s self-reflective perspective thus points toward a learning and earning process necessary to claim Indianness. The skills to navigate more easily between cultures that Aparna and Pierre developed during their long-term stays in India are rather exceptional in La Réunion. Since the 1970s, many Reunionese Hindus have become increasingly eager to learn about Hindu religion and India in general, and distinguish themselves through their religious knowledge among other Reunionese Hindus. Certainly, the facilitated contact with India has enabled Reunionese Hindus to acquire some cultural knowledge. For instance, the screening of Bollywood films and Indian tele-

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vision serials in La Réunion can inspire Reunionese women to wear up-to-date Indian fashion in the temple. However, few Reunionese have actually lived in India for longer periods, and the knowledge they acquire is insufficient to develop the skills for transcultural navigation that would make it easier to communicate with Indians or to understand cultural codes. “Indians can already tell from the way we move and what we wear that we are not from India,” said Bhavani, a young fire walking and kavadi carrying woman who had done an internship in South India. By contrast, Robert’s mother, Monique, told me “you feel good” five times in a row when talking about her travels in India, by which she meant that due to her Indian appearance she could easily blend into the crowd and did not stick out ethnically. The amount of importance that Reunionese attribute to their limited transcultural communication skills thus varies. Through her claim of blending with Indians, Monique also distinguishes herself from those with “visible African origins,” who might not get so easily lost in the shuffle, as she put it. This is linked to her claim of being of “real” Indian origins from Mauritius, which stands in contrast to her husband and son, who do not make such claims and take pride in being Reunionese. Travels to India not only fulfill long-held dreams but also make Reunionese Hindus aware of cultural aspects that they are not so fond of. The importance of caste in India, for instance, presents a huge difference to Reunionese society, where caste is practically nonexistent. Marie only realized during her trip to India that caste really did exist when an Indian woman who accompanied the group did not want to join them to eat: I was [like] wow! For me, it was like, in this moment, I realized that I am really in India and that I really begin to see . . . and I was stunned. I had not thought that these things were true, you see. I thought yes, in the films they say caste and everything, but in fact this doesn’t really exist in India anymore. . . . Suddenly, I was a bit shocked!”

The relation to India of the majority of Reunionese Hindus, which I describe here, is different from, for instance, Reunionese of Pondicherrian or Gujarati origin. Many Reunionese who chose French citizenship when Pondicherry became part of India maintain connections with India through the Tamil language, transnational family links, arranged marriage, and caste. Gujarati Muslims present another group that maintains close ties with India. When I spoke to an important member of the Guajarati Muslim community, he emphasized the difference be-

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tween the descendants of South Indian indentured laborers, who had not been able to maintain contact with India, and the Gujarati Muslims, who maintained both family relations and commercial networks and regularly visit India. Although, like Delphine, he also felt lost during the first PBD due to the language barrier, he repeatedly stressed the difference and speaks of a Gujarati Muslim “diaspora,” a term rarely used for and by Reunionese of South Indian descent. The establishment of contacts with India has largely resulted from private undertakings by Reunionese Hindus. Those who wanted to travel to India from the 1960s onward had to undertake expensive and complicated journeys. Without much interest from the Indian state, the orientation toward India started as a one-sided process, and it remains so to a great extent today. The Indian Consulate was established on the basis of a Reunionese initiative in 1986, as the consul general himself emphasizes. La Réunion’s Chamber of Commerce and Industry established an antenna in Chennai in 2012 to promote economic relations between Tamil Nadu and La Réunion. Negotiations about the first direct flight connection to Chennai without a stopover in Mauritius, as well as negotiations about expanding flight connections to other Indian cities, have mainly been initiated by La Réunion’s Regional Council rather than from the Indian side. Frustrating PBD experiences like Delphine’s and others’ led to the creation of GOPIO Réunion. The Reunionese group approached the Mauritian delegation at the PBD to help them create their own branch of the GOPIO (Global Organization of People of Indian Origin), which was finally formed in 2005. In 2014, they also created a representation of GOPIO Francophone, underlining the need to represent the Francophones in the English-dominated GOPIO. The Indian government’s reluctance to engage with La Réunion also shows in the fact that Reunionese do not easily attain PIO (Person of Indian Origin) or OCI (Overseas Citizen of India) status, which would allow Reunionese Hindus to visit or work in India without a visa and to make certain investments. This is also linked to another issue, that it is difficult for fourth generation Reunionese to prove their Indian descent without well-archived documents (Ramsamy 2013: 76). According to Daniel Minienpoullé (2014: 154), around two thousand Reunionese had PIO or OCI status in 2014. A further important factor for the limited possibilities for diasporic belonging is that, unlike in many other parts of the Indian diaspora, there is no important Hindu nationalist movement in La Réunion. In contrast to (mainly North Indian) postindenture diasporic contexts,

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which tend to have a strong presence of Sanatan Dharm schools (e.g. Vertovec 2000), there is no such standardizing institution in La Réunion. The Chinmaya ashram and the Arsha Vidya ashram in La Réunion obviously have Hindutva connections. However, this message does not reach most Reunionese Hindus, who perceive them as religious educational institutions. They attend classes in the ashrams to learn more about Hindu philosophy and Indian languages, without being aware of Hindu nationalist ideologies. Moreover, those who orient themselves toward India have primarily started to do so out of interest in religious knowledge, rather than an interest in Indian politics. Indeed, many Hindus in La Réunion do not know who the current prime minister of India is. I realized this during a videoconference with Prime Minister Narendra Modi organized in La Réunion during his stay in Paris. The consulate general had sent out invitations for the screening and a buffet. I was lucky to have arrived at the same moment as Pierre, the Reunionese dancer who has learned to navigate between cultures. I benefited from his intercultural skills and relations with the consul general, as he was able to convince the guards that I too had been invited. At the buffet, I met some of my middle-class informants, who obviously had well-established connections as well. Overhearing conversations at the buffet, I understood that quite a number of attendants did not know anything about Modi or the Indian government. They were present because they had established a close enough relation to the consulate to be invited, as did a considerable number of Muslims of Gujarati origin there. When the conference finally started, Modi delivered a speech in Hindi. Murmuring started in the hall. While I could roughly catch what Modi was talking about thanks to my limited knowledge of Hindi, I was certain that the majority sitting there did not understand a word, except for the Muslims of Gujarati descent, who, in contrast to Reunionese of South Indian origins, have maintained language skills and family and commercial networks with India. After about ten minutes, during which the murmuring had become louder and louder, a French translator’s voice was added so that people could understand. The conference in Paris had been attended by some Reunionese and simultaneously followed by people of Indian descent in La Réunion and in Guadeloupe. In his speech to the “French overseas diaspora,” Modi emphasized the blood link of Reunionese of Indian descent to their mother country. He stated that even if those in the overseas departments did not speak Indian languages, and the color of their pass-

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ports had changed, the color of their blood had not. He assured them that India did not think of them in terms of their passport but in terms of their DNA and invited them to contact him in order to find the sources necessary for overseas citizenship. Directly addressing the problems for the Reunionese in proving their Indian descent, Modi’s proposal was commented on positively by GOPIO Réunion as facilitating the relation between India and La Réunion. Modi’s forthcoming gestures are not unique to La Réunion; political analysts have observed that his engagement with overseas communities in general is unprecedented (Mohan and Chauhan 2015). What had started as an event very vague to many Reunionese Hindus, as many did not even know what they had been invited to, became an event to be discussed and commented on in the weeks to follow. I had the impression that I was witnessing a change in the relations between India and La Réunion. While India’s lack of interest in La Réunion had always been lamented, the now utopian offers of help uttered by Modi in his speech were received positively by some, and referred to in many newspaper articles, Facebook conversations, and public speeches, in particular during the Tamil New Year’s celebrations that took place shortly after the video conference. In addition to the video conference, the current Indian consul general enjoys great popularity in La Réunion. When I first heard the consul general giving a public speech in French, I was surprised at how broken his French was. As most Reunionese have a limited understanding of English, I had assumed that excellent French language skills were a precondition for a consul general in La Réunion. I therefore saw his lack of language skills as a further reason that Reunionese feel so overlooked by the Indian government. This turned out to be a misguided assumption, as over time, people emphasized in several conversations that this was the first consul general who had at least tried to speak in French to them, in contrast to his predecessors who had only spoken in English and were therefore only understood by a minority. Furthermore, the fact that the actual consul general is not a Hindu from Tamil Nadu, but rather a Christian from Kerala was not seen as an important obstacle either. On the contrary, he is often praised for his unprecedented engagement with Reunionese of Indian origin, through which, in combination with his extraordinarily sympathetic body language, which regularly makes his Reunionese public laugh, he has long won its sympathy. The consul general’s efforts also include negotiations with the Reunionese administration. The mayor of La Réunion’s capital, himself

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of Indian origin, agreed to several projects requested by the consul general during the New Years’ celebrations at the town hall. His requests included the creation of a cultural center, of an India Day on 15 August (Independence Day of India), as well as a new building for the general consulate, which at the time was located in a small, shabby apartment on the third floor of a featureless building. Although the consul general and the mayor must have discussed these projects before, the fact that they were requested by the consul general and positively answered by the mayor during this New Year’s celebration certainly had symbolic importance. Despite such instances of improving transcultural communication, my participation in India Business Day gave me insights into the difficulties when attempting to foster economic relations between La Réunion and India. While the consul general strongly advertised investment in India, some representatives of the Chamber of Commerce pointed out the various risks and pitfalls, emphasizing the importance of cultural know-how and giving explicit advice on how to connect with business partners in India. The Chamber of Commerce provides many services, including intercultural training, translation, legal consultants, accompanying Reunionese investors in India and putting them in contact with potential business partners. The India Business Day was attended by about a hundred people, including various small business persons with an interest in India. Nevertheless, I had the impression that many of them understood that establishing business relations with India was difficult for small businesses, especially without the family contacts that many of the Hindu and Muslim shopkeepers of Gujarati origins had. Given the consul general’s engagement and popularity in La Réunion, Prime Minister Modi’s video conference, as well as the interest in India shown by Reunionese during the India Business Day, one may assume that relations between India and La Réunion are entering a more upbeat phase of mutual interest, and that they are moving from a strong Tamil Hindu to a more pan-Indian focus. However, the structural obstacles remain: La Réunion remains a small, distant, economically insignificant French island in the eyes of the Indian government. The limited Indian language and cultural skills among Reunionese complicate this relation further. Ronak Desai (2014) suggests that “Modi engenders pride among the diaspora on a more visceral level. To many, his muscular rhetoric, decisive action and unapologetic ambitions represent the qualities India needs to achieve status as a world power.” Some Reunionese Hindus partly draw on India’s successful image to establish their pride. How-

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ever, they locate this pride in Reunionese society, where they seek to receive recognition.

Different Senses of Diaspora Reunionese Hindus reveal different ways of relating to India, and have different images of India. India does not play an important role in the lives of practitioners like Lakshmi, who performs kavadi and learns about Hindu mythology without showing an interest in India and without India being visible in her home. Disinterest in India can also become a sociopolitical strategy employed by Reunionese like Raphaël and Pajani. In contrast to Lakshmi, both have tried to learn Tamil, yet their attitudes toward India developed into different directions over time. While Pajani returned from his trip to India deceived about the poverty he had seen, Raphaël seemed thrilled about his experience in India, at least in his Facebook posts. Delphine experienced frustration during her participation in the PBD, but this does not reduce her interest in India, and she creates a diasporic consciousness not centered on religion. Marie and Marco attribute even greater importance to India. While Marie’s relation with India is primarily about religion—she travels to India for the temples; she has tried to learn Tamil primarily to read prayers; Hindu religion very visible in her home through images of divinities; and she wears a necklace with an Indian goddess that she bought in India on a daily basis (chapter 5). Marco’s relation with India stems from his interest in religion but has also reached other aspects of his daily life, for example in that he watches TV series in Hindi with French subtitles. While most Reunionese Hindus’ attempts to learn Tamil, including Marie’s and Marco’s, remain at a basic level, the Bharatanatyam dancers Pierre and Aparna have learned to speak Tamil well and they have even lived in India for longer periods. The amount of energy that some Reunionese Hindus invest in their orientation toward India, which results from individual initiatives with little interest from the Indian side, demonstrates how difficult it can be to claim diaspora. Furthermore, just as Reunionese Hindus claim diasporic belonging, disinterest in India is also a claim. While life stories like Lakshmi’s show that Hindu religiosity outside of India does not need to be linked to India, most of those who actively reject India as a point of reference actually relate to India, even if in ambiguous ways. Both stances toward India—establishing a relationship and displaying indif-

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ference to it—present self-making projects. Reunionese Hindus can claim pride both in the newly created diasporic consciousness and in the appreciation of specific Reunionese Hindu practices. Thus, regardless of its relation to India, Hindu religion can be a source of pride. The Reunionese case reveals a close link between wishes for recognition, global religious projects, and attempts to create diasporic belonging. The religious orientation toward India, which has also resulted in economic and other global connections, demonstrates that religious aspirations can work as a driving force in globalizing processes. At the same time, Reunionese Hindus’ global practices serve them in their local projects of self-making. Narrations of Reunionese Hindus who travel to India include a variety of important experiences, such as realizing that they are not the only ones performing such religious practices. The realization that they are part of a world religion and of a wider Hindu community indicates that they did not previously have a diasporic consciousness; this consciousness is something new. Through their travels to India and their acquisition of knowledge about Hinduism, Reunionese Hindus can add something extra to the fact that they have Indian ancestors. This something extra in the form of religious knowledge and travel experience enables them to position themselves origin-consciously in French Reunionese society and to be proud of their ancestral heritage.

Notes 1. Chinese temples (temple chinois in Reunionese French, sapèl sinwa in Reunionese Creole) denote pagodas built by Reunionese of Chinese descent, primarily with Hakka and Cantonese origins. 2. Creole: address and title for divinities. 3. All excerpts of interview transcriptions are translated from Creole and/or French. I have not changed the expressions and sometimes halting sentence structure to stay as close as possible to the originals. 4. Expression of intensity in Creole, similar to “Oh my God!” 5. Pal-an- i Malai (the Pal-an- i hill) is the site of an important Murugan- temple in South India. The Tamil retroflex approximant -l is transcribed “j” in La Réunion. This is also the case for the name Pajani.

References Alexander, Claire. 2017. “Beyond the ‘the “Diaspora” Diaspora’: A Response to Rogers Brubaker.” Ethnic and Racial Studies 40(9): 1544–55. Barat, Christian. 1989. Nargoulan: Culture et rites malbar à la Réunion. Saint-Denis: Editions du Tramail.

Relating to India in Different Ways • 111 Benoist, Jean. 1988. “La ‘diaspora’ indienne.” L’Inde grande puissance de l’Océan Indien, 7–8 January 1988. Centre des Hautes Études d’Aix-Marseilles. Benoist, Jean. 1998. Hindouismes créoles: Mascareignes, Antilles. Paris: Editions du C.T.H.S. Brubaker, Rogers. 2005. “The ‘Diaspora’ Diaspora.” Ethnic and Racial Studies 28(1): 1–19. Brubaker, Rogers. 2017. “Revisiting ‘the “Diaspora” Diaspora.’” Ethnic and Racial Studies 40(9): 1556–61. Callandre, Florence. 2009. Koylou: Représentation divine et architecture sacrée de l’hindouisme réunionnais, 1990–1998. 2nd ed. Saint-André, Réunion: Océan éditions. Clifford, James. 1994. “Diasporas.” Cultural Anthropology 9(3): 302–38. Csordas, Thomas J. 2007. “Introduction: Modalities of Transnational Transcendence.” Anthropological Theory 7(3): 259–72. Desai, Ronak D. 2014. “Modi’s NRI, NRI’s Modi.” The Indian Express, 2 December. Retrieved 12 August 2020 from https://indianexpress.com/article/opinion/ columns/modis-nri-nris-modi/. Eisenlohr, Patrick. 2003. “Die indische Diaspora.” In Indien heute: Brennpunkte seiner Innenpolitik, ed. Subrata K. Mitra and Bernd Rill, 181–89. Munich: Hanns-Seidel-Stiftung e.V. Ghasarian, Christian. 1999. “Patrimoine culturel et ethnicité à La Réunion: Dynamiques dt dialogismes.” Ethnologie française 29(3): 365–74. Grossman, Jonathan. 2019. “Toward a Definition of Diaspora.” Ethnic and Racial Studies 42(8): 1263–82. Hall, Stuart. 1994. “Cultural Identity and Diaspora.” In Colonial Discourse and Post-Colonial Theory: A Reader, ed. Patrick Williams and Laura Chrisman, 222–37. London: Pearson Education Limited. Hausner, Sondra L. 2018. “Afterword: Rethinking Diaspora Consciousness.” In Global Nepalis: Religion, Culture, and Community in a New and Old Diaspora, ed. David N. Gellner and Sondra L. Hausner, 508–11. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Jacobsen, Knut A. 2008. “Processions, Public Space and Sacred Space in the South Asian Diasporas in Norway.” In South Asian Religions on Display: Religious Processions in South Asia and in the Diaspora, ed. Knut A.Jacobsen, 191–204. London: Routledge. Low, Kelvin E. Y. 2018. “Belonging and Not-Belonging: Experiences of Nepali Gurkha Families on Returning from Singapore.” In Global Nepalis: Religion, Culture, and Community in a New and Old Diaspora, ed. David N. Gellner and Sondra L. Hausner, 163–87. Delhi: Oxford University Press. McNeal, Keith E. 2011. Trance and Modernity in the Southern Caribbean: African and Hindu Popular Religions in Trinidad and Tobago. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Médéa, Laurent. 2002. “Creolisation and Globalisation in a Neo-Colonial Context: The Case of Réunion.” Social Identities 8(1): 125–41.

112 • Religion and Pride Minienpoullé, Daniel. 2014. “French Secularism and Insularity: A New Paradigm for the Tamil Diaspora in Reunion Island.” First International Conference on Tamil Diaspora: Preservation of Tamil Culture and Identity, at Mahatma Gandhi Institute, Port Louis, Mauritius, 23–27 July 2014. Chennai: Institute of Asian Studies. Mohan, Raja C., and Rishika Chauhan. 2015. “Modi’s Foreign Policy: Focus on the Diaspora.” Institute of South Asian Studies, National University of Singapore, Working paper 204. Nicaise, Stéphane. 2010. “La conjugaison du religieux à La Réunion.” In La Réunion, une société en mutation, ed. Eliane Wolff and Michel Watin, 167– 85. Paris: Economica. Prudhomme, Claude. 1984. Histoire religieuse de La Réunion. Paris: Karthala. Ramsamy, Jean-Régis. 2013. “Des Malbars à la diaspora: Une série d’appellations chargées d’histoire.” In Engagisme, diaspora et culture indienne dans les anciennes colonies de l’Océan Indien, ed. Michel Latchoumanin, 73–77. Saint-Denis: Organisation for Diaspora Initiatives. Stamatov, Peter. 2010. “Activist Religion, Empire, and the Emergence of Modern Long-Distance Advocacy Networks.” American Sociological Review 75(4): 607–28. Tölölyan, Khachig. 2007. “The Contemporary Discourse of Diaspora Studies.” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East 27(3): 647–55. Vertovec, Steven. 2000. The Hindu Diaspora: Comparative Patterns. London: Routledge. Vertovec, Steven. 2004. “Religion and Diaspora.” In New Approaches to the Study of Religion, ed. Peter Johannes Antes, Armin W. Geertz, and Randi R. Warne, 275–303. Berlin: de Gruyter. Younger, Paul. 2010. New Homelands: Hindu Communities in Mauritius, Guyana, Trinidad, South Africa, Fiji, and East Africa. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

CHAPTER 4

The Quest for Religious Knowledge

A cameraman filming the fire walking asked participant Coralie—who had declared “religion is a source of pride to me”—what she sought from her religion. She answered: “to better learn the culture, the meanings of the rituals. It’s a source of pride to know one’s roots.” Feeling a lack of religious knowledge and aspiring to feel a sense of pride in gaining knowledge engenders many Reunionese Hindus to learn more about the Hindu religion. The acquisition of religious knowledge can become a major project in some people’s lives. It presents a way to work toward “advancing in life,” an aim many Reunionese Hindus pursue. There is an intrinsic relation between religious learning projects and wishes for social mobility. Their lives read as biographies of learning that reveal neoliberal perceptions of the self as a “business” (Gershon 2011) that they need to invest in by acquiring skills and knowledge to work toward a “preferred” self (McGuigan 2014). At the same time, many Reunionese Hindus feel expected to know about their origins. Combining their interest in ancestral religion with felt expectations of successful and reflected selves, many Reunionese Hindus engage in educational self-making projects. With busy work lives, but also in contexts of (spiritually) unsatisfying careers or unemployment, people fill their time or “timepass” (Jeffrey 2010) by acquiring religious knowledge. Although their social and economic situations differ, they share wishes for meaningful religious practices, meaningful lives, social status, and pride. Reunionese Hindus’ biographies of learning take gendered paths. Reunionese men can turn their acquisition of knowledge into alternative careers by becoming priests. While the Indian Brahmin priests who officiate in La Réunion’s “big” temples largely live in a separate social sphere, Reunionese priests often have close social relationships with the devotees (Lang 2020). These priests are entrepreneurs whose temples

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are primarily associated with their personalities. The priests establish and nurture their social networks through their conduct of rituals and the explanations that they provide about the rituals, as well as by listening to devotees’ problems and helping them in times of need. Furthermore, to raise their own status, they distinguish themselves from other priests by claiming or attempting to display superior knowledge or expertise. Their self-making projects reveal strategic choices when acquiring different types of knowledge, for instance, between knowledge from India and from La Réunion. Only men become priests in La Réunion; women are rarely addressed when it comes to matters of knowledge in the temple. Nevertheless, women also imagine their drive for knowledge to contribute to their self-realization and ultimately to social mobility, and they too develop alternative strategies, such as interactions on the social media platform Facebook. Perceiving the offline and online worlds as “integrated spheres of interaction” (Campbell and Lövheim 2011: 1083) reveals how Reunionese Hindus “co-construct” (Owen 2014) their selves on Facebook through the display of religious knowledge. Women can use Facebook as a space for self-making on the basis of acquiring and negotiating religious knowledge, which they often cannot do in the temple context. Having or not having religious knowledge plays an important role in many Reunionese Hindus’ lives. When I asked participants in processions about what we were doing, they sometimes gave answers like “I don’t know what we are doing, I just follow.” These practitioners often directed me toward La Réunion’s ashrams or to Mauritius for explanations. In the eyes of other practitioners, however, having knowledge themselves enables better worship, better relations with the divinities, better religious experiences, and more effective means to work toward the fulfillment of their wishes. While it is usual for many Hindus in India to follow religious practices without knowing about the exact meanings of the rituals and relying on the ritual expertise of priests, I found the importance of social distinction (Bourdieu 1984) through religious knowledge as well as the importance that Reunionese priests attributed to providing explanations about the rituals striking. What religious knowledge means varies, and Reunionese develop strategies to argue that diverse forms of knowledge bring esteem. The often-uttered expression “you need to know what you are doing” reflects an underlying assumption that recognition of Hinduism in Reunionese society, and the concomitant pride, demands religious education. Many Reunionese

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seem to feel the need to justify their behavior, attitudes, and religious orientations in contemporary Reunionese society so that these can become assets, rather than vices. Such self-reflected attitudes might also be a way to avert the shame that a few Reunionese feel due to (mostly historical) sorcery accusations. Furthermore, in the situation of being French with Indian (and other) origins, Reunionese Hindus choose to emphasize the “Hindu” part of their multiple identities. Similar to Kiyoko Sueda’s observation that Japanese who return to Japan after having stayed abroad are expected to have good English language skills and therefore feel more shame when failing this expectation than Japanese who do not have experience abroad, or those who do not identify with the image of a returnee (2014: 171), Reunionese Hindus sometimes feel expected to know about their ancestral religion and culture and feel shame when this knowledge is revealed as lacking. Like Sueda suggests, they need to restore their pride within the frame of the same identities they were associated with and failed to fulfill. In this chapter, I pay particular attention to what people do with the knowledge they acquire, how they use that knowledge for their selfmaking projects, and how this impacts their perceptions by others. In the first section, I give an example of how Reunionese priests justify Hinduism as a religion. In the second section, I demonstrate how the endeavors of Reunionese priests to acquire and share religious knowledge offer them alternative careers. In the third section, I point out that gender differences become especially apparent in the ways in which two young women partake in religious negotiations on Facebook. In the final section, I conclude that self-making projects by Reunionese Hindus highlight the tension between aspirations toward preferred selves as they are expected in neoliberal societies and the structural constraints that these societies entail, which include a difficult job market but also the fact that creative self-making requires recognition from others.

Justifying a Religion To justify the recognition of Hindu religion in La Réunion, some priests provide comparisons to Catholicism during ceremonies. A “baptism” ceremony led by the Reunionese priest Paul illustrates this point. Deepan, a middle-aged Reunionese of Pondicherrian origin who often distinguished himself through his knowledge about India and whom I had told that I was invited to attend a “baptism,” immediately made sarcastic

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comments about Reunionese understandings of the ritual, stating that there was no baptism in Hinduism and echoing the discourse about Reunionese having lost knowledge about the meanings of rituals. During the ceremony, which had been announced to me as a “baptism” and a celebration of the child’s first birthday, Paul, the priest, took a break to provide explanations in Creole language. He explained that the ceremony was called nāmakaran.am and that in India it was performed on the eleventh, twelfth, fifteenth, or twenty-first day after the child’s birth, depending on the family’s caste. After an overview of proceedings during the ceremony, Paul continued the prayers. He took another break during the ritual to add that the term “baptism” did not exist in Hinduism, but that the term was used in La Réunion so that non-Hindus could understand what kind of ceremony was being performed. Rather than lamenting lost knowledge, Paul justified the changing interpretation. He continued by saying that the idea of a godmother and godfather did not exist in Hinduism either—referring to the designated godmother who was holding the child on her lap during the ceremony and was the first to feed her honey. The priest explained that Hindus in La Réunion designated godmothers and godfathers for the sake of the child, so Hindu children do not feel marked as outsiders for not having godparents, and “because our religion also is [after hesitating a second, he continued, seemingly content to have found the right word] tolerance!” The notion of “tolerance,” on which Paul ends his explanations, is multifaceted in La Réunion. It relates to the perception of Hindu religion as inclusive, an opinion shared by many Reunionese. This idea is often accompanied by the statement that all gods are one and all religions lead to the same place, therefore, they are equal and should not be judged negatively. In La Réunion, this understanding of tolerance and its frequent mention need to be read against the island’s violent past, which included colonial power relations and the suppression of non-Christian religions. This historical experience lives on in people’s memories. At the same time, the understanding of tolerance also relates to the principle of vivre-ensemble, the art of peacefully living together in contemporary La Réunion. In choosing the word “tolerance” then, Paul joins in this double-sided discourse. Furthermore, Paul’s explanations reflect a wish to prove that Hinduism is a religion like Catholicism and not black magic. Some Reunionese Hindus think that they still have to fight against the historical stigmatization of Hinduism as sorcery. It is therefore their aim to make Hindu religion understandable to Reunionese society, to render it less “obscure.”

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The priest’s explanation about designating godparents for Hindu children as analogous with Christianity goes in this direction. Rather than viewing this practice as a shortcoming ascribed to the Reunionese Hindus’ ancestors, he indirectly points toward the historical circumstances of assimilation pressure by the Catholic Church, and the ongoing need to justify religious practices that are not Catholic. Paul seeks to convince the ceremony’s adherents of the positive aspects of Hindu religion and gives them tools to be able to explain their religion to others. On the basis of this knowledge, he hopes that they will perform Hindu religion with a good conscience. Explanations of this kind provided by priests during rituals can give confidence to the practitioners and enable them to feel proud of their religion.

Knowledgeable Priests “A temple is like a supermarket. If few people go there, it means the supermarket isn’t good. If many people go there, it must be good. It’s the people who decide whether it’s a good supermarket, just as they decide if a priest is a good priest.” This is the answer Danya, whose husband Robert is a Reunionese priest, gave to me when I asked her how one became a priest, and whether one had to pass an initiation ritual. Michele Verma (2010) observes among Indo-Caribbean-born priests in New York that becoming a priest is both about official recognition from the Pandit Parishad, which examines priests and issues identity cards, and about gaining recognition from others as a priest. In La Réunion, no such official institution existed at the time of my fieldwork. Becoming a Reunionese priest depended solely on the recognition from practitioners. Furthermore, while Indian priests who officiate in La Réunion’s “big” temples usually are Sivacharya,1 without a caste system in La Réunion, caste is not a precondition for becoming a Reunionese priest. The ways some Reunionese Hindu men become knowledgeable priests demonstrates how religious knowledge becomes a direct means to achieve social status and pride. This becomes particularly apparent in how some Reunionese priests design their selves through displaying and narrating their stories of knowledge acquisition, which they present as enabling their stories of success. While the biographies or (hi)stories that I recorded provide plentiful information about La Réunion’s history and the development of different temples, they also need to be understood as narratives crafted by my interlocutors. Indeed, many practi-

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tioners I interviewed provided me with coherent stories about how they had developed their religious knowledge and religiosity, as if they had reflected regularly about how to view and present their religious lives. Marco’s story (chapters 2 and 3) is a story of a socially aspiring family, a thriving fire walking temple, the acquisition of religious knowledge, and power relations with others. The first fire walking ceremonies at his temple were held in the 1960s by Reunionese priests, and over the years, several Reunionese priests were asked to officiate at the temple. Marco not only learned from them, but also went frequently to other temples to observe how rituals were performed there. Eventually, the relations between Marco’s family and a group of devotees on the one side, and one of the officiating priest’s family on the other, turned into rivalries. The resulting conflict led Marco to take up the priesthood himself. His narration is insightful about how he constructs his “self,” about how he became a popular priest through a process of learning. The following passage starts when Marco, with the help of his family, first organized a fire walking ceremony without an external priest: We made very little fire. We watered the fire well before walking. Because it was the first time we did the fire walking. We were frightened, maybe not for us, but that we would burn people who had come. As I told you, we weren’t qualified. We did this a bit more with heart than with qualification. But afterward, in that year, I read the Mahabarldon2 in French, I read this, Natalie, in one year I read this at least ten times the first year, in 2004, ten times! Why tell [He means: Why narrate the story of the Mahabharata in the eighteen evenings preceding the fire walking]? Because I wanted to make a point about it, to not leave people in the delirium. Most temples that you go to here in La Réunion, people who fire walk for the goddess Pandialé don’t even know her history, don’t even know why, what is the philosophy of the Mahabarldon, all this. Well, . . . we learned up to the hilt the first year, the second year, the third year, even until now we learn. But afterwards, the first year, when the fire walking was over, all people only told us that we have extinguished the fire. It was a critique. . . . But then, afterward, we continued. The next year, we changed. We made the fire huge, huge; it was hot, hot, hot. Until now, you’ve seen the fire we make?! But the critique of that first year, it’s this what really made us awake in the religion. There were many people who came and wanted to take the temple . . . people got possessed [gagné l’esprit] in the temple, all this. But we made a point. We said no, here we don’t do this, because, you know, if all get possessed [gain lespri] in that temple, people get frightened,

The Quest for Religious Knowledge • 119 they won’t come anymore. [Whereas Marco does not normally allow or want people to enter trances in his temple, his brother is expected to get possessed by an ancestor at particular moments.] Well, people came who, without that we told them, just stopped the drums and made a prayer, you understand? . . . But we kept our position to bring forward a serious religion, where you go straight, where we all go into the same direction, not a religion where no matter who arrives just does some bullshit in the temple, understand? There is an order, and we respected this order. So, the first year we had critics, but then, we specialized. Bit by bit we learned, we learned, we learned, we learned, we learned. Until now. This year we made . . . an inventory of the temple. We went from twelve members in 2001, now, you know, we have 467 members! . . . Voilà, today, finally, our fire walking became like this. We have over a hundred fire walkers. This year there were a bit less. But our fire walking is now recognized as . . . I say this but [Even if it is me who tells you this] I tell you what people say: it’s the most beautiful fire walking on La Réunion. Yes, it’s true, I know this because, there is the decorative side, which is beautiful, the fervor side, the side a bit of everything in fact, so that all people, I hear, everyone says that it’s an event that you can’t miss . . . . This is something we are proud of, because, I told you about the beginnings. In the beginning, it wasn’t easy . . . We were zeroes in fact. But to start in 2004 from nothing to become like this, the temple, in 2015. The temple itself was also enlarged, renovated. We took Indians [Indian architects to work in the temple]. We educated ourselves, we went to India, we learned, . . . you see, we have developed well in the time span of these fifteen years. We are proud of this. Voilà, a little bit about the history of the temple. [After he finished his narration of the entire story of his temple, Marco says:] Voilà the history of the temple. It’s like the Mahabharata. There have been wars, there have been good moments, moments of alienation, moments of despair. And it will continue.

In Marco’s narration, his biography is closely interwoven with the story of the temple and the story of his acquisition of religious knowledge. It presents an example of how Reunionese priests engage in autodidactic educational projects to create successful selves that are evaluated by others. Marco is conscious of his limited knowledge when he started to conduct fire walking in his temple, which he says he did more with his “heart than with qualification.” He connects his former lack of knowledge with the temple’s former lack of popularity. Now, he distinguishes himself from those who do not know the philosophy that lies behind the Mahabharata and ultimately behind the practice of fire walking. Marco

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directly links his acquisition of religious knowledge to the success of the temple, which he measures quantitatively in the number of members, and qualitatively in the positive evaluation by others. This corresponds to Danya’s notion of the temple as a supermarket. Becoming a knowledgeable priest can present an alternative career. By alternative, I mean there is no formal educational path to reach priesthood, as it is more about establishing trust and recognition from the side of the practitioners, and many priests have other professions alongside their priesthood, for example, in agriculture, transportation, or construction. In Marco’s, as in many other temples, I could see complex and well-functioning systems of social, political and economic relations. Marco’s role as a priest is closely connected to his transport business, as he benefits from the social relations that he establishes in and through the temple and its popularity. The two Indian architects he employs work both in the temple and for the transport business. In contrast to his wife, who, although she organizes and works a lot in the temple, separates her job as a teacher more from life in the temple, Marco’s role as a priest and entrepreneur are indiscernible. Marco’s strategy is to not only increase his own social status but also help others benefit from his social relations and his knowledge. His priesthood takes the shape of a social entrepreneur who cares for his flock. Marco establishes a close link between acquiring religious knowledge and faith. Marco’s notion of faith has a double meaning: faith in one’s religion and the ability to believe in oneself. This link is important in many Reunionese Hindus’ biographies and reflects the wish to, as many interlocutors expressed it, “advance in one’s life,” both spiritually and in terms of their economic, social, or other aims. I assume that the term faith (la foi) in the Reunionese Hindu context is linked to the colonial encounter with the Catholic Church, when other terms like sapèl/ chapelle (temple), promès/promesse (vow), karèm/carême (fasting), and servis/service (ceremony) also became shared vocabulary. What might have been a conscious or unconscious adaptation to the dominant religion, also to demonstrate that Hindu religion indeed contained comparable concepts to the archetypal religion of Catholicism, now seems to fit well with the idea of optimizing selves in Western societies, especially its expansion of faith in oneself. As, in Marco’s perspective, some people in his temple practice religion without “really believing,” he attaches importance to conveying to those young practitioners the need to believe in what they are doing. Marco sees his task as teaching and giving explanations to the devotees, not only regarding textual

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and ritual knowledge, but also concerning the ability to believe. This also becomes apparent in the time he dedicates to listening to people’s problems and helping them. Marco pays great attention to welcoming everybody in his temple, and he spends a lot of time talking to devotees. He asks them about their life, their family, their well-being, and sometimes provides support for those in financial need, by employing them on an interim basis, for instance. He tries to provide them with hope and offers them new goals, goals that they may be able to achieve more easily in the temple world than in the outside world, but that can have a positive effect on their vision of their lives, and ultimately on their success. The temple is located in a neighborhood that is said to be difficult and criminal, and Marco encourages the local people to come to the temple, to change their ways of being, to do social work. For Marco, the success of the temple can be seen in the increase of religious practice, participation in the temple festivals, and through those who turn from a criminal to a spiritual path and achieve more success in their lives. While many priests are like Marco and also have another profession, others have turned their religious knowledge into a full-time alternative career, like Thomas. When Thomas narrated his life story to me, I understood that religious education was much more important to him than general education. Thomas does not take pride in academic degrees or professional qualifications—he does not have higher education. At the age of eight or nine, he started learning the Tamil language, with elder family members at first, and later in courses offered at university. He quit an apprenticeship and went on to work in different places, including as a waiter. While he never received a formal qualification, he continued to pursue his “passion,” as he calls it, to learn about religion. Having followed and learned with an elder priest for many years, Thomas became a priest himself. Priesthood is now Thomas’s full-time job, and he is proud of presiding over two temples and of being engaged by more than forty temples. Marco’s and Thomas’s biographies of learning answer their spiritual desires, their wishes to give meaning to their lives, as well as their wishes for social status and financial gain. The striving for both selfoptimization and religious knowledge becomes obvious in how Thomas explains how he learned from both Reunionese priests in La Réunion (“here”) and Indian priests in South India (“there”): I started here. I perfected myself there. I learned to officiate here. There, it was more to perfect myself, to go a bit further. . . . Here, knowledge

122 • Religion and Pride is a bit sparse, limited. Because our great-grandparents, who came here, they were no big poussaris, big priests. They officiated, but they brought their customs. But it wasn’t their profession. Their profession was [to work as a] peasant or to work in the factories. They brought their customs and they officiated as they understood it, as they knew it already there . . . I have taken what they have given me, and as it was limited, I was obliged to go to India to perfect myself, to search further.

Self-fashioning as a priest requires one to develop certain strategies in knowledge acquisition, for instance concerning different forms of knowledge, including Reunionese and Indian forms of knowledge. Both Marco and Thomas are proud of having acquired both Reunionese and Indian religious knowledge. In Thomas’s quote, at first it may appear that he is privileging Indian over Reunionese knowledge, however, he later qualifies this. Thomas spent two months at a Shivaite Agamic school in Kanchipuram a Sivacharya priest at one of La Réunion’s temples recommended to him. Although Thomas is proud of this experience, it was important for him to point out to me that his quest for more knowledge in India and his aim of “perfection” did not stand in contrast with the knowledge he has acquired from Reunionese priests. Thomas proudly states that he is able to manage ceremonies for Karly, Shiva, and Vishnou, all of which demand different styles of worship, and that his style of officiating presents a mix, a “medley.” Indeed, I have heard practitioners praising him for doing “the perfect mix” of Reunionese and Indian practices. Many priests in La Réunion claim to value both Reunionese and Indian knowledge, and include both forms of knowledge in their explanations. Such self-confidence and pride is certainly linked to the contemporary image of Hindu religion in Reunionese society, as generally accepted and even sometimes admired. However, this apparent self-confidence is also ambiguous at times, and is most often strategic. Like Thomas, Marco is proud of performing the right mix. Although Marco wants his son, who is only seven years old but already learns to perform certain symbolically important tasks during temple festivals, to focus on the Reunionese practices, he nevertheless expects his son to know as much as possible about how things are done in India in order to avoid criticism. Strategic positioning concerns not only Indian versus Reunionese forms of knowledge, but also the combination of bodily with textual forms of knowledge. Many socially aspiring devotees are attracted to priests who offer a combination of different forms of bodily, aesthetic,

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spiritual, and philosophical knowledge, as well as psychological and social support. Marco seems to fulfill all of the criteria. Lacking the embodied knowledge or performative memory (see Taylor 2003) to make a ritual fire pit with the right heat, the fire goes out the first year he prepares the fire pit. Marco is criticized for this failure, and he reacts by starting to read the Mahabharata: he reacts to the unsuccessful attempt to create a fire that is not too hot to burn the penitents and hot enough to render crossing it a respectable penitence—a difficult balancing act that requires practical skills and long-term experience (figure 4.1)—by the acquisition of textual knowledge. His turn to a French version of the Mahabharata to explain the story of the epic to the devotees, in addition to the Tamil version of the Barldon that is sung during the eighteen days of preparations, as well as to other textual knowledge including the Agamas—which I explain further below—is part of a recent trend to introduce more text into fire walking. Loreley Franchina shows that the quest for knowledge and recognition comes along with debates about the mythological background of the fire walking, including questions about whether Pandialé actually walked on the fire or not (2018). The

Figure 4.1. The preparation of a fire pit: a pile of wood burning down until the evening, La Réunion, 2014. Photo taken by the author.

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wish to give fire walking a textual frame reflects an attempt to raise the status of the ritual. Such collective rituals with elevated status correspond better to aspiring Reunionese Hindus than more spiritual forms of worship. Reunionese priests also adopt strategic approaches to knowledge of Tamil language, which many do not consider sufficiently important to invest the necessary time and effort to learn to a high standard. Marco admits that he does not understand everything in the Tamil prayer books, adding that the texts include many Sanskrit terms. Likewise, several practitioners admitted to me that they did not understand the prayers they were reciting in Tamil. I have only met very few Reunionese who had become fluent Tamil speakers through their regular long stays in India. Priests and practitioners can take Tamil and Sanskrit classes in La Réunion. Nevertheless, few priests (or vicars, as Reunionese priests’ assistants are sometimes called) are able to converse in Tamil, and the language skills of most are limited to the recitation of formulas, prayers, or sung epics in Tamil (or in Sanskrit in Tamil script). While Thomas and Marco often mumble the prayers, the priest Paul pronounced both Tamil and Sanskrit clearly, which I noticed when he was reciting prayers and devotional songs in Tamil and mantras in Sanskrit (transcribed in Tamil script) during the “baptism” and a Marliemmen ceremony. Even more than Paul, Pajani impressed me most whenever he sang addressing the ancestors and divinities, which he did without the assistance of a script in well-pronounced Tamil and in a very emotional manner. In most cases, while the priests generally know what the texts are about, they can often only decipher and pronounce the words without actually understanding the sentences. As Manuel, a practitioner in Marco’s temple said, knowing how to speak Tamil is not actually necessary in La Réunion, being able to pronounce it for the prayers is more important. Strategic positioning also shows in how Marco presented me two books in Tamil that explain the Agamas. Knowledge of the Agamas is new not only to La Réunion but also to South India. Christopher J. Fuller explains the need for Agamic education for Brahmin priests as a reaction to the anti-Brahmanism of the twentieth century and to the critique that Brahmin priests did not know them. Fuller notes that priests who graduated from Agamic schools in Tamil Nadu, where they memorize mantras and texts that they recite during the rituals, are more selfconfident than other priests, a confidence and knowledge that may also enable them to perform the rituals more elegantly (Fuller 2003: 100–8). Marco is proud to have bought a book of the Agamas in India, explaining

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that few Reunionese priests know them. However, he has chosen not to learn them by heart like the Indian priests, whom he calls gurukkal, but to read them for instructions and explanations about rituals. This decision not only reveals a certain self-confidence but also a strategic approach to knowledge, if one considers the possibility that Reunionese priests might stress their locally specific knowledge to compensate for the fact that they will never be as proficient in Agamic rituals as priests from India, for instance. Mathieu Claveyrolas (2014) has observed similar strategic positioning in Mauritius. The Mauritian priest Selven simultaneously cherishes a “savant” Tamil Hinduism, a pan-Indian Hinduism, and Mauritian Creole Hinduism that includes magico-religious practices. In this way, “Selven positions himself strategically at the interface between the savant (Indian) orthodoxy and the popular (and Creole) traditions of Hinduism” (Claveyrolas 2014: 162, my translation). There are important differences between Selven in Mauritius, and Marco and Thomas in La Réunion. They do not speak Tamil fluently, and they would neither wear a sacred thread nor call themselves Brahmin, all of which Selven does. Like Selven, however, Marco and Thomas emphasize that they valorize both Indian and local traditions, and thereby position themselves strategically at the intersection between how much new knowledge they want or are able to acquire, and to what extent they can distinguish themselves through their local knowledge. While Marco strategically distinguishes himself from the Indian priests, he speaks highly of Swami Advayananda, who has founded one of La Réunion’s ashrams. He differentiates between the gurukkal, who know by heart how to perform the ceremonies, and the Swami, who also knows the philosophy behind it, and who has “great knowledge” about religion. From his narration, it becomes clear that Marco attributes more esteem to the “philosophical” knowledge of the Swami than to the “ritual” knowledge of the Indian priests, while attributing great importance to bodily and emotional experiences of religion, as during fire walking. Marco tells me that the Swami must have read the texts many times to be able to explain them so well and admits that, although he himself has read many different versions of the Mahabharata, he is yet to fully understand it all philosophically. Marco concluded our conversation by saying: Hinduism is so vast, so complicated, that one life, I don’t think that’s enough. There are old people, gramounes as we say in La Réunion, who have studied until now and haven’t finished . . . Even Swami

126 • Religion and Pride Advayananda . . . himself, he once told me that he knows many things, but that he only knows a quarter. He knows many things, but he only knows a quarter! And I, I think I know many things, but it’s a hundredth, a hundredth! You understand? And I sometimes hear people here in La Réunion say “ah I know, I know,” but in fact they know nothing.

While strategically distinguishing himself from the Indian priests and expressing his esteem for Swami Advayananda’s religious knowledge, Marco also clearly distinguishes himself from other Reunionese priests, such as from Pajani who, in his opinion, knows less than him. There was a certain mutual dislike between the two priests and competition between their temples. Knowing that I was visiting the other’s temple, and in order to persuade me that their respective temples were better, both priests declared that they had more religious knowledge than the other. Both sought to distinguish themselves primarily through knowledge, both claiming that they knew best the stories of the Barldon, which are sung, performed, and explained during the eighteen-day festival that culminates in the fire walking ceremony. Reunionese priests can turn their acquisition of knowledge into alternative careers by turning their cultural capital into social and economic capital. However, the emotional dimensions of their personal pride stories are at least as important as their economic success, and closely interconnected. Marco’s pride stems from his success in overcoming so many obstacles: despite starting from a difficult situation and having many enemies, and without the help of the state, he attracted many people to this religion and to this temple, convinced them that he is competent, implemented his rules and ideas, and has created a temple as an economic system in itself. Thomas emphasizes his pride in achieving success despite lacking a prestigious education or a profession. Neither priest followed an institutional educational path, and both are proud of having become priests from little or nothing. While I have focused on priests in this section, knowledge acquisition is also important to many lay practitioners who do not want to become priests. Even though knowledge does not provide lay practitioners with an income, it can help them attain social status among Reunionese Hindus. Especially in the context of high unemployment, appreciation by others in the temple context can provide alternative experiences of success. My choice of the two men in this subchapter is no coincidence, as women cannot be priests in La Réunion. Many Reunionese Hindu women also reveal biographies of learning, and they can

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also turn their acquisition of knowledge into their life projects. Some use Facebook to negotiate religious knowledge and their social status.

Facebook Entrepreneurs Jayashri sits behind the counter of her flower stall. She wears a punjabi, as she sometimes does even when she is not going to the temple, in contrast to most Reunionese who only put on Indian clothes for religious or India-related events. Her phone is in constant use, apart from the moments when she serves clients and when she narrates to me about her activities on the Facebook page she manages. “I always had this desire to give explanations about a publication [she means a posted picture or other content]. . . . You wouldn’t publish the picture and say, wow, it’s pretty. And that’s it. No, for me, that was not the aim.” Jayashri, twenty-eight years old, clearly distinguishes herself culturally and socially through her idea of always furnishing Facebook posts with explanations, something she sometimes has to remind her coadministrators to do. Marie, the twenty-year-old woman who developed a close relationship with Mourouga and discovered that caste really existed during her travels to India (chapter 3), pursues a similar educational approach to her activities on Facebook. Similar to the priests Marco and Thomas, the biographies of Marie and Jayashri read like quests for religious knowledge. The two young women use religion as a tool for self-making and Facebook as a space to do so. Marie and Jayashri are very much involved in the maintenance of two important Reunionese Hindu Facebook pages, and in this sense, they are rather exceptional as Facebook plays a more important role for them than for most others. Furthermore, my observation that women’s Facebook interactions can present strategies to overcome gendered norms about who can turn their religious knowledge into status was not explicitly uttered by these women themselves. I nevertheless present their cases here to demonstrate that laywomen, compared to priests, can find other means of taking important roles in religious negotiations. Facebook presents an important source of information and space for negotiations of religious knowledge and social status among Hindus in La Réunion. Reunionese Hindus use Facebook more for the negotiation of religious knowledge and social status than for religious mediation per se. Hindu religiosity constitutes an important part of the selves that

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Reunionese Hindus display on their Facebook profiles. In addition to individual profiles, several general Reunionese Hindu Facebook pages share information, such as Le Gôpouram, Religion Malbar, Karrupu Swamy, and Kâla Bakti. These pages are relatively popular, especially Kâla Bakti, which had 50,974 “likes” in April 2016. Indeed, Facebook plays such an important role for many Reunionese Hindus that I could not ignore it during my fieldwork. It is especially popular among the younger generation, although many practitioners up to their sixties have established Facebook as an important platform for negotiations of religious content. These Facebook interactions provided me with helpful information during my fieldwork: temple presidents and practitioners, for instance, would announce dates and programs of festivals on temple or individual pages, as well as cancellations of ceremonies due to bereavement in the temple president’s or priest’s family. While interlocutors frequently asked me to join Facebook sites of temples or other associations and to “friend” them on Facebook, they did not draw my attention to other kinds of social media like Instagram, WhatsApp, or Twitter. Many Reunionese Hindus use Facebook as a tool in their quest for religious knowledge, in addition to hearing explanations of priests and to taking classes in La Réunion’s temples and ashrams, or organizing travel to India. Jayashri notes that users were very positive about the page she created with her team. She points out the advantages Facebook offers its users compared to booklets sold in temples: People were interested. They said, yes, this is what was missing and all. It was something like this to be able to ask questions. They asked us at once, yes, when does your booklet come out, but they also asked us questions about stuff. They didn’t want to wait for the booklet anymore. They wanted, they wanted to know about things immediately and all, to have pictures, from the basic stuff to the more complicated things in fact . . . as far as asking us for a photo of a certain divinity. Or could you send us some prayers? Could you . . . They asked us for advice about rituals.

Jayashri’s page has become quite international, something she is proud of: “we have a lot of fans from La Réunion, from France, and also Tamils spread throughout the entire world. And it is because of this that now [her page] is at the same time in English and in French . . . I think it is even better for us to exchange with people from the world, because they have a different knowledge.” The international exchange of knowledge has not just remained at an online level, but has actually resulted

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in travel and meeting Facebook friends. Jayashri answers my question about whether she has actually met some of these people in person as follows: Yes, and this is my great pride, because I have created quite a few amity links with certain people, be it in Mauritius, or in Malaysia, or in India. And these people, they have invited me to ceremonies . . . in the whole world we were invited to come and report on the ceremonies, even up to Guadeloupe. But there are ceremonies which really intrigued me, and I organized myself to be able to go there.

As Jayashri explains, she was invited by Hindu Facebook friends and followers to visit religious festivals in different parts of the world. She goes on to tell me about how she managed to visit two particular ceremonies in Kerala, which she documented on her Facebook page. Both kinds of ceremonies are not performed in La Réunion and when explaining their specificities to me, she compares them to Reunionese practice and seems fascinated and proud of her experience. Furthermore, the ceremonies Jayashri attended in India are not commonly associated with Brahminical practices, which indicates a wish to present Hinduism through its diverse and fascinating practices. Whereas many posts on Reunionese Facebook pages refer to Tamil religious practice, what sticks out from Jayashri’s narration is that she is also interested in how rituals are performed in other places like Kerala, for instance, and she is particularly attracted by rituals she has not yet seen. Likewise, following the suggestion of some Hindus who follow her site but practice other, non-Tamil rituals, she has enlarged the geographical focus of the contents posted on the page from “100 percent Tamil” to India more generally. While Jayashri presents herself as a world traveler and with a lot of energy and agency, Marie, at first sight, appears unsatisfied with her situation as unemployed, and at the same time rather shiftless in handling her career. Both women belong to aspiring middle-class families who could afford to pay for their daughters to take dance and music classes in La Réunion and for them to travel to India on several occasions. Jayashri’s parents even gave her an Indian name. Jayashri runs a small flower business and spends much of her “free time” managing the Facebook page she is responsible for. Marie passes her time by learning the Tamil language at university, taking Bharatanatyam classes, and participating in an international hotel staff traineeship without seeking employment in this sector afterward. In addition, she invests much

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time in her online religious education and in the administration of a Facebook page. For Marie, her interest in Hindu religion and her activities on Facebook are both a pastime and a productive use of time. As Craig Jeffrey (2010) observes, unemployed young men in India deal with “timepass” forced by unemployment both with disappointment and through the creative fashioning of masculinities. In a similar way, although Marie is unsatisfied because she does not know how to proceed with her professional life, she engages in learning projects. She sees herself as contributing to a greater good by sharing her religious knowledge via Facebook, and at once distinguishes herself from others through this knowledge. Marie’s pastime presents alternative ways of achieving moments of success and the feelings of advancement in life. Scholars have demonstrated that digital social media can have both liberating and solidifying influences on gender roles (Lövheim 2016: 24, Miller et al. 2016: 114–27). Gender hierarchies are also apparent on Facebook, for instance, videos of priests giving religious explanations feature only men. But the young women in this chapter can bypass gendered notions of purity and power on Facebook to a certain extent to participate in negotiations of religious content and social status, which they often cannot do in the offline temple context. In many ways, the situation of women in La Réunion is generally not significantly different from those in other Western societies. Social class in its multifaceted sense (including different forms of capital) is usually the most decisive factor for life chances in La Réunion, and this intersects with gender, ethnic origins, and other aspects. In La Réunion, Hindu religiosity does not generally restrict women’s opportunities: while some parents are rather protective and consider it important that their daughters marry Hindu men, the majority I met appeared relatively open in regard to the religious affiliation of their children’s partners, and, if at all, were most concerned about their partners’ professions and incomes. Reunionese Hindu women pursue all kinds of careers, and do not generally have disadvantages in education. However, in the temple context, gender hierarchies can be highly pronounced. Symbolic notions of purity translate into a clear separation of tasks and often also of worship. These symbolic differentiations often translate into inferior positions for women. Access to the temple, a precondition of participating in temple life, is highly gendered. The notion of purity is particularly important: women who are menstruating or have recently given birth, as well as those who have recently lost a family member, are considered impure, and are not allowed to enter the

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temple. Gender inequality continues inside the temple, especially in relation to specific tasks. While women (and men) take part in the preparation of food, men usually serve these offerings to the divinities during rituals. The same applies to arranging and offering flower garlands. Furthermore, in some temples, women are not allowed to walk on the fire, only around it. While the gendered differentiation of specific tasks and modes of worship is waning in some temples, it remains dominant in many others. In addition to the levels of purity and religious worship, power and status on the basis of religious knowledge are primarily male attributes. While girls and women also join classes about Hinduism, they seldom become teachers or perform leading roles. Unless they become teachers of Indian dance or music, the cultural capital that women achieve through their quest for religious knowledge seldom has the direct economic outcome it has for priests. The first female president of the Fédération Tamoule, who was elected in 2015, points toward an increasing role for women, although one needs to consider that her role is largely representative. The relatively powerful women that I observed in the temples were always the wives or daughters of the priests or other powerful men. Their positions of power concerned more the organization of the festivals than authority over religious knowledge. Despite these gender hierarchies, many Reunionese women perform acts of penitence, and like men, link these practices to their aspirations. In a way, one could understand Reunionese Hindu women as being simultaneously both carriers of religious power and subordinated in Hindu rituals, although in no way as strongly subordinated as in the case of ritual possession of suffering young wives in Tamil Nadu described by Isabelle Nabokov (2000). Furthermore, contrary to scholarship that presents penitence as the duty of wives to fulfill for their husbands and children, Reunionese Hindus’ acts of penitence, particularly those of young women without partners, more often present personal projects to work on the self (chapter 6). Reunionese women and men hope that these religious practices will help them to “advance in their lives.” At the same time, many Reunionese women do not question the gendered hierarchies they need to adapt to in the temple, understanding them as “tradition.” And even those who do critically question these “traditions,” do not necessarily consider them to be obstacles hindering them from pursuing their wishes for meaningful lives and for successful and reflected selves. Two specificities of religious negotiations on Facebook stand out in comparison to offline negotiations in temples. First, Facebook allows

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for users to gain easier and cheaper access to knowledge and contacts in India and worldwide. In La Réunion, almost all families I visited had computers or mobile phones with internet access, making access to Facebook relatively easy and widespread. By contrast, like her slightly younger sister, Marie’s mobility is limited as an unemployed young person without a car or a license in a society with insufficient public transport. As a young woman “protected” by her parents, she is still afforded a large degree of freedom, which can be seen in the fact that she was allowed to stay in a university flat in the capital and later went abroad for work. Even if Marie could get to the temple easily, her possibilities for access would remain limited due to the purity rules explained above. In this context, people without temple access can follow religious events via Facebook and learn about religious contents and practices. In addition to the possibility of access, anyone with a Facebook account can engage with other practitioners. The performance of gendered roles (see Butler 2008), so important in the temple context, is also visible on Facebook. Nevertheless, women and men can post images, texts, and memes, and can participate in discussions. Although Marie explains to me that she does not feel like posting an image of a divinity while she is menstruating, it could still happen. Moreover, she told me this only after I had asked her about purity concerns on Facebook. The issue did not come up in conversations with other women. I assume that people do not usually think about whether they need to respect purity rules or not when posting images of divinities and handling religious issues on Facebook. Furthermore, Marie explains that a post made by a priest is not more important than her own posts, and she will not refrain from posting even though her contributions outnumber the priest’s posts. Even though Marie can “hide” behind the administrator profile of the Facebook page she is co-managing, I have also observed her debating with others using her individual profile. Even if offline gender related discussions, such as about whether women are allowed to walk on fire or not, are continued online and vice versa, religious negotiations on Facebook start from a different basis, as anyone can post. While there might be instances when Marie does not dare contradict a priest or other person of authority, I acknowledge the fact that she claims to do so and that she perceives Facebook as a democratic space. Like many other Reunionese Hindus, Marie and Jayashri use these possibilities of access and participation for the acquisition and dissemination of religious knowledge. In their narrations, both focus on their wish to share religious knowledge on the Facebook pages they are re-

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sponsible for. Marie explains: “For example, when I go to the Hinduism class and I learn something, I will publish it . . . on the page. When I learn a new song, I will put the translation and all the lyrics on the page. Or, sometimes it’s small things like that, it’s sharings [des partages] of knowledge of what we know and all.” For Marie, the important feature of Facebook is that it provides a platform for sharing knowledge, reminding oneself and others of specific prayer texts or songs, and learning new prayers and songs. Religious knowledge can entail any kind of philosophical, spiritual, historical, or practical knowledge. An image of a divinity somewhat unknown in La Réunion can present new knowledge, as can a prayer, a video, or a photo of religious practitioners or of rituals. Although Marie acknowledges that some, especially young Hindus, might see posting religious images and prayers on Facebook as devotional acts (which seems obvious when scrolling down the numerous prayers and morning blessings by some devotees), Marie does not perceive her posting as performing a religious act, but insists on the extroverted character of Facebook. For her, posting religious pictures “shows to others that one likes this religion, that this religion is beautiful.” The display function and the pedagogical options are more important to her than any devotional use. Her pedagogical approach to Hindu religion reflects the wish for recognition, both of her work and of her religion. Other administrators of the Reunionese Hindu Facebook pages share her wish for recognition of their work and of Hinduism as a beautiful religion grounded in knowledge. Many see a close link between education and recognition, a link which they see as enabling the development of the Hindu religion from a stigmatized practice to a religion for educated and successful people. Jayashri pursues a similar pedagogical approach and directly associates her way of using Facebook with social class and generation: We know that we have several social levels of people who come to the page, of all ages . . . And I really want that we respect, in fact, a bit higher categories, a bit more mature persons. And so this is why I installed some rules with regard to the way of expressing oneself, and also with regard to what is allowed to be published or not. I don’t like if one publishes anything which is buzz [sic].

The fact that Jayashri set up rules about the contents posted on the Facebook page implies that she has authority about what kind of religious knowledge the page distributes. Jayashri appears as a much more energetic and powerful woman than Marie, who is very quiet and would

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never speak up against anyone in the offline world. Yet, both Marie and Jayashri are in positions to delete content that does not accord to their vision of what their respective pages should publish. Marie states: “Our goal really is to promote, to make the religion known, and in the good sense, to share everything we have with regard to knowledge, and always in a, in a positive aspect. Whatever negative there is, we prefer not to invoke it too, too much.” The topics that Marie sees as negative aspects and Jayashri calls “buzz” concern magical practices, trance, possession by spirits, and “shocking” images of animal sacrifices. At first glance, the young women’s decision to dismiss these ritual practices from their Facebook pages might appear as attempts of turning to more Brahminical forms of Hindu religion. However, the posting of pictures of fire walking and Karly festivals, for instance, indicates that they do not seek to install a strictly defined Hinduism. The aim rather lies in depicting Hindu religion in its diversity and beauty, by showing images that the wider Hindu and non-Hindu Facebook public will most likely not condemn. Not all Reunionese Hindu Facebook sites make this decision, and Marie directs those users who want to post contributions related to topics she refers to as “negative” to other pages that feature these issues. There is thus no uniform presentation of Hinduism on Reunionese Facebook sites. Instead, the administrators decide differently about the contents to be displayed. With the practice of censorship, Jayashri and Marie maintain a position of power on Facebook they could not attain in the temple. In deciding what to and what not to publish, they actively take part in the negotiations of Hindu religion in La Réunion, its contents and its display toward members of the community and outsiders. Marie’s and Jayashri’s biographies reveal the specific quality of both religion and Facebook to mediate between the women’s aspirations and success. In combining their religious and Facebook activities, Marie and Jayashri have developed strategies to strive toward their personal aspirations. Both their religious practices and their work on Facebook serve as alternative ways of experiencing and displaying success. Both women have performed rituals, including carrying milk for Marliemmen in the case of Marie, and carrying kavadi and fire walking in the case of Jayashri. Their acts of penitence enable them to present themselves as self-confident and successful women on the fire pit, in the kavadi procession, and ultimately on Facebook. In addition to these practices, Marie and Jayashri have taken Tamil language, music and dance classes, and they display their religious devotion and knowledge on Facebook. Without Marie’s and Jayashri’s privileged social backgrounds, they could

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not have taken these roles on Facebook. However, they seek more. They are part of an aspiring middle class, and they hope that religion and Facebook offer them a means to achieve their aims, which include well-being and social status. Through their work on Facebook, Marie and Jayashri reach a large public interested in Hindu religion, and in doing so, they participate in the formation of opinions about different approaches to Hindu religion. Their families and social surroundings accept their active roles on the Facebook pages. In this way, Marie and Jayashri use Facebook as an alternative means through which they can take important roles without breaking social norms.

Religious Knowledge—Source of Pride The question of having or lacking religious knowledge is ubiquitous among Reunionese Hindus. The people of this chapter impressed me with their clearly structured, self-analytical narrations, which reveal conscious self-making projects—offline and online—through religious learning. Combining the perceived expectations of neoliberal selves with the expectations they perceive from Reunionese society to know about their origins and to conform to an ideal of a world religion, many Reunionese Hindus engage in self-optimizing projects in which learning about Hindu religion becomes a major life project. Despite attempts by religious and cultural associations like the Fédération Tamoule to institutionalize the acquisition for knowledge, this quest for knowledge started from Reunionese Hindus’ private undertakings. Those who wanted to travel to India had to make expensive and complicated journeys. They had to establish their own contacts, as Thomas did through an Indian priest. This context renders people’s display of religious knowledge even more prestigious. Reunionese Hindus’ learning biographies reflect a close relation between religious knowledge, social mobility, and pride. Priesthood and Facebook entrepreneurship offer alternative careers to official employment. In all the examples in this chapter, religious knowledge serves Reunionese Hindus to fashion selves and a religion that they may be proud of. In addition to perceiving the acquisition of knowledge as “productive pastime,” for some devotees the striving for and dissemination of knowledge is closely tied to claims for recognition. Reunionese Hindus’ wishes for recognition address different kinds of audiences. Religious knowledge serves both for social distinction among Reunionese Hindus and for recognition and social status in the

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broader Reunionese society. Through religious knowledge, Reunionese Hindus believe they have already and can continue to contribute to a better image of Hindu religion on the island. The powerful historical influence of the Catholic Church, which often claimed that Hindu religion was pagan, has encouraged Reunionese Hindus to acquire knowledge about their religion to explain that it is as valid as Catholicism. The efforts undertaken by individuals and religious and cultural associations to improve an already relatively positive image of Hinduism reveals the importance of the felt dimensions of recognition. Pride in religious knowledge is at least as important and powerful as institutional recognition. The religious knowledge Reunionese Hindus mobilize is not standardized. In Reunionese society, where the status of Hindu religion has improved when it started to become seen as a world religion in the course of the orientation toward India since the 1970s, but where many Reunionese simultaneously defend local traditions, the priests need to carefully consider how much knowledge from India they should or are able to apply to position themselves as Reunionese priests with a unique style, but also deserving of recognition from others. Similarly, managers of Facebook pages need to find a balance between displaying the diversity of Hinduism and focusing on what they think people will most likely admire about this religion. Reunionese Hindus’ self-making projects reflect aspirations toward preferred selves as they are expected in neoliberal societies. For many Reunionese, these aspired selves have professional success and knowledge-based awareness of their origins. They need to find ways to achieve such selves with all the structural constraints that neoliberal societies entail, which include a difficult job market but also the fact that creative and origin-conscious self-making requires recognition from others.

Notes 1. Sivacharya or Adisaiva designate a Hindu subcaste, generally considered Brahman, but traditionally inferior to non-priestly Smarta Brahman subcastes (Fuller 2003: 21). 2. Marco mixes Barldon and Mahabharata when saying Mahabarldon. The Barldon is a version of the Mahabharata, an important Indian epic. The story of the battle between two divine kingly families, the Barldon serves as the textual basis for the fire walking ritual. Its protagonist Pandialé, the goddess to whom many Reunionese dedicate their fire walking, is associated with the Mahabharata’s protagonist Draupadi. Here, Marco refers to a French version of the Mahabharata that he has read a number of times.

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References Bourdieu, Pierre. 1984. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Butler, Judith. 2008. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York: Routledge. Campbell, Heidi A., and Mia Lövheim. 2011. “Introduction: Rethinking the Online– Offline Connection in the Study of Religion Online.” Information, Communication & Society 14(8): 1083–96. Claveyrolas, Mathieu. 2014. “Un prêtre tamoul dans le chantier de l’hindouisme mauricien: Orthodoxies et autorité religieuse.” In Indianité et créolité à l’île Maurice, ed. Catherine Servan-Schreiber, 139–67. [Paris]: Collection purus.ārtha. Franchina, Loreley. 2018. “Did Pandialy Walk on Fire? The Refutation of an Ancestral Mythological Genesis as a Quest for Knowledge and Acknowledgement.” Interdisziplinäre Zeitschrift für Südasienforschung 3: 59–91. Fuller, Christopher J. 2003. The Renewal of the Priesthood: Modernity and Traditionalism in a South Indian Temple. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Gershon, Ilana. 2011. “Neoliberal Agency.” Current Anthropology 52(4): 537–55. Jeffrey, Craig. 2010. “Timepass: Youth, Class, and Time among Unemployed Young Men in India.” American Ethnologist 37(3): 465–81. Lang, Natalie. 2020. “Learning Death Rituals from Scratch: The Search for Meaning and Recognition of Hindus on Réunion.” Paideuma 66: 151–69. Lövheim, Mia. 2016. “Mediatization: Analyzing Transformations of Religion from a Gender Perspective.” Media, Culture & Society 38(1): 18–27. McGuigan, Jim. 2014. “The Neoliberal Self.” Culture Unbound 6: 223–40. Miller, Daniel, Elisabetta Costa, Nell Haynes, Tom McDonald, Razvan Nicolescu, Jolynna Sinanan, Juliano Spyer, Shriram Venkatraman, and Xinyuan Wang. 2016. How the World Changed Social Media. London: UCL Press. Nabokov, Isabelle. 2000. Religion against the Self: An Ethnography of Tamil Rituals. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Owen, Stephen. 2014. “Governing the Facebook Self: Social Network Sites and Neoliberal Subjects.” Ph.D. dissertation. Newcastle: University of Newcastle. Sueda, Kiyoko. 2014. Negotiating Multiple Identities: Shame and Pride among Japanese Returnees. Singapore: Springer. Taylor, Diana. 2003. The Archive and the Repertoire: Performing Cultural Memory in the Americas. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Verma, Michele. 2010. “The Education of Hindu Priests in the Diaspora: Assessing the Value of Community of Practice Theory.” Teaching and Teacher Education 26(1): 11–21.

CHAPTER 5

Strategic Bricolage

“Really, now, people need to realize that this is our heritage, that our ancestors have fought for this, and we really have to fight to keep all this, everything, even the small details, they make the difference. And it’s really a source of pride to have this. These are our origins. We really can’t lose them.” This statement by Sarasvati, aged twenty, points out the importance many Reunionese Hindus attribute to their ancestors and the desire to honor them by conserving that heritage. But who these ancestors are, and what “heritage” people refer to, varies. Ancestors may be seen as sources of pride, or experienced as a historical weight that people want to let go of. Some Reunionese, for example, ignore part of their ancestry to claim pure Indian rather than mixed descent. Others are proud of their métissage. With ancestors from different parts of the world, various ethnic backgrounds and religious traditions, and with new relations to ancestral places like India or China, come various religious options. With their diverse origins, Reunionese may and need to choose. This chapter is about how Reunionese Hindus deal with the choices and limitations involved with engaging with diverse religious practices. Reunionese Hindus’ religious choices often reflect underlying wishes for social distinction (Bourdieu 1984). Yet the lines of distinction are often blurred, for there is no clear hierarchy of practices. Different people combine different practices and accord them different values, sometimes contradictorily. Without official institutions that would homogenize religious knowledge and practice and draw clearer distinctions between “high” and “low” practices and between “religion” and “magic,” aspiring Reunionese Hindus take on and develop diverse forms of knowledge and practices. Nevertheless, concern about the image of Hindu religion remains omnipresent, and this concern requires strategic balancing in people’s religious choices. Reunionese Hindus often strategically position themselves at the interface of different forms of

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knowledge. In the previous chapter, this included Reunionese and Indian forms of knowledge, limited but sufficient Tamil language knowledge, as well as textual and bodily knowledge. In this chapter, I look at how individuals strategically position themselves in regard to “double” or “multiple” religiosities, vegetarian and non-vegetarian practices, and how they differentiate “religion” from “magic.” The ways practitioners engage with diverse religious practices has given rise to many scholarly reflections. Peter van der Veer (1994) has suggested considering syncretism a discursive rather than analytical tool. Furthermore, syncretism seems to focus more on the religious traditions than on the actors, and implies pre-existing and clearly bounded religious entities mixed together to create new, syncretistic forms. Such entities represent the personal perspective of the researcher who has to decide which practices and beliefs belong to which religion, a categorization that may entail arbitrary ascriptions of interpretational sovereignty to certain interest groups. As an alternative to syncretism, Vineeta Sinha suggests a shift away from assumed religious systems that are mixed to focusing on the “mixing and matching . . . process of picking, choosing and enacting a style of religiosity preferred by a practitioner” (2009: 97). Furthermore, Sinha (2009) mentions that such picking and choosing also has its limits. These limits may not only be set by authorizing institutions, but also by the practitioners themselves. Véronique Altglas (2014) emphasizes the balance between people’s choices and constraints even more in her concept of bricolage. Criticizing earlier bricolage approaches that pursue methodological individualism and overlook social contexts, Altglas points out that “spiritual seekers” in neo-Hindu ashrams and Kabbalah centers in France and Britain reveal a drive for self-realization through such “exotic” religious resources, which stems from the constraints and expectations of Western societies and economies. She sees bricolage as a social practice to pursue aims for social distinction and class mobility. Altglas notes that the educational format of the religious teachings that these spiritual seekers participate in resembles the educational format of universities and professional training, which usually present means for social mobility for the middle class. Alongside their spiritual desires, participants also seek to acquire emotional skills and cultural capital they eventually hope to turn into successful careers and economic capital as well. Rather than overcoming social norms through individual religious projects, spiritual seekers’ wishes for self-realization correspond to what neoliberal politics and economies prescribe. Furthermore, the diverse practices that spiritual

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seekers engage with are often not so diverse after all, stemming from a pool of possibilities made accessible to them and that conform to the wishes and needs of those in search of spiritual development (Altglas 2014). In the following, I consider at once how some Reunionese present themselves as open to diverse practices, how this openness reflects concrete aims at social mobility, and how their engagement with diverse practices also entails constraints. While an actor-centered perspective needs to consider when people claim openness, as much as when they claim recognition of their religious practices according to alleged pre-existing entities, I acknowledge that processes of “mixing and matching” also have their limits (Sinha 2009) and “bricolage” also reflects structural constraints (Altglas 2014). This perspective also complicates Charles Taylor’s (2007) idea about religion as an option in the contemporary secular world. Taylor describes how a shift has come about—from an age of Christendom to an age of options, including unbelief. La Réunion is French and thus has undergone such a historical shift from an age of Christianity, in which the Catholic Church played a vital role that was intertwined with the state, to an age of religious choice, established by the French principle of laïcité. However, although the shift was a dramatic move away from Catholicism, it has not eradicated history. The dominant role of the Catholic Church has produced French Catholic citizens who need to undertake conscious efforts to leave their Catholic religion behind, if they should want to. Furthermore, unlike the Western contexts described by Taylor, in Reunionese society, being religious is the norm rather than the exception. Non-belief is not an option to many Reunionese, who may find it easier to leave their Catholic upbringing behind in favor of other religious orientations. Furthermore, ancestral ties offer religious possibilities, but they can also present constraints and have stigmas attached to them. The emergence of a Reunionese society made up of people with various migration backgrounds, the historical importance of the Catholic Church, and ambivalent French national identification, produced options and obstacles when relating to ancestral religions.

Multiple Religiosities “Double religiosity” (double religiosité), also called double religion (double religion), is an important local notion in La Réunion, by which my

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interlocutors meant performing both Catholic and Hindu practices. While some Reunionese double religiosity appears as hierarchical inclusivism, wherein Catholic beliefs and practices are incorporated into Hindu religious life, I also acknowledge that many of my interlocutors emphasize that these are different traditions. As the religious lives of many Reunionese include multiple orientations, the term “multiple religiosities” I am using here refers to the local concept of “double religiosity” while not limiting it to two assumed religions. While some Reunionese move away from their “double religiosity” to focus on Hinduism, a decision also supported by the Catholic Church and the Fédération Tamoule, who both see the need to choose one religion, I met a number of practitioners who continued to perform both practices. Most of them appeared to consider Hinduism somewhat more “cool” or “hip” than Catholicism. Ten-year-old Milo, for instance, made me chuckle when he went to attend the kavadi procession the same day he received his first communion in the church. The first communion seemed more important to his grandmother than to Milo, who rushed out of the communion as soon he could to fetch his drums and join the kavadi. However, the engagement with different religions can also present a source of pride. Lakshmi, for instance, whom I have described as carrying kavadi without attributing importance to India, displays an open attitude toward diverse forms of religious knowledge and practices. Lakshmi began her narration of her religious life by explaining that she was attached to both Hindu and Catholic practices, as she had grown up with both of them. Although raised as an only child by her mother, who was more inclined toward Hindu than to Catholic worship during my fieldwork, Lakshmi’s grandmother had a great influence on her religious life, as she spent a lot of time with her in their family temple and in church. On the basis of her family name, Lakshmi assumes to also have Muslim origins from Pakistan in addition to her Tamil origins. However, her grandmother refuses to talk to her about this issue, and so Lakshmi does not know anything about the origins of her great-grandparents. In contrast to others of Lakshmi’s generation who choose Hinduism while leaving Catholicism behind, she presents herself as making the conscious decision to continue both Hindu and Catholic practices. Before she made this choice, she had once tried to “escape” from the life she was unhappy with, which included “abandoning” Hinduism by not fasting for the festivals anymore even when her family fasted, and by moving to Metropolitan France for two years, where she found life horrible. When she returned to La Réunion life became better. She met

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her partner and became a mother. Her child was baptized Catholic. Carrying kavadi after having begged for her mother’s approval for several years presented an important moment to be thankful about her life. She repeatedly emphasized that she was proud to follow both religions and the possibility to have this choice meant laïcité to her. Lakshmi’s decision to perform both Hindu and Catholic practices cannot merely be read as reminiscent of the historical power of the Catholic Church, but also as a way to attain different and specific aims. In both religions, she has asked for favors, which were granted. Lakshmi’s presentation of herself, as consciously choosing to continue both religious traditions, is especially interesting when one considers the prominent contemporary discourse in La Réunion that the colonialists forced Hindus and other religious groups to convert to Catholicism. An actorcentered perspective that takes seriously how Lakshmi presents herself requires me to take a more nuanced perspective on the victimizing relation that both researchers and Reunionese inhabitants often associate with Catholic conversion. While in the prevailing discourse, Reunionese had little choice but to convert, and some historical sources support this discourse, Lakshmi’s attitude also demonstrates the benefits that Reunionese may see in multiple religiosity today. As I will explain later in the chapter, Lakshmi would like to be even more creative by adding ritual possession to her way of practicing Hindu religion. This wish, however, reveals itself as difficult to realize, as she does not have the necessary support from people who accept her becoming possessed and who could help her find out by whom she is possessed. The relation between religious practices and personal aspirations is also important to Raphaël, the banker in his early twenties whom I have introduced as proclaiming disinterest in India but traveling to India some time later. Raphaël participates in fire walking and kavadi and goes to Hindu and Chinese temples. He was raised Catholic, but did not feel that he was “getting something back from this religion.” He therefore wanted to see what Hindu religion could offer him. When he started fire walking, he immediately felt that his life improved: he was ill less often and had greater success at school, at university, and at work. Statements like “it’s not worth anything to walk on fire if one does not demand anything; it’s like eating without being hungry” express his utilitarian attitude toward religion. Raphaël also states that he selects those aspects he likes best from different religions. In addition to Hindu religion, Chinese worship attracted him. Raphaël tells me about Indian and Chinese ancestors, adding that he may even have Madagascan an-

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cestors, “who knows.” As with fire walking, he links his worship of the Chinese divinized warrior Guandi to demands for specific things to help him advance in life. His interest in different religions also drove him to live in a Buddhist monastery in Thailand for a few days. Raphaël explains his openness toward other religions by the respect that one has to give to others: “If you do not understand what the other is doing, you won’t advance.” Raphaël’s opinion that religiosity has to be grounded in knowledge comes through repeatedly in expressions such as “you have to know what you are doing.” His precise answers to my questions also led me to assume that he often reflects on his attitudes and on the role that religion plays in his life. Nevertheless, this does not render less remarkable the direct connection he sees between his religious “art of living,” as he calls it, and “advancement” in his life. An actor-centered perspective needs to attend to the ways Lakshmi and Raphaël present themselves as creative religious engineers. Yet, the ambiguous character of the practitioners’ religious lives in terms of freedom of choice and creativity is very important. Raphaël proudly emphasizes his practice of bricolage in that he presents himself as picking and choosing the practices and explanations he likes. Although Lakshmi continues the two forms of religion that she grew up with, she proudly presents herself as actively choosing to do so, against the advice of those who urge people to choose one religion. While Raphaël’s bricolage appears more creative and “free” than Lakshmi’s, the choices of both reflect their social relations and aims. Furthermore, Altglas (2014) suggests that the acts of bricolage by the spiritual seekers of her research indeed conform to the norm of a self-managed person seeking to improve the self. Similar to Altglas’s observations on spiritual seekers, Raphaël’s engagement with different practices and his educational approach to religion reflect a notion of a neoliberal self that he constantly needs to improve and manage. The openness of their religious orientations that some Reunionese Hindus emphasize is sometimes less eclectic than they perceive and present it. While people’s emphasis on openness makes an important contribution to the selves they are making, this openness also has its limits. Reunionese practitioners cannot take their ancestral relations for granted, rather they need to actively choose to engage with some of them and sometimes also fail to do so. Searching for an alternative conceptualization of what has often been described as religious syncretism, Sinha suggests focusing research on “how practitioners deal with the noted religious distinctions, how religious boundaries are marked

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and, most crucially, what kind of engagements are deemed possible and permissible despite the recognition of differences and boundaries” (2009: 86). In her study on Hindu religiosity in Singapore, this approach leads her to the observation that practitioners cross religious boundaries officially drawn by the Hindu Endowment Board and the Singaporean State. But “mixing and matching” (my emphasis) indicates that mixing also has its limits, that those ideas that are mixed also need to be matchable. For instance, while there is a lot of overlap between Hindu and Taoist places of worship in Singapore, and while a Hindu would pray to a Muslim saint at a shrine, he or she would rather not pray in a mosque (Sinha 2009). Among my interlocutors in La Réunion, the Catholic-Hindu “double religiosity” was the most common combination. While a few also incorporated Chinese forms of worship, a combination of Catholic and/or Hindu religiosity with Muslim religiosity, as performed by Reunionese of Gujarati descent, appears to be more difficult. Although Nargoulan is a Muslim saint whom the ancestors are said to have asked for safe journey before leaving India and who is venerated in many Reunionese temples among other divinities, engaging with Muslim practices appears to be extremely rare. Engaging with Malgache practices to value Madagascan origins can also be difficult. Although some Reunionese combine Hindu religiosity with Madagascan practices, I also observed attempts that did not work out. Marie, for instance, the young woman who traveled to India (chapter 3) and is responsible for a Facebook page (chapter 4), was interested in Madagascan ceremonies performed by a branch of her family. She therefore chose to not eat goat. The symbolic meanings of food prohibitions are very important in La Réunion. Whereas beef can be an important offered meat in Malgache ceremonies, Malbars are not supposed to eat beef. By contrast, while Malgaches distinguish themselves by not eating goat, sharing sacrificed goat after the ceremony is an identity-establishing practice for many Malbars. Michelle, my first host mother, a Catholic woman of Madagascan descent, did not appreciate it when I brought cooked goat meat home from the temple and placed it in her refrigerator. While these food restrictions and distinctions do not concern Catholic-Malbar double religiosity, they present a challenge for those who want to show respect toward both their Malbar and Malgache ancestors. After Marie had chosen to refrain from eating goat in respect of the Malgache part of the family, she was once accidentally served goat during a Malbar temple festival. This made her realize that people were right when they said that it was difficult to eat according

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to both Malbar and Malgache food restrictions. Marie then decided that she could not spread her interests too broadly, and she should focus on Hindu religion. Marie’s unsuccessful engagement with Madagascan practices, which she explains by mutually exclusive food practices, also illustrates that she finds that Hindu religion offers her more. As the first of her family to go to “big” temples, to learn the Tamil language and Bharatanatyam, and with a mother who supports this orientation and travels with her to India, Marie pursues a self-making project with Hindu religion and India as central points. In contrast to Lakshmi’s and Raphaël’s self-proclaimed openness, investing in Madagascan practices turned out not to fit Marie’s project. At a later point in this chapter, I will show that Marie also feels uneasy about some of her “Hindu” practices. Highlighting the multiple religious possibilities Reunionese have shown at once that bricolage is often less free and eclectic than it may appear. Reunionese Hindus choose their religious practices in the context of complex underlying constraints and aspirations—and they need to find strategic balance. In contrast to Taylor’s emphasis on religion as an option, Reunionese’ religious choices are often informed by the historical dominance of the Catholic Church and by their ancestral backgrounds, although it is for each practitioner to decide which of the multiple ancestral ties to valorize. Like the dominant discourses about choosing one religion, self-confident valorization of multiple religiosity can also serve as a means of self-making. In many cases, Reunionese openly talk about the specific aims that underlie their religious practices. Such strategic choices between engaging with diverse practices and focusing on what best suits their personal aspirations and structural circumstances also include different Hindu traditions.

Sacrificing Animals, Vegetables, and the Self I stopped counting. It must have been twenty goats and over two hundred cocks in two hours. Ritually prepared, ritually slaughtered, the bleating and screeching heads thrown onto piles, the jumping and fluttering corpses thrown into large green trash containers. Two men needed to hold these containers tight, as the beheaded bodies violently wriggled inside, until the men rolled them into the temple’s kitchen. It was my first Karly festival. I noted in my field diary that I should wear a dark punjabi next time, for I feared that all the blood that my punjabi trousers soaked up from the ground would leave stains. In the course of

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my fieldwork, I would participate in many more rituals with animal sacrifices. The stains always washed out, but my nose kept remembering the smell of warm blood for days. Animal sacrifices are a central element in many religious festivals in Reunionese “small” temples. These festivals may attract several hundred people. Many Reunionese Hindus feel drawn to the goddess Karly, whom they associate with granting wealth and success, and who requests animal sacrifices. Sacrificing cocks (Creole: coup coq) and goats (Creole: coup cabri) in particular is a source of esteem. Buying or even raising these animals is expensive and requires considerable effort. Those who bring animals to sacrifice in the temple not only receive the benevolence of the goddess but also esteem from the temple community, who all share the cooked food afterward. After a Bharatanatyam performance by a Reunionese dancer, I talked with Deepan, the middle-aged Reunionese of Pondicherrian origin who had sarcastically remarked that there was no baptism in Hinduism (chapter 4). He spoke dismissively of those Malbars on the island who would rather spend money on sacrificing goats than for culture like the dance performance we had just witnessed and had attracted only a small audience in his opinion. Deepan stated that most Malbars were actually Catholic and only performed Malbar festivities for fun. He also called the participation in festivals without knowing their symbolic meaning a “religion of fear,” stating that many people took part for fear of losing their cultural heritage. Deepan’s judgmental characterization of the Malbar population and the associations he makes between their double religiosity, animal sacrifices, and a lack of knowledge, shows that he is proud to distinguish himself through his “India experience” due to his regular stays in India, and through his Tamil language knowledge and a “taste for culture.” Deepan’s display of knowledge during our conversations fits with his interactions on Facebook, where he distinguishes himself by posting poems in Tamil, for instance. When I saw Deepan several months later during a Karly festival in a temple he was invited to, I was amused to observe him watch the scene of sacrificing a goat slack-jawed through the camera of his phone as if he had never seen such a thing before. “Taste classifies, and it classifies the classifier” (Bourdieu 1984: 6). But Reunionese Hindus’ acts of distinction are messier than what Pierre Bourdieu describes for the French bourgeoisie. Deepan’s dismissive perspective on animal sacrifices is contrasted by many who perceive animal sacrifices as essential and very powerful elements of their ancestors’

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traditions. In La Réunion, both vegetarianism and animal sacrifices can present strategies that aspiring middle-class devotees employ. Furthermore, it is difficult to draw a clear frontier between Brahminical and non-Brahminical tendencies, as people usually make strategic choices in different aspects. Christopher J. Fuller writes on Hinduism in India: “It is now generally accepted that the religion is not split into two (or more) separate strata, each with its own body of distinctive beliefs and practices” (1992: 26). Nevertheless, Fuller points toward the ideological narratives promoted by specific groups seeking to present their beliefs and practices as superior to those of others and toward the tendency to make certain institutional divisions between Shiva or Vishnu temples, which typically have Brahmin priests, hold vegetarian rituals in Sanskrit, and have high-caste devotees on the one side, and other temples, which have non-Brahmin priests, hold non-vegetarian festivals, perform rituals in vernacular languages, and have low-caste practitioners on the other (Fuller 1992: 27–28). Despite such trends, it is difficult to divide Hindu religious practices into higher versus lower, great versus little, or Brahmin versus popular traditions, which kavadi itself exemplifies. In La Réunion, Brahmin priests from India perform the ceremonies in the temples during Mourouga festivals, while Reunionese priests undertake tasks when preparing the procession, which includes piercing the devotees. Jean Benoist ascribes the festival a “double identity, Brahminic and popular” (1998: 68, my translation). Ron Geaves (2007), who has undertaken research on Saivism in South India and in different diasporic contexts, notes that Murugan worship is influenced by Agamic Saiva Siddhanta and simultaneously contains elements of possession and emotional immediacy. Geaves counters M. N. Srinivas’s theory of Sanskritization by showing that Hindus of lower caste background adopt Brahminical practices and narratives, but exchange and adoption of practices goes in both directions. The acceptance of bhakti movements by people of higher status, like Vellalars and Brahmins who participate in kavadi, is an example of this (Geaves 2007: 258–61). Similarly, people’s choices concerning Brahminizing tendencies and vegetarianism can be diverse. Indians might, for instance, give their children brahminized names and adopt brahminized rituals, while they distinguish themselves from the vegetarianism propagated by Hindu nationalism by eating meat. In La Réunion, I met only few vegetarians, and Deepan is not one of them. The discussions in La Réunion are more about vegetarian and nonvegetarian offerings and ritual fasting than about daily food practices outside the fasting periods.

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The choice between vegetarian and non-vegetarian offerings entails continuous and ongoing negotiations. Offerings for Karly, Pandialé, Pétiaye, Mardévirin, Mini, and the goulous (ancestors), all of which are usually held in “small” temples, usually include animal sacrifices. In contrast, offerings in ceremonies for Mourouga, Shiva, Govinden, and Vishnou, all of which are mostly in “big” temples, as well as most ceremonies for Marliemmen, which are held in both “big” and “small” temples, are vegetarian. This list of divinities is not exhaustive. Furthermore, I have heard different explanations about whether Karly and Pandialé, or their respective guardians, or their respective vehicle animals, request and consume the meat. Nevertheless, vegetarianism is often associated with the orientation toward India (and partly through Mauritius). At least two of the “big” temples that today organize kavadi for Mourouga and are therefore vegetarian were previously dedicated primarily to Karly, for whom animal sacrifices were conducted. Furthermore, vegetarian offerings seem to have replaced animal sacrifices during some festivals, as, for instance, during fire walking for Marliemmen where pumpkins are cut in the same manner as goats. Some negotiations of (non)vegetarian practices reveal a tension between apparent expectations to adopt vegetarian worship practices and the need to appropriately honor the ancestors. For example, a rumor spread that a temple that now holds fire walking for Marliemmen was previously dedicated to Karly who requires animal sacrifices. The temple president is said to deny this fact and claim that it was always a vegetarian temple. According to the rumor, an Indian priest from the neighboring Mourouga temple, which is practically on the same ground, tried to force the Reunionese priest to transform his temple into a vegetarian one dedicated to Marliemmen. The Reunionese priest refused, and all the subsequent fire walkings went wrong: they were dangerous, people were burned, the ambulance had to come, the clay pots containing flames carried by women on their heads crashed on the ground. All this was accompanied by a conflict between members of the temple association. Although it was now dedicated to Marliemmen, Karly still lived in the temple, and no longer received any animal sacrifices. This was the reason for the accidents. To remedy the temple’s poor reputation for fire walking, the priest is said to have started secretly sacrificing a cock the night before the fire walking ceremony to please the divinities and guardians, and to thereby ensure that the fire walking goes well. One of my interlocutors added that a family member is said to have betrayed the priest’s secret and concluded that since the priest started the secret

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animal sacrifices about ten years ago, the fire walking ceremonies have all gone well. When I attended a fire walking in the temple in 2015, the ground was so overcrowded with spectators that they sat high up in trees to watch. It went well. While scholars working on La Réunion have interpreted the adoption of vegetarianism from India as a strategy of socially aspiring devotees (e.g. Benoist 1979: 46–62; Nicaise 2008), my research suggests that vegetarianism is only one of multiple orientations resulting from the new orientation to India and the link between vegetarianism, India, and middle-class aspirations is not always so clear. Even arguments for the conduct of animal sacrifices can come from the recently established contact with India. For examples, some Reunionese Hindus argue that animal sacrifices are also conducted in India today and should therefore continue in La Réunion. Moreover, arguments for animal sacrifices include that they are ancestral traditions. What Singaporean Hindus perceive as “bringing back the old ways,” reveals how ancestral knowledge and practices need as much fashioning and reinvention as claims to adapt “new” knowledge and practices do (Sinha 2014). The arguments for animal sacrifices in La Réunion also address moral, political, or legal issues. These different dimensions become apparent in a discussion on Facebook about animal sacrifices that involved fifty-eight people, most of whom were Reunionese. The moral dimensions discussed included a comparison to mass meat production. One commenter argued that mass meat production was worse than ritual sacrifice, as ritual sacrifice was about sharing, while mass production entailed the production of meat in inacceptable conditions and created waste. More importantly, many comments claimed the right to maintain an ancestral tradition, with the terms “ancestors” and “tradition” being most often employed. Linked to this were accusations that the French state had overrun local “traditions” and specificities. The Facebook debate took place against the background of 2007 discussions, when animal sacrifices were subject to negotiations with the French administration. That year, the local Prefecture in La Réunion proposed an enactment for defining the sanitary conditions during ritual sacrifices of goats. The proposal included a list of conditions: the animals had to come from official breeders, veterinarians should examine the animals on site before the sacrifice, the religious authorities should designate professional “sacrificers” and forward their names to the Prefect each year, and the waste should be disposed of in licensed waste centers (see Champion n.d.). The proposal generated heated debates.

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Temple officials felt their practices were threatened and insisted there had been no incidence of diseases stemming from rituals, manipulation by a veterinarian would ritually pollute the animal, and animal sacrifices were important for their cultural identity, something France should respect.1 Defending the proposal, the Prefecture argued that it was not about abolishing animal sacrifices, but about regulating them to accord them legal status (see Champion n.d.). The Fédération Tamoule responded to the proposal by arguing that the sacrifice on tiles instead of earth, as demanded in the sanitary instructions, did not correspond to the symbolic meaning of sacrificing on earth. Furthermore, the Fédération Tamoule argued that no meat contamination had ever resulted from animal sacrifices in La Réunion and gathered scientific evidence to demonstrate that the meat was cooked at a high enough temperature during festivals to avoid any risk of contamination. In addition, the Fédération Tamoule cooperated with the Direction des Services Vétérinaires (veterinary services) to create awareness about waste collection. These negotiations united the otherwise conflicting Reunionese Hindu federations. While the FTP usually accuses the Fédération Tamoule of defending “big” temples and neglecting “small” ones, in the case of animal sacrifices, a priest of an intermediary temple said “we fought on the same side.” Some scholars have suggested that the continued importance of animal sacrifices and other non-Brahmin practices among middle-class devotees may be due to the need for effective rituals for the health and financial problems that concern all social classes (see Babb 1975: 212– 14). In addition to the direct wishes for health, employment, financial, or other benefits that practitioners may link to their offerings and penitence, animal sacrifices can also serve as a means of displaying social status. Indira Arumugam (2015) sees the renewed importance of animal sacrifices in a South Indian village as a reversal of the trend to adopt Brahminic values that were previously linked to wishes for social mobility. After a long period of Brahmin dominance in the village, the Kallar caste has become the dominant caste, and its forms of sacrifice now define social prestige. Arumugam considers that members of this caste group assert their social status and success through these rituals, while they are simultaneously aware of the competitiveness and the problems of social reproduction they face, as they are still economically dependent on agriculture. In a similar way, Reunionese Hindus can display their economic success and assert their social status through animal

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sacrifices. In addition, personal preferences can be equally important, and may be linked to animal rights, taste, or a host of other aspects. Whereas some completely reject animal sacrifices and others proudly claim them as tradition, there are others who maintain more ambiguous positions and struggle to find a more balanced position. Liliane, a middleclass Hindu woman in her fifties, goes to the Amma ashram (Amritanandamayi), carries milk during kavadi, pierces her cheek and tongue, walks on fire, and strictly fasts in preparation for these penitence rituals. Her sacrifices thus include financial, vegetarian, bodily, and emotional offerings. Liliane once stated: “I like everything but animal sacrifices. Earlier, I used to go, but not anymore. I don’t like it.” When she realized that a cousin who conducts animal sacrifices in her family temple stood beside her, I could feel how Liliane was searching for a conciliatory explanation until she said hesitantly: “It’s not that I don’t like it, I don’t do it anymore. I respect it, I think that it is a tradition that needs to be maintained, but personally, I don’t want to do it anymore.” Liliane’s argument is torn between her personal preferences—which may or may not reflect her middle-class status—and her awareness that this is a tradition important to many Reunionese, including members of her family. Similar attempts to display as neutral a position as possible also attracted my attention on Facebook. Marie explains her decision not to show animal sacrifices on her page by the fact that it might shock people (see chapter 4). Jayashri adjusted her initial statement—she does not publish animal sacrifices—to stating that she would publish them, as long as there was not too much blood. A photographer for Jayashri’s Facebook page told me that he does not take pictures of coup cabri anymore because they would shock people. Marie, Jayashri, and her photographer claim that they do not show these pictures because they want to present Hinduism as a beautiful religion to both a Hindu and non-Hindu public. At the same time, I would suggest that their positions also reflect their hesitation about being identified with animal sacrifices; indeed, they neither want to publish arguments against animal sacrifice, nor do they want to offer them a space for publicity on Facebook. If one looks at vibrant debates about animal sacrifices on other Facebook pages, their attempts at neutrality are especially understandable. On another Facebook page, a Reunionese video of goats being sacrificed created heated discussion in English, French, and Creole among people from La Réunion, Mauritius, Guadeloupe, Thailand, India, and other

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places. Although the over thirty comments included compliments and affirmations of shared pride, they also included fierce critique in the form of sad, indignant, and angry emoticons and in expressions like “Y not kill humans? Your god will be more happy!! Wtf” and “Go to hell. its nt prayer. Its crime. Go to hell” [sic]. These reactions illustrate reasons for the reluctant attitude of people like Marie, Jayashri, and the photographer and their dominant concern: to present Hinduism as a valid and beautiful religion to a broader public. Opposed, embarrassed, proud, and ambivalent attitudes toward animal sacrifice have also been described in other postcolonial Hindu contexts. According to Steven Vertovec, with few people of South Indian descent, animal sacrifice is almost non-existent in Surinam, while the Kali Puja, which includes animal sacrifice, is celebrated in Madrassi contexts in Trinidad, and in Guyana, where it is more important (2000: 59). The legalization and thus “recognition” of animal sacrifice ceremonies in Guyana in the 1970s, before which they were held in secret (Kloß 2016), appears as an almost simultaneous development to the move from sorcery to pride in La Réunion. However, compared to Guyana, where Kali Puja and Madrassis continue to be strongly stigmatized, and Sanatan Hindus regard their practices as uneducated, or even demonic (Kloß 2016), Karly festivals in La Réunion seem less broadly condemned and feature more animal sacrifice.2 The difference in numbers of sacrificed animals may be explained by ritual differences. Kali Puja in Guyana usually includes only three sacrificed goats for three respective divinities, and these goats are only shared among the priests and men heavily involved in the temple (Kloß personal conversation). By contrast, Karly festivals La Réunion include the sacrifice of many more goats, which are then shared with all devotees and even with invited guests and neighbors. The possibility of gaining social status through animal sacrifices is thus open to more devotees. Furthermore, while Sinah Theres Kloß links the “revitalization” of the Madras tradition of Kali Puja in Guyana to difficult socioeconomic conditions (2016: 96–99), well-situated Reunionese Hindus display their wealth by spending significant amounts of money on animal sacrifices. Despite the fact that some Reunionese criticize the rituals, animal sacrifices are an important means of displaying pride and garnering prestige. The different attitudes to animal sacrifice may be due, at least in part, to demographic differences. Whereas the Reunionese Hindus in my research are primarily of South Indian origin, the majority of Caribbean Hindus are of North Indian descent, apart from Guadeloupe and Marti-

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nique, which had majorities of South Indian origins. Moreover, against Vertovec’s assumption that “the growing prominence of a generalized ‘Hinduism’ or ‘Sanatan Dharm’ is found throughout the diaspora” (2000: 105), the homogenizing influence of Brahmin-dominated Sanatan Dharm organizations or other standardizing institutions is missing in La Réunion. The Fédération Tamoule, the largest umbrella association in La Réunion, is not comparable to organizations that promote standardization such as Sanatan Dharm in the Caribbean, and most of its members value religious diversity. The federation facilitated the arrival of a number of Indian priests in La Réunion, who were trained in the same or similar institutions in India, and some of whom are from the same families. This has led to many similarities in the forms of worship and the organization of kavadi at some of La Réunion’s “big” temples. However, the less than ten “big” temples, depending on what you count as “big,” are not officially representative of Hindu religion in La Réunion, where “small” temples play important roles as well. A number of fire walking and animal sacrificing temples are among the members of the Fédération Tamoule, and, as I showed above, the federation supports non-vegetarian temples when animal sacrifices are under threat. If at all, the French state represents an axis of “standardization,” which shows in attempts to control animal sacrifices and in the necessity of creating religious associations. The importance of French laicist politics and state administration might even be among the reasons for the lack of Hindu institutional and ideological standardization. Negotiations about sacrificing animals, vegetables, and the self can reflect personal preferences and social strategies that are linked to attempts at social distinction and to wishes for recognition. Middle-class Hindus strengthened relations to India, and social aspirations do not necessarily lead to vegetarianism or more spiritual forms of worship. Rather, many socially aspiring Reunionese Hindus, with and without contact to India, also claim animal sacrifices as a source of cultural pride. Nevertheless, individual as well as formal and informal organizations or groups actively seek recognition for their religion, and attempts to improve its image certainly impact on the negotiation of religious contents. Both more self-confident and more hesitant Reunionese Hindus need to strategically balance their wishes for recognition, which requires the display of a beautiful image of Hindu religion, with their wishes for the assured conduct and continuation of local practices and for the continuation of the ancestors’ practices. In addition to the multiple religiosities and the different kinds of sacrifices I have looked at

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in this chapter so far, the distinction between religion and magic is under continuous negotiation, and can equally entail social and personal strategies.

Religion and Magic When Michelle, my Catholic host mother during the first four months of my stay, learned that I planned to attend my first Karly festival in a Hindu temple, she became outraged and told me: “We don’t want to frighten you, but we want you to understand where not to go, so that you won’t tell us later that we didn’t warn you. You will catch evil.” Michelle’s daughter agreed with her mother and explained to me that the place I wanted to go was haunted by the dead and by evil spirits, and that people only went there if they were cursed. A friend of the family added that I might need a priest afterwards to remove the evil spirit, and that would cost me a lot of money. My Catholic host family with Madagascan origins differentiated between “big” vegetarian Hindu temples, which I was welcome to attend, and “small” temples with animal sacrifices and sorcery, where I would risk bringing the evil into the house with me, and thereby also endangering the family. This was the first of many instances during my research when I heard about sorcery. Accusations of sorcery in La Réunion seem to be more visible than Jeanne Favret-Saada assumes for the Bocage region in France today (2009: 15–16), and less visible than they have been described in African states, where a number of reports have been commissioned by governments (e.g. Comaroff and Comaroff 1999: 285, Fisiy and Geschiere 2001: 226). Everyday life in La Réunion contains many stories about jealousy and many people protect themselves against the evil eye (Creole: mové zyé, French: mauvais œil). There is great fear of evil, which you can “catch,” for instance, when walking past a dead chicken next to a plastic bag filled with ritual objects at crossroads. I heard claims that sorcery had been responsible for murder and for curses that had made people ill or had hindered them from advancing in life. However, I never saw the performance of any rituals to perform or counter sorcery. Other ethnographers (Favret-Saada 1980: 17–21: West 2007: 10) have been confronted in similar ways with sorcery as an unexpected topic for the researcher, and with the difficulty of gathering more detailed information about it .

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In conversations with Reunionese, I tried not to impose the categories of religion, magic, and sorcery to find out about their own perceptions. For most of my interlocutors, sorcery (French: sorcellerie) generally has negative connotations, and they would never claim to perform sorcery themselves, but would only accuse others of doing so. Magic (French: magie), by contrast, can also have more positive associations to some Reunionese, especially those who claim pride in their magical power. I have never come across positive associations with the expression of “black magic” (French: magie noire) though. Acknowledging the diversity of local understandings, I have chosen to use the term “magic” without determining whether these practices have good or bad intentions, and “sorcery” when my interlocutors referred to practices that, in their opinion, implied evil. Accusing Hindu priests of sorcery, which often is accompanied by statements such as “this is not religion,” implies that the accuser refuses to recognize the priests’ practices as religion. When these accusations come from non-Hindus, it ultimately implies that the accuser does not recognize Hinduism as a religion. The decline in accusations against Hindu priests of performing sorcery therefore goes hand-in-hand with its increasing recognition as a religion. In Reunionese publications from the 1960s, the term “religion” almost exclusively referred to Catholicism, although Islam was also afforded the title (Nicaise 2010: 168–70). According to Nicaise, the disregard toward Hinduism as a religion changed in the 1980s, when anthropological approaches, especially one led by Christian Barat, acknowledged La Réunion’s religious pluralism and the difficulty of separating out religion, traditional medicine, magic, and sorcery from one another within ritual practices. These are from then on understood as forming a continuum in La Réunion (Nicaise 2010: 170–72). Despite such perspectives, many Reunionese Hindus still wish to establish a Hinduism without sinister aspects and without any connotations of magic. The creation of religious and cultural associations resulted, among other reasons, from the desire to counter the common perception among the Reunionese population that Hindu practices were sorcery. Even today, Facebook managers Marie and Jayashri emphasize the importance of displaying a positive image of Hindu religion to outsiders. Jacqueline Andoche (1988, 2007) observes that, in contrast to Metropolitan France, where those accused of sorcery are members of the victims’ communities, in La Réunion the accused are more likely to

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greatly differ culturally and socially from the victim’s ethnic group. Unlike African slaves, Indian indentured laborers in La Réunion remained British subjects and were allowed to maintain some of their own cultural practices, which Andoche sees as a reason for accusations of sorcery against Hindu priests during colonialism. She argues further that although Reunionese of South Indian origin are now mostly well integrated into Reunionese society, the fact that they have at least partially maintained a distinct cultural identity still provokes negative associations with sorcery. Nevertheless, other Reunionese, for example, of African or Madagascan descent, were also associated with sorcery (Ghasarian 2010). More recently, Comorian immigrants are associated with sorcery more than any other group, as they are perceived as the foreign other (Andoche 1988). Although accusations of sorcery by other “ethnic” groups indeed bring about ethno-religious groups in these particular moments—categories otherwise difficult to define in the Reunionese context of mixed origins and multiple religiosities—in contrast to Andoche’s observations, I heard more accusations of sorcery among and within Hindu families. To distinguish themselves from other priests or temples, some Reunionese Hindus dismiss others’ practices as sorcery, and therefore not religion. Accusing others of sorcery also entails the acceptance that sorcery and magic do exist, something some deny. Raphaël, for instance, strategically combines different religious practices but denies the existence of magic, and says he would not attempt to engage in magical practices. His area of choice is therefore restricted to what he defines as the religious realm. A representative member of the Fédération Tamoule reacted to my question about magical practices in a very direct way: “This does not exist among us.” He regarded magical practices as a derivation and misinterpretation of religion. In his view, a priest is not a professional in medicine, and when sick, one should go to a hospital. Likewise, it is not enough to pray to the gods for help in an exam, rather, one actually has to work for it. Later he said: “Hinduism is not commerce. If you light ten incense sticks, you break open ten coconuts, coup ten goats, this does not serve anything. All this, these are symbols. Symbols based on legends. The aim is to perfect oneself. In fact, Hinduism is like an exchange of energy.” In our conversation, he linked the “commercialization of religion,” as he calls the “interested” or “pragmatic” forms of worship wherein devotees link wishes to their practices, with double or multiple religiosity, and dislikes both. Moreover, he also links multiple religiosity to a lack of religious education. In doing so, he adopts a com-

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bined perspective that rejects magic, dismisses “interested” approaches to religion, and disapproves of double religiosity. While the rejection of magic seems to be common among federation members, the representative’s opinion about “interested” religion appears to be more personal, as other members of the federation accord great importance to “interested” worship. For many Reunionese, however, sorcery and magic represent important interpretative models. The practices they define as religion and magic vary from person to person, and often, they are not mutually exclusive. Furthermore, contact with India does not necessarily lead people to distance themselves from what they perceive as magic. The example of Marie illustrates these points. Marie’s first contact with Hindu religion goes back to when she fell victim to evil. During her school days, teachers remarked that Marie could not concentrate well enough and often disturbed the class. As she scored well in an intelligence test, her mother searched for other reasons. She asked a Reunionese priest for help, who with the help of divination, was able to declare that a family member had wished them evil. A ceremony conducted by the priest healed Marie, and since then, she has made annual offerings to the goddess Karly. According to Marie, this was the moment when she became truly religious, and developed an interest in Hindu religion, Tamil language, devotional music and dance. She states that she transformed into another person, something she finds incredible. Since she entered Hindu religion as a victim of evil, Marie has developed a close personal relationship with the goddess Marliemmen, whom she loves dearly. She is also the first of her family to go to “big” temples. On a journey to India in 2014, she discovered a fascination for Mourouga (chapter 3). Since then, she has prayed to Mourouga when thinking about her professional life and ascribes the successful completion of her latest projects to Mourouga. She is also thinking about carrying kavadi for Mourouga in the future. What seems like a move away from a focus on protection against evil to an interest in India and vegetarian divinities does not require, however, for the two attitudes to be mutually exclusive. In addition to discovering Mourouga, Marie also became attached to a goddess whom she had not known before and whose necklace she bought in India. Only later, with access to internet back in La Réunion, did she discover that the goddess has the power to protect against the evil eye and sorcery. Marie has felt more protected since she started wearing the necklace. Her contact with India has not stopped her from believing in black magic, but rather offers her protection against its power.

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Poul Nwar Marie’s inclination toward Mourouga and India also has not stopped her from participating in the ritual poul nwar. This ritual presents an example of how Reunionese Hindus connote ritual practices differently with religion and magic. The ritual to sacrifice a black hen (Creole: poul nwar; French: poule noire) to protect one’s children is practiced by many Reunionese of different backgrounds. In the Reunionese Hindu context, the ritual is associated with the goddess Pétiaye, who is addressed to avoid problems with childbirth. While some families perform the ritual in their own private temples, others go to priests or healers to help them perform the ritual, or attend Pétiaye festivals in public “small” temples. In addition to this Hindu connotation, poul nwar is also associated with the Catholic Vierge Noire (Black Virgin), and performed by people of different backgrounds. Its origins seem to lie in French sorcery linked to the classical French book of magic La Poule Noire (see Pourchez 2000). During my research, poul nwar played an important role. Many informants, including Marie’s mother and Lakshmi, warned me to never take part in such a ritual, because if I ate of the shared meal, my future children would have problems, and I would have to perform this ritual myself in order to calm the goddess Pétiaye. Marie tells me that her family always goes to a healing woman, who helps them to perform the ritual and becomes possessed by a spirit in her temple. Whereas Lakshmi does not see poul nwar as magic, Marie clearly sees it as containing magical and sinister aspects. She told me about it when I asked about magical practices and she replied: “You mean black magic?” Indeed, Marie has a somewhat ambiguous stance to poul nwar. Although she associates it with magic, and magic for her has a sinister connotation, she continues to perform it. When she last went with her family to the healer for poul nwar, the woman’s spirit asked her whether she did not want to perform poul nwar herself at home in the future. She was too scared to answer, so her mother replied that Marie was not yet ready. I am curious about whether Marie will continue to go to healers on her own or will perform poul nwar herself. So far, despite being unsure about her stance toward rituals like poul nwar, the sinister character she seems to associate with these practices does not present a contradiction with her new orientation toward “big” temples and India. Toward the end of my fieldwork, she went abroad and could not be with her family during poul nwar, nevertheless, she also fasted in the buildup to the ritual.

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Unlike Marie, many other Reunionese Hindus do not associate the ritual poul nwar with sinister aspects, but as an important family ritual and part of Hindu religion. Two practitioners even told me about having seen this ritual during their journeys to India, which they considered evidence that it was part of Hindu religion. They took the newly acquired knowledge about its existence in India as a reference to justify their practice in La Réunion, and in doing so, hoped to change local perceptions of it and similar practices. Monique, the mother of priest Robert, explained to me that non-Hindus, and even Hindus, had long approached Hindu rituals and gods with fear in La Réunion. In her opinion, the new possibility to travel to India had helped ease these fears, as people realized through their travels that they were not the only ones to perform such rituals, but that an entire Hindu community existed in India and in the diaspora. She sees the duty of her priest son as enlightening Reunionese devotees about Hindu religion and helping them let go of their fears. Thus, Reunionese engage with India in different ways to negotiate Hindu religion and magic. While some adherents search for “pure” or “authentic” religious practices and differentiate them from magical practices and to dismiss the latter, as seems to be the Fédération Tamoule’s stance, others use their travels to India to authenticate magico-religious practices and to dismiss the sinister aspects associated with them. Furthermore, knowledge gained in India about Hindu religion and magic does not necessarily make people reject their former knowledge, as different forms of knowledge can be accumulated and accommodated.

Possession Like poul nwar, ritual possession presents a further example of how Reunionese Hindus connote ritual practices differently with religion and magic. Gain lespri in Reunionese Creole means possession by a spirit. These spirits are usually ancestors. When I told some Reunionese that I had seen possession by goddesses in India, they replied that I must have misunderstood it, as only ancestors possess people. While negative spirits can require exorcism (tir lespri), other spirits are welcomed and can be invoked (kri/apel lespri) for help. While some devotees clearly associate possession with magic, in positive or negative ways, others see it as an important part of religious ceremonies. Priest Robert, for instance, sometimes becomes possessed by an ancestor during ceremonies in

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his temple. In addition to causing spectacular outbursts, the ancestor speaks to devotees for a number of reasons, such as to remind them to fast, stop disputes and rivalries, and maintain concentration and poise for their penitence. Robert is an admired priest. He also has considerable economic capital. His wife, Danya, drives a Mercedes, although cars cost about 24 percent more than they do in Metropolitan France. In short, they are a well-established middle-class family with considerable social status. In the eyes of the practitioners, Robert’s ability to become possessed by an ancestor complements the style of the ceremonies in his temple, which are based on Reunionese and Indian forms of knowledge acquired by learning with Reunionese priests and reading texts. The variety of practices also corresponds to the wish to attract as many devotees as possible, reflected in Danya’s comparison of a temple with a supermarket (chapter 4). Interestingly, devotees in Robert’s temple are not allowed to become possessed. He alone has the right to do so, which emphasizes his status. Robert’s temple sits between those temples where many people become possessed simultaneously or at different times, and temples where possession is completely undesired and discouraged. In two vegetarian Marliemmen temples, I observed that devotees who became possessed were led outside because the practice was not welcomed. Henri, a priest in one of the Marliemmen temples, told me that he sees gain lespri as “business,” as those who gain lespri aim to attract clients in this way. The English term “business” that some Reunionese employ in their Creole and French sentences denotes their negative stance toward the performance of religion for economic purposes, which they understand as a means to fleece devotees. When I told François about Henri’s negative opinion of possession, he stated: “They don’t have the gift. This is why they don’t like it. If they had the gift themselves, they would appreciate it.” François, a man in his fifties with secure employment in public service, fire walks at a “small” temple and has a small shrine in his backyard. Since 2004, he has been possessed by a spirit several times. With the help of a healing aunt and following his own intuition, he learned how to perform simple rituals to help himself and family members with problems. He classifies the ritual he performs when his children have an important exam at school or the drivers’ license test as “praying,” and thus as religion, not magic. For him, magic means to “do evil to others,” whereas performing a ritual for success in an exam is not connected to evil, and rather serves to give confidence to the person so that he or she will succeed. François also sees

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nothing bad in the ceremony he performed to make a friend’s husband return, or in helping another friend to become pregnant by giving her confidence. Inversely, he sees magic as the reason for these two friends’ problems, explaining that someone has done them evil. François thus differentiates between his own practices, which have good intentions, and acts of magic, which are evil acts done to others. He told me about his ability to become possessed, which he calls his “gift,” in a fascinated and proud way. With this gift, he can help others attain good health or to achieve certain goals, or he can help himself attain a certain status. Although François would have the financial means and intellectual capacities to go to “big” temples and engage in learning projects with more textual sources, I think this is neither what he is interested in most nor would it be easy for him to attain the same level of esteem. Less interested in textual and Indian approaches to Hindu religion, he turns his interest in interpersonal relations and health matters into his asset. Examples of failed attempts of possession further demonstrate that this practice can present a source of esteem. Lakshmi, for instance, sees “trance” as “something magical” and is attracted to it. Her religious life, which I have described above as continuing both Hindu and Catholic religions, includes not only knowledge about Hindu mythology and philosophy and carrying kavadi, but also “entering trance,” as she terms it, in Karly temples. Lakshmi’s “entering trance” resembles possession, although she does not know yet who possesses her. For Lakshmi, the experience of trance is still relatively new. Her religious practice is closely related to her wish for success in life and to her struggles in achieving this aim (chapter 3). Indeed, self-confidence plays an important role in both her religious and professional life. She is a very calm, relatively short young woman with a fairly faint voice. Her narration reveals a struggle to negotiate the Hindu practices she carries out with her mother’s side of the family, in particular the numerous fasts, which she feels are too strict, and her practice of trance, which her mother disapproves of. Lakshmi cannot forget her strict upbringing, including how her mother refused to allow her to carry kavadi at the age of fifteen. She did not proceed without her mother’s blessing, as like others, she explained that you should not do penitence without your parents’ blessing. But Lakshmi also added that she did not have the necessary self-confidence to insist. When Lakshmi started entering trance during religious ceremonies at the age of eighteen, her mother did not want to accept it. Here again, Lakshmi states that she lacked the self-confidence to continue entering trance during ceremonies when “confronted by the gaze

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of the others.” She stopped going to temples where she would hear the bells ringing for Karly and feel the goddess’ presence, because she was not able to control her trance state. At the age of thirty-one, Lakshmi wanted to learn more about this form of worship despite her mother’s refusal to accept her entering trance in front of other people. However, when I met Lakshmi two years later, she had still not advanced in this regard. I believe that she lacks the support necessary to do it. Although her partner supports her in her religious decisions, he is from a Protestant family and does not conduct Hindu practices himself. Lakshmi does not have a supporting friend in the temple who could help her translate her trance. Most Reunionese Hindus who become possessed explain that they cannot talk about their experience of possession as they do not remember anything and instead point toward a family member to explain it. In many cases, this family member has found out which ancestor possesses the person and from then on recites what the ancestor says during possession. With Lakshmi’s mother’s negative attitude and without a supporting family member or friend to play the part of finding out who the ancestor is, speaking to the ancestor, rescuing her body when the possession ends, and narrating the contents to others, I fear Lakshmi will not succeed in benefitting from her trance as she had hoped. While Lakshmi could have simply concentrated on kavadi and her interest in Hindu mythology, she also attempted to develop what she calls “trance” into ritual possession. I see her as torn between the wish to be special, have an exceptional ability, and liberate herself from her mother on the one hand, and on the other hand, the importance of her mother, her family, and “the gaze of others.” Her failed attempt shows that distinction always requires recognition from others. Yet, as the different examples in this chapter demonstrate, there is not one standardized way to achieve felt recognition and social status. Looking at both François’ successful and Lakshmi’s failed attraction toward possession, it becomes clear that possession can present a source of esteem. However, their approaches and understanding differ markedly: for François, possession is not magic, but for Lakshmi, trance is a magical experience. Like Lakshmi, Jean also understands possession as magic, although his attempts are more successful. Jean is a Hindu practitioner in his forties who goes to “small” temples, becomes possessed in his family temple, accuses others of sorcery, and engages with what he calls magical practices himself. Jean accused some family members of conducting

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sorcery several years ago, which hindered him and several of his brothers and sisters from passing school exams and advancing in their lives. These attacks from within the family inspired Jean to learn about magical practices so that he could defend himself. Although Jean shows more intellectual interest in matters of religion and magic than François, he also does not go to “big” temples and is much more interested in initiation rituals to magic. In engaging personally with magical practices, Jean hopes to receive the status of a powerful person whom people fear, admire, or address with their wishes for help. During my fieldwork, he went to Madagascar to conduct magical rituals for a friend who was standing for elections. After his friend won the elections, he started to arrange jobs for Jean and his family. Jean has never been to India, and the books that he used for initiation into these and other ritual practices were ordered from Paris. They contain magical practices of European origins including La Poule Noire, Le Petit Albert, and Le Dragon Rouge, but also of African, Caribbean, and other origins. Furthermore, Jean conducted the ritual for his friend in Madagascar, a place associated with particular energy for magic. Thus, in contrast to other Reunionese Hindus’ focus on India, Jean pursues links to Madagascar and to European literature for the purposes of magic. The ways some Reunionese engage with magical practices nuance approaches that regard magic as reaction to problems. Psychoanalytic approaches argue that the high level of sorcery in La Réunion is due to crises of identification, for example, due to absent fathers or negative associations with ancestral blood, which are also related to a high level of depression and epilepsy on the island (Mouls in Chaudenson 1983: 125–26). Indeed, Lakshmi only “rediscovered” her divorced father when she was already an adult, and she had had epilepsy as a child. Jean was unsatisfied with a boring job while his dream was to pursue a more entrepreneurial career by opening a jazz bar. Comparing himself with his wife, who is always busy working and is proudly climbing the career ladder, probably does not make things more pleasant for him. But rather than reducing Lakshmi’s and Jean’s attraction to magic to psychoanalytic explanations, their wishes for social esteem are at least as important. Although both have many difficulties in their lives that one could cite as reasons for their interest in magic, their lives are also very much directed toward the future and toward advancing. They see new chances in magico-religious practices as helping them to attain their wishes for health, education, work and wealth.

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Ancestral Heritages—Sources of Pride Ancestral heritages are manifold in La Réunion. Reunionese Hindus need to deal with the different religious paths that their ancestral roots allow them to pursue, including Catholic, Chinese, and Madagascan religious practices, as well as vegetarian and non-vegetarian Hindu practices, and possession through ancestors. Although some Reunionese also adopt religious beliefs and practices without having direct ancestral ties, and although the “ancestral practices” they perform today may differ greatly from the actual practices of these ancestors, an ancestral relationship to such practices was important for most of my interlocutors. Reunionese Hindus make strategic and often contradictory choices embedded in social relations and informed by complex possibilities and limits. Pride in ones’ ancestors and their traditions plays an important role in many of their choices. However, one’s family background may also present constraints, as in the case of Marie’s unsuccessful engagement with Madagascan practices, or Lakshmi’s unsuccessful engagement with possession. In many cases, this leads to strategic positioning at the crossroads of various expectations and capabilities. Perceived expectations include establishing the Hindu religion as a “world” religion, which leads some Reunionese Hindus to turn away from animal sacrifices, “double religiosity,” and magico-religious practices, and toward vegetarianism. Nevertheless, many Reunionese Hindus continue to combine diverse practices in different ways, and no clear hierarchy has been established. Animal sacrifices and “even” magical practices belong to the pool of possibilities people choose from to attain esteem. Reunionese Hindus’ diverse choices often reflect their desire for recognition in the French context and self-confidence about local traditions. Pride in local history is sometimes a direct reaction to the orientation toward more Brahminical forms of Indian Hinduism by some. In some cases, this proclaimed self-confidence also offers strategies to cover one’s perceived failings, shortcomings, or disappointments. The relation between religious orientation and social class manifests itself in diverse ways. Creativity in religious choices can itself be a means for social distinction, as long as it received the necessary recognition by others. Reunionese Hindus mobilize various arguments to justify that their choices deserve recognition, including that these are the practices of the ancestors who have adapted their traditions to the colonial Reunionese context, or that these are the practices associated with a contemporary world religion, or that these are the practices

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of the ancestors before they left India. Reunionese Hindus’ religious choices do not only reflect attempts for social distinction, but also the importance of the sensory dimensions of different religious approaches. In the social, economic, and cultural context of being Hindu in this diverse French overseas department, I observed that collective rituals that foreground bodily forms of worship correspond better to many aspiring middle-class devotees’ desires than more individual or spiritual forms of worship, or are combined with them. Many aspiring Reunionese Hindus are drawn to community experiences like processions for Marliemmen and Mourouga, as well as fire walking and Karly festivals, which include animal sacrifices. As the next chapter demonstrates, these practices offer possibilities of achieving social status, but they are also perceived as a means for personal success, and due to the resulting increased motivation, economic success. Moreover, the sensorial, bodily, and emotional experiences of these rituals are at least as important and beneficial.

Notes 1. La Réunion: le blog de l’Inde à la Réunion. 2009. “Les sacrifices d’animaux: pour ou contre?” 3 August. Retrieved 4 December 2018 from http://www .indeenfrance.com/reunion.php/2009/08/03/lessacrifices-d-animaux-po ur-ou-contre. 2. While I use Reunionese spellings (although there are no standardized spellings) to write the names of gods and practices, I adopt other authors’ spellings when referring to their research contexts.

References Altglas, Véronique. 2014. From Yoga to Kabbalah: Religious Exoticism and the Logics of Bricolage. New York: Oxford University Press. Andoche, Jacqueline. 1988. “L’interprétation populaire de la maladie et de la guérison à l’île de La Réunion.” Sciences Sociales et Santé 6(3–4): 145–65. Andoche, Jacqueline. 2007. “Jeux d’ombre et de lumière: L’inversion sorcière dans la pratique de deux désenvoûteuses réunionnaises.” ethnographiques.org 14. Retrieved 14 August 2020 from http://www.ethnographiques.org/2007/ Andoche.html. Arumugam, Indira. 2015. “‘The Old Gods Are Losing Power!’: Theologies of Power and Rituals of Productivity in a Tamil Nadu Village.” Modern Asian Studies 49(3): 753–86. Babb, Lawrence A. 1975. The Divine Hierarchy: Popular Hinduism in Central India. New York: Columbia University Press.

166 • Religion and Pride Benoist, Jean. 1979. “Religion hindoue et dynamique de la société réunionnaise.” Annuaire des pays de l’Océan Indien 6: 127–66. Benoist, Jean. 1998. Hindouismes créoles: Mascareignes, Antilles. Paris: Editions du C.T.H.S. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1984. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Champion, Bernard. n.d. “Notes sur l’hindouisme à La Réunion.” Retrieved 14 August 2020 from http://www.anthropologieenligne.com/pages/sacrifice R3.html. Chaudenson, Robert. 1983. Magie et sorcellerie à La Réunion. Saint-Denis: Livres Réunion. Comaroff, Jean, and John L. Comaroff. 1999. “Occult Economies and the Violence of Abstraction: Notes from the South African Postcolony.” American Ethnologist 26(2): 279–303. Favret-Saada, Jeanne. 1980. Deadly Words: Witchcraft in the Bocage. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Favret-Saada, Jeanne. 2009. Désorceler. Paris: Éditions de l’Olivier. Fisiy, Cyprian F., and Peter Geschiere. 2001. “Witchcraft, Development and Paranoia in Cameroon: Interactions between Popular, Academic and State Discourse.” In Magical Interpretations, Material Realities: Modernity, Witchcraft and the Occult in Postcolonial Africa, ed. Henrietta L. Moore and Todd Sanders, 226–46. London: Routledge. Fuller, Christopher J. 1992. The Camphor Flame: Popular Hinduism and Society in India. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Geaves, Ron. 2007. Saivism in the Diaspora: Contemporary Forms of Skanda Worship. London: Equinox. Ghasarian, Christian. 2010. “Power and Beliefs in Reunion Island.” In Indian Ocean Studies: Cultural, Social, and Political Perspectives, ed. Shanti Moorthy and Ashraf Jamal, 360–73. New York: Routledge. Kloß, Sinah Theres. 2016. “Manifesting Kali’s Power: Guyanese Hinduism and the Revitalisation of the ‘Madras Tradition.’” Journal of Eastern Caribbean Studies 41(1): 83–110. Nicaise, Stéphane. 2008. “Le phénomène religieux réunionnais.” Faire Savoirs 7: 99–105. Nicaise, Stéphane. 2010. “La conjugaison du religieux à La Réunion.” In La Réunion, une société en mutation, ed. Eliane Wolff and Michel Watin, 167– 85. Paris: Economica. Pourchez, Laurence. 2000. “Passages: De l’hindouisme aux pratiques thérapeutiques et rituelles: Illustrations d’un processus d’interculturation à La Réunion.” In Au visiteur lumineux: Des îles créoles aux sociétés plurielles: Mélanges offerts à Jean Benoist, ed. Jean Bernabé, Jean-Luc Bonniol, Raphaël Confiant and Gerry L’Étang, 467–83. Petit-Bourg, Guadeloupe: Ibis Rouge Éditions, GEREC-F/Presses universitaires créoles.

Strategic Bricolage • 167 Sinha, Vineeta. 2009. “‘Mixing and Matching’: The Shape of Everyday Hindu Religiosity in Singapore.” Asian Journal of Social Science 37: 83–106. Sinha, Vineeta. 2014. “‘Bringing Back the Old Ways’: Enacting a Goddess Festival in Urban Singapore.” Material Religion 10(1): 76–103. Taylor, Charles. 2007. A Secular Age. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. van der Veer, Peter. 1994. “Syncretism, Multiculturalism and the Discourse of Tolerance.” In Syncretism/Anti-Syncretism: The Politics of Religious Synthesis, ed. Charles Stewart and Rosalind Shaw, 185–99. London: Routledge. Vertovec, Steven. 2000. The Hindu Diaspora: Comparative Patterns. London: Routledge. West, Harry G. 2007. Ethnographic Sorcery. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press.

CHAPTER 6

Rituals, Emotions, and Aesthetics

“Fire remains fire” (Le feu reste le feu), François tells me with wide, meaningful eyes. It is the third time that he starts talking without my asking about how the fire attracts him every year. Each time he emphasizes the emotional dimension of fire walking. “Fire remains fire” is an expression that Reunionese Hindus repeatedly uttered with certainty in their voices and meaningful looks. This sentence can imply that fire walking is the most difficult, most dangerous, most emotional, and maybe also the most effective form of penitence. In the situations that Reunionese have uttered this statement, it can refer to the heat, a heat that feels unbearable, even when standing two meters from the fire pit; the difficulty of conquering the fire; or the suspense and power emanating from the fire. The statement can also reflect the admiration toward, as well as the pride of, the fire walkers. And it can refer to the idea that, even when walking the fire for the twentieth time, it is still overwhelming, you still feel the same fear just before entering the pit. Fire remains fire. Anthropological debates on religion have undergone a shift in focus from textual forms of knowledge to the material aspects of religion, including consumption, the body, aesthetics, and emotions (e.g. Fedele and Blanes 2011; Meyer 2009a; Michaels and Wulf 2012a). Religion, aesthetics, and emotions are also important in research on the aspirations and lifestyles of middle classes (Dawson 2013; Srivastava 2009). Collective rituals like fire walking and carrying kavadi allow for sensory and emotional experiences of religion that correspond to aspiring Reunionese Hindus’ desires. The different benefits that Reunionese Hindus receive from their religious practices, which can include physical, spiritual, and emotional well-being, social status, and economic and personal success, are often closely interlinked. Collective rituals like fire walking and kavadi address all these dimensions. The rituals can have important

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benefits for Reunionese Hindus on a personal or a larger scale. Their acts of penitence are opportunities to work on the self and to receive help from the divinities. The bodily experiences themselves can contribute to their well-being and help them find the motivation needed for future projects. At the same time, the rituals can foster pride and recognition through their public visibility. I observed great attraction to collective bodily rituals across all social classes. Rather than merely being inclined toward more spiritual approaches to religion, as for instance transnational professional Hindus working in the information technology sector in the United States and South Africa (e.g. Radhakrishnan 2012), or toward guru-inspired movements that address in particular urban Indian middle-class devotees (e.g. Warrier 2005), a number of those Reunionese who frequent ashrams also participate in kavadi, fire walking, or other temple festivals. In Reunionese Hindu rituals, aesthetics and emotions are openly displayed and talked about. Rather than merely seeing Hindu rituals as sensory experiences that attract and “affect” people (Massumi 1995; Shouse 2005), I focus on ritualized emotions (Michaels 2012) and rehearsed emotional spontaneity (Mahmood 2001), which can present important means for self-making. Furthermore, rather than reducing religious experiences to contact with a transcendental, I see the perceptions of beauty during religious rituals as an important part of people’s religious experiences (see McRoberts 2004). Religious performances during Reunionese Hindu rituals reveal elaborate aesthetics that can present means for distinction and attempts to gain recognition. The display of bodily and material aspects of religion in public contributes to the pride of Reunionese Hindus—both among themselves and in relation to the broader Reunionese society. I am interested in how people feel expected to find a balance between more negative notions of pride that link it to haughtiness and sin and more positive understandings of pride that focus on self-esteem as vital to identities (e.g. Kristjánsson 2002) and on recognition as vital to dialogically created selves (Honneth 1996). Reunionese can display their identities as (affluent) Hindus by material means, such as expensive clothing and extravagant decorations. These material aspects can evoke admiration but also criticism. Reunionese Hindus thus strive for a balanced pride (see Kövecses 1986: 59–60) in their display of religious fervor, style, and wealth. In this chapter, I first show how performing kavadi and fire walking can motivate young Reunionese Hindus in their careers and contribute to their well-being. I then look at the role of emotions during these

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collective rituals, and how they reflect people’s aspirations for physical, spiritual, social, and economic well-being. In the third section, I demonstrate how religious aesthetics in the form of Indian clothing and decorated kavadis serve as means for distinction, and how practitioners try to find the right balance between displaying too much and too little pride. Pride as lens of analysis highlights the interrelation between bodily, emotional, spiritual, social, economic, and other personal benefits.

Motivating Projects The amount of time, energy, and money that Reunionese Hindus invest in religion impressed me again and again during my fieldwork. Reunionese Hindus of all social classes, including educated middle-class devotees, attend a variety of ceremonies and temple festivals. Some take leave from work during the longer fasts to help in the temple kitchens and with other preparations. Those who cannot take leave manage their daily routine between work and the temple. Especially during the ten- and eighteen-day fasts, many practitioners complain that they are enormously tired from all the work in the temple and at home while “only eating vegetables” (manzé légumes) and from the lack of sleep. Even without a job on the side, I felt physically exhausted from spending morning till night in the temple. Not because I could only eat vegetables, which I adore, but because of the lack of sleep. I spent the eighteen days of preparations in two fire walking temples. In one temple this meant helping in the kitchen from morning till early afternoon, driving home for a shower and putting on a nice punjabi, returning to the temple around four o’clock in the afternoon to prepare the plates of offerings for the divinities. I joined the practitioners in their prayers, their conversations, the sharing of the offered fruits and sweets, the singing of the Barldon, and the shared vegetarian meals. After some final conversations with the priest, his family, and the practitioners, I usually drove home around ten o’clock in the evening, and even later in the final days of preparations. In the other fire walking temple, I was not involved in the cooking and therefore usually arrived only in the afternoon, when I sometimes joined the priest’s family back and forth between their house and the temple, and only drove home late in the evening. Although my participation in the ten-day preparations in two kavadi temples, which included making flower garlands for the divinities, was less intensive than in the eighteen-day preparations in the fire

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walking temples, on the final nights of the two kavadi festivals, like on the final nights of the two fire walkings, I had to cope with two to four hours of sleep before the rituals continued. While I met some who decided to reduce their religious activities because of the many fasts, for many others the shared suffering seems to be an important aspect of religious life. I met some devotees who have learned in La Réunion’s ashrams to see their engagement as seva, selfless service. To others, spending time in the temple can also mean taking time for yourself. Some devotees use this time to concentrate, pray, and meditate. It serves as a way to “charge your batteries,” as one practitioner told me. This statement reflects the often intertwined spiritual and utility oriented understandings of religion. Religion serves as a resource of energy that people need when leading a busy work life, studying, or organizing family life and other social relationships. In addition, devotees enjoy the time in temples as a social time. For many, the social get-togethers and chats while preparing meals or flowers is extremely important. And finally, many link their self-sacrificing practices to precise wishes that the divinities will help them achieve. Many Reunionese Hindus link their desire to “advance in their lives” to fire walking or carrying kavadi. This is the case for Aishwarya, a 21-year-old woman who has grown up with practicing grandparents, parents, uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, and numerous cousins. Aishwarya’s uncle Thomas (chapter 4) is a well-known priest, and she often takes the opportunity to distinguish herself from others through her religious knowledge. Aishwarya’s biography reveals close ties between her religious practices and her aspirations, which she does not hide. For instance, she explained that she usually carried kavadi, but that she could not carry it for four years in a row due to various deaths in the family. She told me that she felt “slowed down,” that something is wrong, and that she had the impression that she was not advancing in life. She cited a concrete example: she had started taking driving lessons a long time ago, but was still unable to pass her licensing test. I also know that she had recently been dismissed from her job as a secretary, and she has been unemployed since. Although her parents’ separation may have contributed to her feelings of insecurity, her partner seems to support her in her religious and other projects. Aishwarya thought that her feeling of being “slowed down” could have something to do with not having carried milk or kavadi for so long. When I asked Aishwarya whether her religious practices were linked to her professional life, she replied:

172 • Religion and Pride Yes, of course, . . . when you step in front of the goddess [sic], you ask her things, um, help me to find a job, help me here, help me there. So he [sic], he, um, how to tell you, he gives you a plus to be able to go address this person, so that you can have something. You see? He won’t help you at once to get a job. But to give you the faith [la foi], in fact, just to get up, to go see these persons to ask for work. It’s mostly this in fact. Then, voilà, there are people who do it for their studies, the driver’s license, there are people, in fact, who do it for everything. Natalie: And now, in this moment, you. . .? Aishwarya: Me, in this moment, it’s gonna be for the driver’s license because I know that I decelerate in fact. It’s four years that I’ve been enrolled, and I see that I don’t move more than that. I’m not motivated. I want to have it, but I’m not motivated, so you see something that is not okay. So it’s then that you take the initiative to say, well, it’s enough, I will restart carrying kavadi, to be able to give me the strength and the courage to go there, to succeed in fact. N: And the other times, was there also a specific thing? A: Yes, it was for my studies. It was much more for health. I’ve told you I was quite fragile in the beginning. I’m someone very fragile. So it’s because of this in fact that I ask god, voilà, for the times [sic] to come, when I will be pregnant, that it goes well. All things like that. N: When you said that you don’t advance at the moment, what does “to advance” mean for you? A: To advance, well, it’s to have the courage above all, the courage to do something. When you look at yourself, in fact, you feel, you see that something is not okay. You are there, you want to do something, but the day to do it, you always try to say “no, I’m gonna do it tomorrow.” All the time it is postponed for tomorrow, tomorrow. At some point in time, you start thinking, you tell yourself, well, why, earlier I did a thing, I was courageous to do it. Why, today, do I say tomorrow, tomorrow, and I don’t do it? This is when you tell yourself, but there is something that is not okay. And you say, well, help me to have the courage and the will to do it.

Aishwarya stated that she hoped that carrying kavadi will give her the force, courage, and motivation to pass her driver’s licensing exam and advance in her life. But two weeks later, during the ten-day festival, Aishwarya could not carry kavadi. And one year later, she had still not passed her driving test. Instead, she has given birth to a child. I had already overheard Aishwarya talking with her brother’s girlfriend about becoming pregnant. Two months after our interview, she told me she

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was pregnant. In retrospect, I understand that the driver’s license was probably not the most important wish that Aishwarya linked to her prayers. What she had mentioned in our interview as a wish for health when becoming a mother in a more distant future had actually been her current project. In contrast to Aishwarya, who self-confidently states that religion offers her many benefits, Marie, the young woman whom I presented as the first of her family to go to “big” temples and as having traveled to India in chapter 3, negotiating religious knowledge on Facebook in chapter 4, and hesitantly performing poul nwar in chapter 5, denied that there was any utilitarian link. Instead, she referred to an expression that she had learned from a brahmachari: “action désintéressée,” which means uninterested, selfless action, in contrast to perceiving religious practices as transactions by linking certain expectations from the divinities to them. Marie stated that she does not ask the divinities for specific benefits, but thanks them for everything she has achieved in her life. Priest Marco describes the adoption of disinterested worship as a rather recent phenomenon and relates it to the orientation toward India. He divides the practitioners in his fire walking temple in two types: “permanent practitioners” who come to the temple to pray without necessarily having made a vow, and “occasional practitioners” who come to the temple when they have problems and therefore make a vow. Passing an exam at school is one of the common requests, where students may, for example, bring pens to the temple during exam time for the priest to bless. Marco stresses that students still have to learn by themselves and that the ritual merely helps them concentrate and reduce stress during the exam. According to Marco, about thirty young people in his temple walk on fire solely out of devotion to the goddess, and because they like the religion, the goddess, and the fire walking itself. Marco adds that fire walking still ensures their general well-being, and they might ask for this, but that they do not link their fire walking to a precise problem. While scholars usually perceive upper social classes as more inclined toward disinterested approaches than to bargaining approaches (Fuller 1992: 72), I have observed both approaches among lower- and upper-middle classes with different educational levels, including Raphaël, the successful fire walking banker who clearly emphasized his pragmatic approach to religion (chapters 3 and 5). Furthermore, people’s narrations also often reveal a more ambiguous stance toward interested and disinterested worship than their statements of such terms. Priest Henri put it very directly: “It’s enough to look at people and you’ll know

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what they’ve asked for.” Even when taking practitioners’ claims of disinterested worship more seriously than priest Henri does, I observed close links between adherents’ religious practices and the aspirations that many of their biographies reveal. This is the case for both Marie and Aishwarya, despite making opposite statements about disinterested and interested worship. Both young women are from middle-class families, without university-educated parents, and both feel currently unsuccessful and insecure about how to proceed with their professional future. Without cars and driver’s licenses, Marie and Aishwarya live very dependent lives in La Réunion. After renting an apartment for her studies in the capital—a short period of greater independence—Marie returned to her parents’ house without a degree and without a job. Aishwarya is slightly more mobile as she lives with her partner who drives a car, but she herself lacks a driver’s license. Marie wants to “advance” in her life, which means achieving her projects, such as going abroad, passing her driver’s license exam, and finding a job. At the same time, she has not had much success in these projects—and her turn to Mourouga during her travel to India is linked to this desire to advance. She had played with the idea of carrying kavadi in the future, especially as she had the feeling she was not advancing enough when I spoke to her. Confused about her professional future, Marie prayed a lot to Mourouga and wanted to go abroad to find solutions. Toward the end of my fieldwork, Marie went to work in Belgium, and religion, one of the core aspects of her life in La Réunion, came up less and less in our Skype conversations and when we met in Belgium half a year later. When she returned to La Réunion after a year abroad, she seems to have found some kind of solution for her life: she re-enrolled in university to complete her degree. She still thinks about carrying kavadi in the future. Similarly, Aishwarya feels that she has not advanced in life. She lives with her fiancé, found a job through family relations, had to leave the job, lacks a driver’s license, has a baby, and is now a full-time mother. Both young women reveal desires to advance that are linked to their religious practices. With or without asking for specific help, religion serves as an alternative realm where they can achieve feelings of success. The young women hope that this feeling, in turn, will give them the courage or motivation to take the next steps in their professional and family lives. Religious penitence regularly gives them moments to work toward and the feeling of being productive, of advancing. After having carried milk for Marliemmen for the first time, for instance, Marie was proud to have overcome all the pain it caused her: although her shoulders

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and feet had been aching, she did not want her mother to help her by carrying the milk pot, not even for a few minutes. Marie describes the emotions she felt during the procession as a strong urge to do this alone, to bear the pain and fatigue, to reach the end. In the end, Marie was satisfied and proud of herself and felt the urge to do it again soon. I accompanied her when she carried milk for Marliemmen again, and I could see the different states she was going through: excitement and nervousness in the buildup ceremonies to the actual day of the procession, tension when arriving in the temple in the morning, on the verge of tears because of stress about hectically getting the cloth properly tied in front of her mouth as a symbol for her vow of silence in the minutes before the procession took off, exhaustion when standing in the procession while holding the milk pot on her head with one arm and waiting for the ceremonies in front of several houses to end so that the procession could continue, and finally, tiredness, relief, and pride in the car on the way home and later on Facebook. Her penitence gave her the feeling of having achieved something and motivated her in her approach to other tasks. Religious festivals have important temporal meanings. They structure the practitioners’ daily and annual life rhythms and can thereby offer some sense of routine. At the same time, the festivals can present special moments in time for the individual practitioner whose penitence stands at the end of a period of fasting and prayer, and is often linked to a particular wish. Engaging in penitence forces practitioners like Aishwarya and Marie to focus up to a certain moment, and then produces a moment of relief when having completed it, having succeeded. These moments offer them a feeling of satisfaction about having achieved something and motivate them to prepare for their next project. Fasting before religious festivals is, apart from its purificatory function before entering temples and performing penitence, an important part of this work on the self. While I often felt relieved to have an excuse to not have to eat such masses of meat every day, for most Reunionese, the normal three days of fasting prior to a temple visit, or even longer fasts during festivals, present particular challenges for them. One scene in particular comes to mind: I was sitting with Elodie and her grandmother, who both normally practice in their family temple and rarely frequent “big” temples. When I was talking about the different festivals that I was currently attending in one temple, Elodie expressed compassion for the Indian priest there, as he must have been fasting every day at that moment. When I responded that he was probably vegetarian

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anyway, she looked aghast, as if she could not understand how one could live without meat. While I have seen rare occasions of primarily women-only fasts at particular times of the year as observed in India (Babb 1975: 149–52) or places in the diaspora like Montréal (Boisvert 2012: 173–74), the fasts before the big festivals like kavadi and fire walking, wherein both women and men participate, were extremely important for most of my interlocutors. Furthermore, contrary to observations of fasting as the duty of wives to fulfill for their husbands and children, most of my interlocutors fast for themselves rather than for other family members. For some, it is not enough to commit to the standard fast—abstinence from meat, fish, eggs, alcohol, and sex—they also renounce other pleasures in life, which can include celebrating with friends, listening to music, dancing, and social media. In this way, fasting becomes a means to work on the self and contributes to the feelings of success and motivation that practitioners have after completing it. While there are visible gender inequalities in self-sacrificing rituals, fire walking and kavadi may be part of a lifestyle in La Réunion that enables women pride, rather than reflecting gendered subordination. Claiming the fire pit, for example, has had an empowering effect for Reunionese women. Fire walking was a tradition only performed by men in La Réunion until the 1970s, while it was forbidden to women. The festival has a complex symbolic dimension, which includes highly visible gender specific tasks during the eighteen days of preparation. In the traditional form of worship, women are to perform le tour du feu. In this practice, after the men have walked over the fire, the women are to walk around it bowing or lying down several times on the ground, which is often mud (figure 6.1). The difference to challenging the fire by walking upright over the burning coals could not be more extreme. Many practitioners consider fire walking to be more effective than circling it (Franchina 2015) in promoting the success of prayers to the goddess, asking her for success, health, or other blessings. As such, women’s claims to the sacred space of the fire pit reflects aspirations for well-being and success, as well as a display of self-responsibility. While the first women are said to have crossed the burning coals in the 1970s, not all temples allow women to perform the ritual today. Some women who fire walk proudly display it as a symbol of successful self-mastery in photos and videos on Facebook. Reunionese Hindus’ experiences reveal how different dimensions of benefits and aspirations are interrelated in their self-sacrificing prac-

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Figure 6.1. Women ritually circle the fire pit lying down several times on the ground, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

tices during collective rituals. Collective rituals are effective means to improve one’s motivation, well-being, and success. Loreley Franchina (2018) suggests that the fire walking is “spiritual edgework” in that the fire walkers take the risk of putting themselves in danger with the conscious or unconscious desire for change in their lives. The constant emphasis of my interlocutors on advancing in life and the links between these aims and their religious practices suggest that religion, and collective Hindu rituals in particular, are important aspects in Reunionese understandings of neoliberal selves that they are working toward. As shown in chapter 4 and continued here, such understandings are reflected in market metaphors for recognizing priests and choosing temples, in entrepreneurial priesthood, and in that practitioners experience penitence rituals as opportunities for personal transformation. Hindu religion gives young Reunionese a frame through which they can constantly pursue biographies of learning and conduct practices that promise selfperfection. Moreover, collective rituals are beneficial through the sensory and emotional experiences themselves.

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Emotional Rituals and Ritual Emotions A yellow stream of around two hundred women and men rushes through the streets from their temple to the river. They are practitioners who have taken a vow to conduct an eighteen-day fast for bondié Pandialé, and they wear saris, punjabis, veshtis,1 and shirts in the deity’s color, yellow. The yellow flow is sprinkled with red and white dots, the colors those devoted to the goddesses Karly and Marliemmen wear. At the spot near the river, and with the support of the priest, their families and friends, the devotees prepare themselves, their bodies, and the items they are going to carry back to the temple. After a night without sleep, during which they staged a performance of the wedding of Aljounin2 and Pandialé, and celebrated with joy and laughter, and after the ritual lighting of the fire in the morning, the atmosphere now is silent and sometimes tense as they make their final preparations. Some clouds render the heat bearable. With the beat of the drums beginning, and hectic movements here and there, the group of devotees becomes increasingly nervous and excited. Some appear scared or tense, and are overwhelmed by what they have experienced over the past eighteen days, and by what is going to come in the next few hours. More and more penitents start to cry as they are blessed by the priest Marco, as they hear his comforting words and his encouragement, and when prostrating themselves before their parents and elders in order to receive their blessing. In this highly emotional moment, after having spent eighteen days fasting, cooking, preparing, and praying together, having shared many personal stories and grown together as a family, and feeling the increasing suspense that has been building up during the last week, it is difficult not to join their weeping. The feeling of this moment was later described to me by a young woman who walked on fire that day: “You want to release everything.” To what extent does the intensity of the moment before fire walking, which has been built up to over the previous eighteen days, make those women and men cry? And to what extent has that crying in public been learned, if at all? Applying the conceptual distinction between feelings, emotions, and affect (Shouse 2005) to the ritual of fire walking allows me to distinguish feelings as individual experiences from their public expressions in the form of emotions. Affect, perceived as pre-personal and unintentional, as autonomous experiences of intensity (Massumi 1995), may then denote the strong attraction of the fire itself calling the practitioners, and the intensity of experience when they walk over the

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burning coals (figure 6.2). While emotions are qualified intensities embedded in historical, social, and cultural contexts, affects are unqualified, pre-historical, and pre-cultural. However, it is precisely the unqualified nature of affects that renders anthropological research, which relies on

Figure 6.2. Glowing embers in a fire walking pit, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

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shared, culturally qualified experience, enigmatic, if not impossible. The conceptual differentiation between feeling, emotion, and affect needs to overcome the often assumed mind/body dichotomy. Adopting an actor-centered perspective, I emphasize that the practitioners state that the fire calls them, attracts them. At the same time, I cannot see the sensibility to feel called by the fire as independent from the subjects that are affected, and I suggest that this sensibility can also be learned. Moreover, the sensibility is embedded in a discourse about the emotional intensity of fire walking, which also reflects the historical consciousness of fire walking as a practice performed by indentured ancestors living in difficult conditions in the colony. Furthermore, I suggest that the open display of one’s emotions during religious practices might also be seen as cultural distinction in the way that these feelings can only be felt by Hindu devotees who have a close relationship to the deities and who know about the powers of these deities. In conversations, when talking about fire walking and kavadi, adherents often uttered c’est la foi (It’s the faith/This is faith) with a meaningful expression in their eyes and a slow shaking of the head. This sentence underlines their pride in being able to believe to the extent that their faith allows them to carry their kavadis to the end or to conquer the fire. It also expresses admiration by non-Hindu Reunionese for those who are able to do incredible things because of and for their religion. Hindu rituals involve all senses. Darśan, the mutual auspicious seeing between the divinity and devotee, presents only one of the various instances in Hindu worship where the senses play a key role. Recent scholarship is interested in how religious aesthetics, in the sense of multi-sensual experiences during ritual acts rather than in the Kantian sense of aesthetics as beautiful, contribute to a shared way of experiencing the world and form community through collective emotional responses, which in turn connect the performers with the audience (Meyer 2009b; Polit 2014). In addition to ritual aesthetics provoking certain emotions, emotions themselves can become part of the elaborate religious aesthetics in which rituals like kavadi and fire walking are set in La Réunion. The processions shine in one particular color, the decorations of kavadis and fire pits, as well as the public expression of emotions are part of this mise-en-scène and follow certain ritual frameworks. I observed the entanglement of emotional rituals with ritualized emotions (Michaels 2012) during acts of penitence and in the devotional, sad, longing, or peaceful facial expressions and gestures of devotees

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praying to gods in temples. Thinking about how the assumed spontaneity of emotions intersects with “formalized” rituals, Axel Michaels and Christoph Wulf suggest that emotions generated in rituals are both rigid in their traditional reoccurrence and flexible in their possibility for creativity. Rather than remaining private, feelings are staged publicly in certain rituals, wherein particular emotions are expected to be shown at specific moments. Such ritual emotions can create feelings of belonging and togetherness, and in this way, they are communicative and social (Michaels and Wulf 2012b: 15–16). Such ritual or ritualized emotions are anticipated, as becomes apparent in La Réunion when looking at how the scene described above at the riverside proceeds. With new energy and constantly increasing suspense, the procession regroups and quickly returns to the temple. While the pyre of large logs was about three meters high when it was lit in the morning, it has now become small pieces of grey-red glowing embers and lies flat, raked, amid beautiful flower decorations. The space around the fire pit, which had been empty and calm when we left for the river, is now overcrowded with devotees and spectators sitting and standing on roofs, walls, and cars. The noise of voices and drums is incredible. From that moment onward, I turn my camera off, as I have promised Marco the priest and his father beforehand. It is not that the fire walking should not be filmed. On the contrary, two film teams are there to produce DVDs, and numerous spectators seem to watch the ceremony more through the lenses of their cameras and smart phones than directly. Rather, Marco and his father insisted that I experienced the moment of fire walking with all my senses, and not through the lens of a camera, and as such, I should not sit with the tourists outside the sacred area, but among the fire walking women. As I have held the eighteen-day fast with them and participated in all the preparations from morning to evening during these weeks, Marco told me I had become part of the family, and he was eager to know how I would feel when seeing the family crossing the burning coals. For the past few days, practitioners have repeated several times that it was going to be a highly emotional moment. Even though it can be painful, they said, “it attracts us again every time.” Prepared for the emotions of the moment by the priest and other practitioners, I walk with the group of devotees around the fire pit and sit down among the women, just in front of the milk basin that the fire walkers will later step into after having crossed the coals. From the silent but deeply moved suspense near the river, through the rapid pro-

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cession, the atmosphere has become even more loaded with energy and tension. The sun goes down, and soon it is dark. Everything happens very quickly, accentuated by the loud, fast-beating drums, their crescendi marking moments of high concentration. The fire pit undergoes some final preparations. It is raked, flattened, and purified. Marco and some penitents are hectic in their movements and gesticulations, others wait impatiently. After the final purification and prayers, it begins. The priest lifts a flower garland with a burning flame on top, accompanied by shouts from the people around. He crosses the fire pit in eight steps, placing the flower in the middle. Now, one man after the other steps out of the waiting throng to purify his feet and to cross the pit, some of them carrying important symbols, like the three karlons (Tamil: karakam )—meter-long, heavy cones decorated with yellow, white, and red flowers for the three goddesses Pandialé, Marliemmen, and Karly respectively. Most of the men walk in an impressively composed manner, although some are more hectic, several stumble during the last two steps, and some start running. Some carry their small children. Some walk in groups of two or three. Then it is the women’s turn. Some walk in the company of men, others walk alone. Most walk faster and are less composed. With so many people everywhere, I see Amandine, a young woman who is to fire walk for the first time today, only when she steps into the fire pit. Later in the video, I see her tensely awaiting her turn. She runs, her eyes wide with fear, but reaches the milk basin safely, where she thanks the goddess by joining her palms. I remember that I watched the fire walking slack-jawed, barely able to realize or take in all the different things that were happening. The long hours waiting during and between the ceremonies in the temple, the ever increasing suspense over the past eighteen days, including Amandine’s emotional breakdown, as she became unsure whether she wanted to walk the fire or not, as well as the repeated comments on the emotions that I would see during the fire walking, seem to have made me prepared to feel the excitement, the fear, and the love for the walkers myself. The emotions of fear, compassion, and admiration while seeing loved ones fire walking are also expressed on Facebook, and can be relived when one watches films of the events. For instance, a friend commented on Amandine’s Facebook page as she was watching Amandine about to walk on the fire on television, some months afterward: “I am stressed, soon in the film you are going to walk.” Amandine’s reply “But no, you don’t have to” is answered by “Yes, I had tears in my eyes!!! too many emotions.”

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Rehearsed emotions do not necessarily render them less authentic or less relevant. The conscious development and expression of feelings and emotions according to particular notions of piety within ritual frames challenge the often assumed opposition between formal ritual action and emotional spontaneity, and can present important possibilities for self-formation (Mahmood 2001). The benefits practitioners can receive from their emotional experience during fire walking and kavadi become apparent in Aparna’s narration. Aparna is the Reunionese Bharatanatyam dancer who trained in South India, keeps going regularly to India to perform, and wears Indian clothes on a daily basis (chapter 3). She also fire walks and carries kavadi. When I asked her, without thinking about emotions myself, about what religion gives her, she explains that she does not ask the divinities for anything in return, but that she sacrifices herself, and that she lives her religion on an everyday basis, starting every day with a prayer, and by being vegetarian. Furthermore, she elaborates on how the emotional experience is beneficial to her: When I walk on fire, it’s the same concentration that I have before I enter the stage. Even more intense. This provides me with experiences for my daily life. My students sometimes ask me, but are you not scared when you go on stage? But no, because this reinforces us. It allows you to discover yourself. What you are capable of doing, our capacities. So, for me, above all, it’s devotion, search for our devotion, what you call our bhakti for god. But for me, religion is not a commerce . . . For the love for god you are capable of doing many things. And sometimes of sacrificing yourself. Carrying kavadi. Because you are also in search of emotions. For me, it gives me a lot for dancing, too. When I walk on fire or when I carry my kavadi, you are in communion with god. And all these emotions, these feelings, give me a lot when I dance. Because when I dance for god, I interpret Mourouga or Shakti, for example, for me this is a real offering. I internalize all these feelings. I think again about all this.

Aparna’s self-reflective explanation of the emotional experiences she has during her acts of penitence, and how she internalizes them and applies them to her dancing, which is both a form of devotion and a profession to her, also applies to other penitents. In contrast to the assumption that emotions are not talked about, or only among women, male priests and devotees also often told me about their past and anticipated emotions during rituals. Without me asking, fire walkers repeatedly told me about their attraction toward the fire, their respect for the

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fire, their fear of the fire, the stressful moment before entering the fire pit, and the relief and pride afterward. In interviews, my questions about their first fire walk always provoked the longest and most emotional narration. Manuel, twenty-eight years old, who had given somewhat brief answers to all my previous questions, began a long, vivid, and engaged narration when I asked him about his first time fire walking: Just before? Ah, well this, it’s a special moment! This moment is . . . inexplicable. Just before walking it’s a moment of stress, because you have the big blaze, which melts your eyes, you see?! The ardor, the heat, it’s hot! You can burn yourself . . . and then you think, you see, it’s like a, everything drifts by in your head. What has happened during the year, all kinds of things, it drifts, it drifts, it drifts, it drifts by. Then you also think, you retrieve self-confidence, you look at the gods in front of you, you think of the fasting you’ve done, the eighteen days of fasting. The fatigue. The stress. The deprivations and all, well, this gives you courage. Then, well, you empty your head, in fact, you don’t see anyone anymore. No one around you, you are alone in the world. You establish emptiness, and you think of your turn, well, you don’t think anymore, you cross . . . This year is my twelfth year. But even this year, when we will arrive in front of the fire pit, when we will walk, it will be the same sensation, the same emotions like in the beginning, it’s the same, in front of the fire pit, it’s like . . . Although you already know it. We have already walked, we know what it is, what the sensation is like and all. But it’s like you don’t know anything anymore, as if you don’t know if you are going to walk. You feel scared. Every time it’s like the first time. Every year that you walk on fire it’s as if you walk for the first time. It’s always the same sensation, the same emotion, always, every time. Natalie: And then? Manuel: When it’s over? My god, it’s a great relief. When it’s over you feel light. As if you want to fly. It’s like a burden that is gone, you see? . . . It’s a feeling of inexplicable joy. It’s great, great, great. Everyone is cheerful. You can look at anyone, everybody is smiling, everyone feels good. You yourself, you feel strong, you feel tall. You see? You have an incredible self-confidence at this moment.

Similar to Manuel’s narration, other fire walkers also described the moments of fear and stress before crossing the fire pit, and the relief and pride afterwards. The emotional experiences of kavadi and fire walking can be decisive for the practitioners’ choices to perform these acts of penitence. Indeed, some regard and admire fire walking as the most

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intense form of penitence. Those practitioners who rate fire walking higher in emotionality often utter the sentence “fire remains fire.” The rapid onset and intensity of emotions, for both penitents and those accompanying them, is often contrasted to the slower ritual of kavadi. Unlike that brief moment, when they walk over the burning coals to the deafening rumble of the drums, kavadi is rather about enduring the penitence maintaining the vow of silence, which can be exhausting when carrying such heavy burdens barefoot over bitumen roads in the blazing heat. All kavadi processions I walked along took place in strong heat and were much slower than the lively, excited fire walking. Divya, the 21-year-old university student who fire walks for Marliemmen and carries kavadi for Mourouga, and has even carried kavadi in Pajani Malai (chapter 3), sees a great difference between the two forms of penitence. Divya said she suffered a lot during the kavadi procession that I accompanied her on. She narrates that from the moment her mouth was pierced, she endured unbearable pain, and even when arriving at the temple, she felt faint and unwell. She attributes this pain to a reason, like a punishment from the divinities, as if she had done something wrong and was now paying for it. Furthermore, she admits that she was highly stressed beforehand, and I had indeed observed her nervous glances and gestures. She herself contrasted her kavadi experience to her experience of fire walking that same year. She described how her feelings came in different stages—from not knowing what was going on while actually walking over the coals to feeling good, relieved, and at the same, feeling sad that she would have to wait a whole year for the next fire walking. While I was wondering why Divya did not refrain from carrying kavadi as it was such a stressful experience to her, she seems to need a diversity of religious practices and experiences. She also goes to the Amma ashram, and makes a clear difference between worship in temples and ashrams. Divya describes the temples she goes to as having more rules, and the adherents trying to conform to these rules. In contrast, the Amma ashram that Divya sometimes attends to sing bhajans, and to be embraced by Amma when she comes to the island, presents a place of spirituality for Divya where she has the time and tranquility to think about herself. Together, the temples where she can perform the kavadi and fire walking, and the Amma ashram offer her a combination of diverse emotional experiences. The emotional meanings of fire walking and kavadi do not only depend on the affective differences between entering a fire pit and carrying burdens in a procession or piercing your body. The differences

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also include people’s personal relationships with the divinities Pandialé, Marliemmen, and Mourouga, who occupy different realms of authority. Amandine, whom I had seen in tears before her fire walking, went with me to watch some kavadi preparations and did not seem to be emotionally touched by the kavadi in that temple. She told me she was not so much attracted to Mourouga, but rather to “the shaktis.” Practitioners who prefer kavadi insist the emotions are equally as strong as they are during fire walking. It was important for Lakshmi to tell me that she cried with joy and relief when she finally arrived in front of the temple. Similarly, Sarasvati, who compared carrying kavadi in Pajani Malai to a pilgrimage to Mecca but had not yet traveled to India (chapter 3), and who dismisses fire walking but endorses kavadi, narrates how carrying kavadi for the first time at the age of eight was an intense emotional experience: As soon as we left [the place near the riverside where all penitents prepare their kavadis], in fact, there is a small moment when you feel really overcome by emotion and . . . you know, it’s intense. When you hear the drums beat beat beat beat beat and then when they heave the god in the chariot in one go, when everyone lifts their kavadi on their shoulder and on their head for the first time, hhh, you feel like Idumben,3 I think.

Both fire walking and kavadi have highly emotional moments for the practitioners. Sarasvati mentions the sensory power of the drums, which can evoke important emotions. While functional music is often misrecognized as music, drum patterns can sound melodic and voicelike (Wolf 2014). After suffering from the deafening sounds of the drums during the first few months, I began to recognize the drum patterns and associate them with different emotional moments, including suspense, to the extent that I eventually missed these melodic patterns during Reunionese church services, which I found emotionally lacking. Funeral services in churches were, of course, highly emotional, but this was due to my relationship with the deceased’s family, rather than because of the sensory aesthetic of the church service itself. Moreover, the social relationships that people have in fire walking and kavadi temples often impact their preferences, and attraction toward the practices is often a process that develops over a period of years. Playing the drums and socializing played a great role for fire walker Manuel. He explains how he went to the temple as a child to see

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his friends and play the drums before becoming serious and passionate enough to fire walk and learn how to officiate: I was still too young. I was naive, you see? I didn’t take it very seriously. I went to the temple to see my friends, my cousins, all this. But it was more with the mentality of a child, to play. It was a place of encounter. And then, also around this time, you are twelve–thirteen years old, what interests you most is the drum, you see? What really attracts youngsters in the temple, everything starts with the drums. For me, it’s like this, everything starts with the drums. At one moment, you want to have your own drum. Then, you join the grown-ups. You play with them. You see, like the little ones do [in our temple]. And then it becomes a passion. We like this. . . . And with officiating, it’s the same. As soon as you have started to make prayers, it becomes a passion, you want to improve yourself, to get better, from year to year, you see? You watch on the internet, there are lots of videos, you watch other officiants and priests how they officiate and all. Then, you find your own rhythm, your own style, your own manner.

Reunionese Hindus benefit from the affective and emotional dimensions of collective rituals in multiple ways. In addition to personal emotional experiences, the shared emotions create community, and the open display of those emotions expresses pride in being Hindu in Reunionese society. As Knut A. Jacobsen formulates it: “Processions are sources of pride because they put religious traditions and religious identities on display” (2008b: 3). Religious processions involve both performers and the audience. While they can contribute to internal differentiation and rivalries, they can also facilitate experiences of happiness and togetherness, and consolidation of the performing group in contrast to “others.” Jacobsen suggests that rising and simultaneously changing trends in processions and negotiations over public space and power can signal social change, such as upward mobility and increased self-confidence (2008a, 2008b). Scholars have observed the particular importance of religious processions and temple festivals in Tamil or South Indian diasporic contexts. Paul Younger notes that temple festivals in South India, Sri Lanka and in the diaspora regularly enable negotiations of identities. Such a “South Indian love of festival religion” (Younger 2010: 100) is also observed by Pierre-Yves Trouillet (2012) who points out that temples and their festivals and processions serve as important markers of distinction for Tamils in Montreal and Mauritius. Similarly, research on the mainly Sri Lankan Tamil diaspora in Europe indicates that Tamils spare

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no effort to organize highly elaborate religious processions in the diaspora (Baumann et al. 2003; Jacobsen 2008c). Much of this research has described the link between performing religious processions in front of an audience and pride and identity. For instance, while the Taippūcam in Kuala Lumpur has participants of a variety of social backgrounds with multiple personal reasons for participating, it serves to express Tamil or Indian identity and presence in Malaysia (Clothey 2006: 176– 98). While collective rituals in South India are much about the reproduction of social differences, caste, and domination (Mines 2005), the public presence of the festival in wider society becomes a key meaning in diasporic contexts. Fire walking and kavadi festivals in La Réunion are as much about personal and communal experience, as about public presence and claiming recognition as a religious minority. The pride that Reunionese Hindus express is importantly linked to recognition in the particular local historical context. Collective rituals become especially meaningful when considering the development that Reunionese Hindus have achieved—from the historical context of unequal power relations between the Indian indentured laborers, the Catholic Church and the colonial administration, to today, when they can exclaim pride in being Hindu and express emotions of religious belonging in Reunionese society. Nevertheless, negotiations of social differences are important during these collective rituals—in terms of social class rather than caste. The ways some Reunionese Hindus distinguish themselves through the material aesthetics of flower decorations, clothes, kavadis, and bodily movements suggest that they feel the need to balance their pride.

Balanced Pride and Aesthetics As collective rituals with a mythological background, different bodily and textual dimensions, which include fasting and intense self-sacrificing practices, as well as more spiritual aspects, fire walking and kavadi festivals attract Reunionese Hindus of all social classes. Participants in these festivals undertake social distinctions, for instance, in the forms in which penitence rituals are performed, including bodily movements, decorations, and clothing. Reunionese Hindus often employ the term fierté (pride) when talking about their religious practices. At the same time, especially aspiring middle-class devotees often insist that “I’m not doing this to show off ” or “I’m not saying this to show off.” For instance,

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they proudly display their knowledge about a religious matter in one sentence, and in the next, add that they are not doing it to show off; or they distinguish themselves by saying that they do not carry elaborate kavadis to impress people, and insist on it so many times that their “modesty” could ultimately be seen as showing off. This ambiguous discourse reflects a two-sided morality. On the one hand, Reunionese see their pride in their achievements or in the positive image of Hindu religion in Reunionese society as justified. On the other, they also associate pride with showing off, which is morally reprehensible. Finding a balance between demonstrating pride in one’s achievements and virtues without being criticized for showing off can be difficult. While balance is inherent to notions of justified pride in contrast to conceit (see Kövecses 1986: 59–60), finding the right balance becomes particularly interesting when looking at the material aspects of their religious consumption, including decorations and clothing. Religious life in Reunionese temples can be very expensive. In addition to the objects that penitents need to buy for the kavadi or fire walking rituals, groups of practitioners sign up to organizing one evening in the ten or eighteen-day buildup to the rituals. This may mean making a financial donation for food and decorations, or going grocery shopping, baking, and cooking. In some temples, the names on the lists are included in the evening prayers. One’s name on the list also brings recognition and gratitude from the temple management and from other practitioners. In some cases, one might cynically suggest that social capital can be literally bought in this way. This tendency becomes even more salient with regard to decorations and clothing. During religious ceremonies, and in particular during festivals such as kavadi and fire walking, divinities, temples, procession wagons, kavadis, and human bodies are subject to elaborate decorations. I have seen “big” temples spend several thousand euros on flowers, and hours and hours creating elaborate flower garlands that serve as decoration for a few hours before they decay. They last much longer on Facebook where users praise their beauty. Some fire walking temples also spend a lot on flowers and decorations. Each year, the decorations of the fire pits seem to exceed the preceding ones in perfection and creativity (figure 6.3). Fire walker Manuel told me once: “We want to have the most beautiful fire walking, you know.” In the exact same way, priest Marco told me repeatedly how proud he was of having the most beautifully decorated fire walking. “Beautiful,” Marco adds, not only refers to the decorations, “but also to the fervor, and to everything else.” Similarly,

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Figure 6.3. A fire pit decorated with flower petals, La Réunion, 2014. Photo by Malbar Jérémy, reproduced with permission.

comments on Facebook about photos of kavadi and fire walking also establish the link between beauty and fervor. This link between fervor and beauty also shows in the self-representation of worshippers in selfies—especially, but not exclusively, by women. Most Reunionese Hindus wear Western clothing in their daily life (I have seen few exceptions, like Aparna), while they wear Indian clothing only when going to the temple or to India-related cultural events, like Tamil New Year celebrations or events organized by the Consulate General of India. In some temples, it is officially forbidden to come in Western clothes. Reunionese Hindus post pictures of themselves wearing Indian clothes when in the temple, as well as at home, indicating that they are on their way to the temple (figure 6.4). Common comments by Facebook friends in response to such aesthetically informed online representations include phrases such as “you are so beautiful,” “fantastic,” or “terrific.” The women in question often thank the commenters in turn. Being beautiful as a Hindu is also important for the image of Hinduism. Wearing Indian dress is nothing self-evident in La Réunion but a rather recent phenomenon. One day in the temple I saw priest Robert showing a young man how to wear a veshti for the first time. People need to learn how to dress if they want to join the rather recent trend

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Figure 6.4. A selfie when wearing Indian clothes posted on Facebook, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by an anonymous photographer, reproduced with permission.

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to wear sari, punjabi, veshti, or other types of Indian clothes. Elodie’s grandmother remembers that her son brought her a first punjabi in Mauritius in 1993. Before that, she had gone to the temple wearing a dress or a blouse and skirt. Others began to wear Indian clothing earlier, with Jean Benoist observing adherents wearing saris in the 1970s (1998: 63). The development from Western to Indian clothes accompanies the development from stigma to recognition and pride. Indian clothes are quite expensive in La Réunion, and this particular aesthetic becomes an important marker of social class. In order to keep pace with rapidly changing Indian fashions, devotees travel to India or Mauritius to buy the newest punjabis and saris. Those who cannot afford to travel either ask friends to bring them clothes from their trips or they buy them in La Réunion’s “Indian” shops. A shopkeeper explained to me that the devotees adapt their fashion style according to the Indian serials currently screening on Reunionese TV. She therefore has to consider these serials when making bulk purchases in Mumbai. In general, she explains, the serials prescribe North Indian style punjabis with lots of decorations instead of the simple, rather plain-colored South Indian style. The price differences speak for themselves: punjabis start at around 40 euros and go up to several hundred euros. Those who can afford it and who want to consolidate their prestigious roles in the temple even give their saris to tailors to have them pre-stitched so that they will fit perfectly. Furthermore, some practitioners who attend a ceremony in the morning and one in the evening on the same day change their clothes in between. The proud display of beautiful clothes and of knowledge about how to wear them, and the continuous negotiation of these ways of dressing, perfectly exemplifies Pierre Bourdieu’s (1984) notion of social distinction. Bourdieu shows how members of the French petite bourgeoisie do not only distinguish themselves through the particular clothes they wear, but also through how clothes are worn, their bodily movements, how they speak, and so on. In addition to their clothing, Reunionese Hindus distinguish themselves through their style of worship, their bodily movements during their prayers, their way of “dancing the kavadi,” and their way of showing their bhakti. The body can become an important site for the display of knowledge and means for distinction. Bodily aesthetics range from small, detailed gestures up to major bodily acts, like fire walking. A small gesture, for instance, attracted my attention during several temple festivals. At the end of a ceremony, when devotees approach the priest or vicar who applies the vibhoudi4 on their forehead, some devotees touch their chin with the fingertips of their hand. Not

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everyone performed the gesture, and those who did seemed to perform it as gracefully as possible. They seemed proud of knowing that this gesture could be performed at this particular moment. This small gesture is part of a whole aesthetics of bodily movements that I could observe during religious rituals: the way of praying with the palms together, then lifting the hands a little while bowing the head slightly to the front before bringing the hands down again; the way of lying down before the divinity; the way of “absorbing” the light of the candlestick, which is carried around to all the devotees with their hands and spreading it over their head and body; the way of “dancing the kavadi”; and, indeed, the actual ability to carry kavadi or to walk on fire. In the self-sacrificing rituals of kavadi and fire walking, one cannot easily separate physical knowledge or abilities from psychic and devotional capabilities. Different forms of knowledge, including body techniques, concur. The practitioners’ aesthetic styles of worship simultaneously express the necessary know-how and financial means to be able to perform this religious lifestyle as well as pride in being Hindu. In addition to displaying beauty and success through their clothing and decorations, Reunionese Hindus own the streets when conducting unicolored processions. With most of the penitents in a procession wearing the same color, the visual performance becomes even more impressive. These colors can also be found in the flower and cloth decoration of statues of divinities or even goats to be sacrificed (figure 6.5). The colors are associated with specific divinities: yellow and white for Marliemmen, saffron yellow for Pandialé (figure 6.6), rose for Mourouga (figure 6.7), red for Karly (figure 6.5 and 6.8), blue for Govinden and Krishna (figure 6.9), white for Ganesh, as well as black for Pétiaye and the guardians. As I had not known about these color prescriptions, I felt like a real outsider in my black-beige punjabi when I accompanied a woman to my first kavadi procession. The procession passed through the street like a long rose-colored scarf, sprinkled with a few darker spots, including myself and a few others. In the following festivals, I always asked beforehand what color most practitioners would wear, and I managed from then on to float in the rose streams for Mourouga, the yellow-white waves of Marliemmen processions, and the yellow-red currents preceding fire walking for the goddesses Pandialé and Karly. While same-color clothes worn during processions resemble uniforms that unify the community in their devotion, specific details can create social hierarchies as well. In “Fabrics of Indianness,” Sinah Theres Kloß observes that a particular dress code linked to “Mudda” (Goddess

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Figure 6.5. Goat wearing the color red before being sacrificed for Karly, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

Kali or Mariamman) within what Guyanese Hindus call “Indian Wear” becomes a “gendered religious uniform” (2016: 294), which unifies the community in their devotion, whereas specific details like ornaments can create social hierarchies as well. Although some of the important gods and their respective colors differ in La Réunion, I made similar observations with regard to the simultaneously unifying and distinguishing qualities of Indian clothing. For instance, I noticed that saffron yellow was preferred over lighter yellow during fire walking for Pandialé. Furthermore, people remember the clothes others have worn, which is documented on Facebook as well, and they notice who is wearing new clothes. They also notice differences in the quality of the cloth and the ornaments. Furthermore, the color rule is continuously negotiated. As soon as I was proud of learning about the trend of associating specific colors with certain gods, I had to realize that it was contrasted by some practitioners who distinguished themselves through their awareness of the fact that processions in India are not necessarily choreographed in this way. When I asked Rani, the daughter of the priest Thomas, on the morning of her carrying kavadi whether she will later change into a rose color suit for the procession, she answered with a decisive “no.” Rani explained that one did not have to wear rose for Mourouga, but that

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Figure 6.6. Penitents dressed in yellow before fire walking for Pandialé, La Réunion, 2014. Photo by the author.

Figure 6.7. Penitents wearing rose-colored clothing during kavadi for Mourouga, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

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Figure 6.8. Red clothing during the Fêt Karly, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

Figure 6.9. Blue candies during the Fêt Krishna, La Réunion, 2014. Photo by the author.

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one could wear any color but black and white. Rani has traveled to India several times and often helps her father in the organization of their two temples. Later, during the procession, her green and orange sari stood out from in the sea of rose. Wearing Indian clothes during religious festivals is a means for both social distinction and to express devotion and humility. This contrast becomes particularly obvious in the differentiation between the clothes worn during acts of penitence and during other festival days. The most expensive clothes are worn during the mariage bondié, the performance of Pandialé’s and Aljounin’s wedding in the days before the fire walking ceremony. In one fire walking temple, the priest’s wife forewarned me that I should wear the most elaborate dress I own, as people attended the mariage bondié as if it were a real wedding. Although not ubiquitous, the trend is for adherents to wear elaborate punjabis and saris with glittering decorative motives during the festival days, while simple saris are worn during the actual acts of penitence. However, even during these ceremonies, the display of expensive clothing can be criticized as showing off. Divya’s family, for instance, have the financial means to buy middle-range to expensive clothing, but they distinguish themselves from “the rich” who spend 3,000 euros on the flower decorations in one evening ceremony. Divya and her family repeatedly stress that you should go to the temple to pray rather than to meet people or display your clothing. These occasions for devotees to meet friends and share meals after the ceremonies at the temple appear to constitute a source of stress for Divya and her family. Coming home from the temple, the family immediately discuss who was showing off again, who wore too much glitter or too much make-up, and commenting that the evening was “once again a fashion show.” Melanie Dean (2013) observes similar ambiguous behaviors when it comes to urban middle-class South Indians displaying amulets and tirus.t.i prophylactic practices, which at once protect them from the evil eye and display their wealth and social status, and even help to further enhance their wealth and status. The notion of the evil eye is important to many Reunionese. But in the case of the elaborate clothing worn during ceremonies, the ambiguity that people display in their clothing relates less to tirus.t.i than to the image of a humble devotee, and his or her expected relation to wealth and pride. The proud choice of clothing, which others may consider boastful, often becomes the subject of backbiting, although this often does not lead those who gossip to wear humbler clothing, as they also are eager to be equally proud.

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The question about the right balance between pride and humility is addressed in John P. Taylor’s (2015) research on the “moral economy of agency” in the Pacific Island nation of Vanuatu. The binary opposition of ambition/pride and “humbling” that Taylor observes in this moral economy of agency posits pride as something negative, related to arrogance. Abundance of such pride, if not “humbled” by oneself, can be humbled by others. Humbling individuals by accusing them of sorcery and beating them down presents a morally appropriate way of putting them back into their place to reestablish “everyday social aesthetics” (Taylor 2015: 43). The perception of individual pride as something negative that produces jealousy in family members also exists in La Réunion (and probably everywhere else) and is answered by talking behind people’s backs and accusing them of sorcery (which does not necessarily happen everywhere else, but is more widespread than many tend to think). Humility and devotion thus present counterparts to the proud performance of religious identity in the form of impressive religious practices and their elaborate aesthetics, including expensive clothing. Together, these aspects also reflect the practitioner’s religious knowledge. Carefully considering how much knowledge and wealth to display through their investment in religious aesthetics without being criticized for showing off, Reunionese Hindus try to find the right balance, and with changing forms of knowledge and status symbols, they need to continuously negotiate this balance. In the ideal of a humble devotee, fasting and purity are also important. While fasting and purity at first seem to be about the body, practitioners also repeatedly told me about the importance of having a pure heart. Abstinence from eating meat, fish, and eggs, from drinking alcohol and from having sexual relations presents an important aspect of Hindu religion in La Réunion. The first question I was usually asked when entering a temple and presenting myself to the temple president was whether I knew about these purity restrictions, which also included menstrual blood. In the course of my research, however, I observed different interpretations of these purity rules. During a “baptism” in a family temple, for instance, the mother’s wish to have photos taken of the ritual was more important to her than the fact that Divya, the photographer, was on the second day of menstruation. Although Divya felt uncomfortable and perceived this as a violation of a commonly shared conception of purity, she could not refuse the mother’s request. Other

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priests and devotees shared different conceptions of fasting with me. For some, it is important not to eat beef or pork, while it is okay to eat chicken, fish, and eggs on the days before going to the temple. For them, it was only on the day itself that you should abstain from these foods, and only eat them again after the sun goes down. This attitude differs from the often-heard prescription of fasting for three days before going to the temple. Furthermore, several individual practitioners decided that it was okay to eat everything but beef, because what counted was to have a pure heart, without hate and jealousy. In contrast to these relaxed perceptions, it was common to suspect practitioners who, for instance, burned their feet during fire walking of not having observed their fast well, of not being able to concentrate well, or of leading a sinful life in general. In one fire walking temple, for instance, a woman had injured her feet the previous year. Her feet were bleeding to the extent that an ambulance had to come and treat her. Her injury was interpreted as a punishment from the gods for her vicious behavior, for having an affair with a married man. These explanations on the pretext of moral purity also reflected that the detractors disliked this woman. The importance of purity and fasting, which means renunciation from certain things and concentration on prayer, and which conveys the image of a humble devotee, as well as the simultaneous display of fine Indian clothing, reveals ambiguous means of negotiating humility and the display of wealth and social status. Acting proud always entails the risk of being criticized for showing off. Firewalkers face critical evaluation of how they walk the fire, and whether they are “too proud” of walking over the burning coals. For instance, I heard accusations that people walk on fire in different temples every week during the season just for fun. Similarly, people may criticize temples for not providing hot enough fire pits or for making the field of burning coals “extra” hot. Morally balanced pride prescribes finding the right middle ground. Showing off was also a topic often discussed with regard to carrying kavadi. Many practitioners invest great energy in creating what look like pieces of art, some including Mourouga’s vehicle, a peacock. The wooden arch, the actual main part of the kavadi, sometimes almost vanishes under the elaborate decorations (figure 6.10). As Vineeta Sinha (2017) notes, the crafting of kavadis can itself present a way of self-making. Lavishly designed kavadis find their pictures in Reunionese newspapers and on Facebook. There were always some practitioners with much longer or thicker spears pierced through their cheeks and tongue than others, or

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Figure 6.10. A kavadi with decorations in the shape of a peacock, La Réunion, 2015. Photo by the author.

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whose kavadis were so big and heavy that they “resembled small temples,” as my host-grandfather once ironically commented on scenes shown on local television. Some temple presidents reminded the penitents during the days before the procession that their penitence was not a contest. In one temple, the management even prescribed that the length of a spear should not exceed 30 cm, although I saw at least one man in the temple with a longer spear through his cheeks. Aware of this trend, it is important to Lakshmi, Aishwarya, and Divya to tell me that their kavadis are simple in contrast to others’ elaborate constructions with exuberant decorations. And that they did not “dance” their kavadi to attract spectators or to show off, but that dancing the kavadi had a symbolic meaning—the joyful celebration of Mourouga’s victory. For the three young women, it is important that they can carry their kavadis themselves during the whole procession, without the help of others. The three young women distinguish themselves through the simplicity of their kavadis and through the importance they attributed to self-sacrifice. Morally balanced pride includes that expensive clothing or beautifully decorated kavadis may indeed present sources of pride to Reunionese Hindus, but that they may also criticize others for showing off. By distinguishing themselves with the simple manner they carried kavadi against the, in their eyes, boastful behavior of others, they can establish and justify their own pride.

Success, Emotions, Aesthetics—Sources of Pride Reunionese Hindus can benefit from their participation in collective rituals in terms of motivation, physical, spiritual, and emotional wellbeing, economic and personal success, social status, and pride. The wishes of many devotees to “advance” in their lives can encompass all these different dimensions. The festival calendar provides devotees with an annual structure some use to also structure their lives outside the temple. Many perceive the time of preparing themselves for these festivals through “fasting” in all kind of ways and working toward the final ritual, such as fire walking or the kavadi procession, as both exhausting and rewarding. They gain motivation for their job lives and at once craft themselves as firm, energetic, and capable of doing remarkable things. Both their participation in such rituals and their biographies of learning and religious entrepreneurship, reveal their drive for neoliberal selfperfection. Collective Hindu rituals, through their combination of bodily

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and emotional experiences with mythological, philosophical, and spiritual knowledge, best meets the aims of many aspiring devotees. Collective rituals blur the distinctions between affects, feelings and emotions, as they all come together there. Devotees can be affected by the fire or by the divinities. They may feel the personal relation to these divinities, and have intense experiences during the acts of penitence because of the personal meanings they attribute to them, meanings that are often also informed by the attitudes of family and friends, and by historical awareness and mythological knowledge. Finally, the display of emotions itself can also offer a means of achieving well-being and pride. Examining the affective and emotional dimensions of these rituals also demonstrates how collective rituals are both about distinction and creating community. The performance of aesthetics and emotions does not only happen within a Hindu audience, but is also directed toward the wider Reunionese society. The performative nature of religious processions enables feelings of belonging to a certain group united by the ability to surpass oneself in self-sacrificing rituals, by the ability to believe and have la foi (faith), and by the ability to feel certain emotions that only Hindus can feel. Claiming recognition and cultural distinction as Hindus during processions falls somewhere between Bourdieuan approaches toward distinction and notions of recognition in terms of multicultural politics. The streets and the media, realms where these processions are featured, are spaces where different dimensions of recognition with regard to different audiences meet: social distinction among Hindus, for instance through ritual knowledge and clothing; state recognition, for instance by authorizing the procession; and recognition in terms of social status attributed to Hinduism in Reunionese society.

Notes 1. Men’s garment. 2. Aljounin is associated with Arjuna, one of the main characters in the Mahabharata. 3. Idumben/Idumban is an important figure in the mythology around Mourouga. 4. Vibhūti, sacred ash.

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204 • Religion and Pride ligious Processions in South Asia and in the Diaspora, ed. Knut A. Jacobsen, 191–204. London: Routledge. Kloß, Sinah Theres. 2016. Fabrics of Indianness: The Exchange and Consumption of Clothing in Transnational Guyanese Hindu Communities. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Kövecses, Zoltán. 1986. Metaphors of Anger, Pride, and Love: A Lexical Approach to the Structure of Concepts. Amsterdam: John Benjamins Publishing Company. Kristjánsson, Kristján. 2002. Justifying Emotions: Pride and Jealousy. London: Routledge. Mahmood, Saba. 2001. “Rehearsed Spontaneity and the Conventionality of Ritual: Disciplines of ‘S.alāt.’” American Ethnologist 28(4): 827–53. Massumi, Brian. 1995. “The Autonomy of Affect.” Cultural Critique 31: 83–109. McRoberts, Omar M. 2004. “Beyond Mysterium Tremendum: Thoughts toward an Aesthetic Study of Religious Experience.” The Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 595: 190–203. Meyer, Birgit, ed. 2009a. Aesthetic Formations: Media, Religion, and the Senses. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Meyer, Birgit. 2009b. “Introduction.” In Meyer, Aesthetic Formations, 1–28. Michaels, Axel. 2012. “Performative Tears: Emotions in Rituals and Ritualized Emotions.” In Michaels and Wulf, Emotions in Rituals and Performances, 29–40. Michaels, Axel, and Christoph Wulf, eds. 2012a. Emotions in Rituals and Performances. London: Routledge. Michaels, Axel, and Christoph Wulf. 2012b. “Emotions in Rituals and Performances: An Introduction.” In Michaels and Wulf, Emotions in Rituals and Performances, 3–28. Mines, Diane P. 2005. Fierce Gods: Inequality, Ritual, and the Politics of Dignity in a South Indian Village. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Polit, Karin M. 2014. “Performative Ritual as Sensual Experience of Body, Place and Sociality.” In Exploring the Senses, ed. Axel Michaels and Christoph Wulf, 280–93. New Delhi: Routledge. Radhakrishnan, Smitha. 2012. Appropriately Indian: Gender and Culture in a New Transnational Class. Hyderabad: Orient BlackSwan. Shouse, Eric. 2005. “Feeling, Emotion, Affect.” M/C Journal 8 (6). Retrieved 14 August 2020 from http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0512/03-shouse.php. Sinha, Vineeta. 2017. “Made in Singapore: Conceiving, Making and Using Ritual Objects in Hindu Domains.” In New Religiosities, Modern Capitalism and Moral Complexities in Southeast Asia, ed. Juliette Koning and Gwenaël Njoto-Feillard, 247–63. Singapore: Palgrave Macmillan. Srivastava, Sanjay. 2009. “Urban Spaces, Disney-Divinity and Moral Middle Classes in Delhi.” Economic and Political Weekly 44(26–27): 338–45. Taylor, John P. 2015. “Sorcery and the Moral Economy of Agency: An Ethnographic Account.” Oceania 85(1): 38-50.

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Conclusion

Seeking pride motivates people in their actions. Rather than merely experiencing pride as an inner state of feeling, people can turn pride into a social practice, a discourse, and a strategy. In this book, I have shown how wishes for pride can work as an important driving force behind global religious interactions, attempts for diasporic identification, and the making of religious minorities in secular states. Reunionese Hindus pursue different pride politics with religion as their tool. Their interest in Hindu religion, their different ways of relating to India, and the importance of the local context suggest what may appear as paradoxical arguments with regard to debates on religion, globalization, and diaspora. The biographies of those Reunionese Hindus who took up an orientation toward India illustrates how religious aspirations can be a driver behind global interactions, rather than religion being merely influenced by or a derivative of globalizing processes. At the same time, those Reunionese Hindus’ global interactions have primarily local impact. Furthermore, there are many to whom India and diaspora do not matter. In the late 1960s and 1970s, a time of important identity negotiations and emerging multicultural politics in different parts of the world and the 1968 movements in Europe, it is not surprising that some members of that generation in La Réunion became active in raising interest in Hindu religion and India among Reunionese. A new orientation toward ancestral cultures, with a view to acquiring religious knowledge and prestige, definitions of “true” religions as distinct from magic, and negotiations about orthodoxies and purity, emerged in many places in the world around that time. In addition to religious and ethnic categories, other rights-based movements began to form around minority identities, sexual orientation, age, disabilities, and so on. The biographies of those Reunionese Hindus who took up an orientation toward India show how interest in religion, combined with wishes for recognition and pride, motivated their new global interactions. Despite these “reorientations,” my observation that many other Reunionese Hindus are not especially interested in India reveals that there

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is a risk, when using diaspora as a lens of analysis, of overlooking or downplaying other important factors in people’s lives. Instead of assuming diasporic belonging, it is crucial to examine the ways some create a diasporic consciousness while others do not. Many Reunionese from lower-class backgrounds cannot afford to travel to India, which means that those who can travel are part of the relatively wealthy and aspiring middle class. However, economic capital and Indian origins alone are not enough to make people pursue diasporic projects. Those Reunionese who claim disinterest in India are not necessarily from a lower-class background, and they are not necessarily less proud of their Hindu religiosity than those who create a diasporic consciousness. The observation that they do not need to build up ties to India to display pride in their religion and in their ancestors points toward other, more important aspects related to their religious activities. Reunionese Hindus’ religious practices are often deeply embedded in their families and social networks. To position themselves in the temple context and in the wider Reunionese society, their daily life experiences and their life aspirations are more important than India. These include their families, job situations, social status, well-being, wishes for meaningful lives, and honoring their ancestors. The younger generation’s parents and grandparents, and in many cases, great-grandparents, were born in La Réunion, and their lives have been very much shaped by their Reunionese experiences. It is fascinating to observe the amount of effort other Reunionese Hindus—in contrast to those who do not engage in diasporic projects— invest in their orientation toward India, despite the lack of reciprocal interest from the Indian side. When traveling to India and establishing contacts, online and offline, Reunionese Hindus realize that they are not alone in practicing this religion, their religion is a global religion, they are doing the “right thing,” and they can be proud of their origins and their religion. The pride that some Reunionese Hindus develop is linked to recognition that they claim from the Reunionese and French side. The importance that some attribute to establishing contact with India, although they do not intend to ever live there and often lack the language and transcultural skills to communicate effectively with Indians, reveals a deeper paradox, that their interest in religion works as the driving force behind global interactions, but it primarily serves as a means for self-positioning in their own society. Those who create a diasporic consciousness aim to display pride in the form of a knowledge-based, educated and well-situated, beautiful and emotional origin-conscious positioning in Reunionese society.

208 • Religion and Pride

Taking up the locally important notion of fierté, this book has highlighted the link between global religious projects, creations of diasporic belonging, and the making of religion and religious minorities through processes of recognition. Furthermore, the notion of pride encompasses how people seek recognition on different levels and from different audiences, including state institutions, society, and individuals. Desires for recognition and pride can push religious minorities to answer the expectations that they feel from their society and from the state to adhere to a religion that is accepted or even admired by society and administrable by the state. To claim recognition as a religion or religious minority from the French state, Reunionese Hindus need to first form a group and associational structure that can formulate such a claim. Furthermore, they often feel that they need to adapt their religion to the category of “religion,” as seen by the state. This perception is not abstruse, when you consider the ways the French state grants recognition to selected religious groups, while denying it to others. I have taken the presence of religion on public television and the allocation of public holidays as examples. On the level of the Reunionese society, Reunionese Hindus also see this expectation. In addition to creating religious and cultural associations that can formulate claims for recognition, Reunionese Hindus invest great effort in promoting and embellishing the image of Hindu religion. They do so by acquiring knowledge about the religion, by comparing and making parallels between Hindu and Catholic religious contents and practices, by establishing a diasporic connection to India, by displaying the religion’s particular assets, and by portraying it as colorful, beautiful, and promising, especially through the elaborate aesthetics of processions. They often reiterate the discourse that their travels to India made them realize that they adhered to a world religion. Their emphasis on this realization and the pride that they develop with regard to the status of a world religion reflects how they think that a religion recognized by the state and society should look. This perceived expectation is not far-fetched either when one considers the historical evidence that their ancestors’ religious practices were often considered heathen or pagan during colonial times, and the discourse that many repeat about a development in the perception of Reunionese Hinduism, from sorcery to pride. In addition to seeking recognition on the state and society levels, Reunionese Hindus also seek recognition from other Reunionese Hindus, for instance through acts of social distinction through different

Conclusion • 209

forms of religious knowledge—something non-Hindus are not in a position to assess. While religious knowledge in general is an important asset for the presentation of Hindu religion as a religion that should receive recognition from state institutions and society, different kinds of religious knowledge become important tools for self-making and for distinction among Reunionese Hindus themselves. Processions in the streets and presence in the media are spaces where claims for recognition from the side of the state, society, and individuals meet. The proud display of religious knowledge and aesthetics in public, the presentation of Hinduism as a world religion, and as a beautiful religion that needs the necessary means to perform it, reflects wishes for pride, social mobility, and recognition from Reunionese Hindus and from wider Reunionese society. Combining their religiosities with their interest in religious knowledge, many Reunionese transform the felt need to know about their origins and their perceived expectations of reflected and productive neoliberal selves into creative self-making projects through learning processes. In this way, they reveal a close link between their religiosities and their aspirations for social mobility. Rather than merely seeking spiritual and textual knowledge, collective bodily rituals furnished with explanations about philosophical and spiritual meanings meet best the needs and tastes of many aspiring middle-class devotees. Collective rituals give practitioners motivation to advance in their lives, to take the next steps, and they provide them with alternative experiences of success. The different forms of knowledge also include aesthetics and emotions. Temple festivals and Facebook pages become important sites where religious knowledge, including aesthetics and emotions, are displayed, admired, and negotiated. Collective rituals allow for sensorial experiences on the basis of bodily, devotional, and textual forms of knowledge. These different forms of knowledge give Reunionese Hindus a certain “extra” to their inherited identities and allow them an origin-conscious self-positioning in Reunionese society, as well as possibilities to work toward social status among Reunionese Hindus. Pride can thus present both a motivation for people’s actions and a strategy Reunionese Hindus employ to pursue their aspirations for religious and social recognition and economic success, which are all interlinked. From Reunionese Hindus’ everyday lives and biographies, with their ups and downs, with their pasts and aspirations, it follows that the self-making projects that they engage in emerge within complex webs of chances and circumstances. Despite the social and economic

210 • Religion and Pride

success that Reunionese Hindus are often associated with, many must also face limited professional possibilities, unemployment, or frustration about unachieved goals. Their engagement in “alternative” religious careers and their claims of pride as Hindus in Reunionese society should therefore be read not only as a struggle for recognition of a religion or religious minority but also as underlying wishes for social mobility. The different ways Reunionese Hindus work toward such aspirational pride reflect both their existing and aspired socio-economic and cultural capital. Reunionese Hindus frame the discourse of pride with different emphasis, including their religious knowledge, their social and economic achievements, the beauty of their religion, and the status of Hinduism as a world religion. Their discourse points toward the need to analyze pride as a historically grounded emotion, as well as an emotion that continuously needs to be claimed and displayed, and which is directed to the future. These different temporal dimensions show, for instance, in assertions of pride that include a rhetoric of compensation, which implies that their pride is justified, in particular when considering historical accusations of sorcery and the struggle undergone by the ancestors; in statements and displays of pride that refer to one’s own and the community’s achievements, such as the display of economic capital in the form of ritual aesthetics; and in that such performances of pride are themselves ways of asserting pride. By adopting pride as the lens of analysis in this book, I have highlighted the close link between the emotional, social, and institutional dimensions of peoples’ aspirations and their ways of belonging. Reunionese Hindus’ aspirations are not only about institutional recognition, such as to receive PIO or OCI status from the Indian side, or to achieve recognition of religion in terms of multicultural politics from the French side. Knowledge about Hindu religion and India also serves as a means for social distinction. In addition to structural recognition, the social dimensions of (mis)recognition, which include social status and redistribution, are at least as important. Moreover, Reunionese Hindus’ expressions of disappointment with regard to their misrecognition from the Indian side and their claims of pride in Reunionese society demonstrate the immense importance of the felt dimensions of recognition. Given the public presence of Hindu and Tamil identity through local adaptations of laïcité, some Reunionese Hindus’ efforts in the struggle for recognition appear remarkable. The struggle for recognition that Reunionese Hindus formulate via associations about the making of a

Conclusion • 211

religious minority administrable by the French laicist state still reflects their ongoing desire for social status. Reunionese Hindus’ struggle for recognition also reveals its processual character, as the act of claiming pride can itself be a strategy to work toward such felt recognition. Questions of how to study global interactions, projects of creating belonging, and the recognition of diversity—be it through religion or through another focus—are relevant to many ethnographic settings. Pride offers a lens of analysis for religious, social, or political negotiations, which pays particular attention to the role of emotions and the desire for recognition in these negotiations, as well as to the tensions that arise in such negotiations. While social movements such as Gay Pride or Black Pride actually mobilize the term “pride,” the emotional dimensions of recognition are also important in the making of various religious, ethnic, political, or other minorities in different parts of the world. In addition to or instead of pride, different emotional claims might turn out more relevant to other minorities’ aspirations. Minorities with violent past experiences might focus on the sensory dimensions of experiences of fear, pain, suffering, or loss. Such experiences might equally be mobilized as historically grounded emotions, discourses, and strategies. Pride has an important temporal dimension. In addition to thinking about pride as an individual feeling, I have suggested approaching pride as a collective, performed, and historically grounded emotion, and at the same time, a strategy with an aspirational view into the future. Asking how people claim their pride includes finding out how individuals frame their life stories and how groups frame their collective memories. It also incites researchers to examine how people perform their pride as a contemporary social practice. Both the narrative and performed instances are also oriented toward the future and reflect people’s aspirations. In addition to linking up the past, present, and future, pride is always relational, as it functions as distinction from others and at the same time needs recognition from others. In this way, pride as a lens of analysis allows examination of self-making projects by taking into account their emotional, temporal, and relational dimensions. Emotions are as important in the lives of religious actors as they are in the researcher’s experience. I have tried to describe the emotional intensity of the rituals. Especially during fire walking, I was impressed by the practitioners’ conscious display of emotions, which also turned my observation into an emotionally captivating experience. I will never forget the intensity I felt in seeing my “fieldwork families” and friends cross the fire pit as the incredible heat radiated from it, the tension in the air,

212 • Religion and Pride

the speed of movement, the rhythms and the deafening rumble of the drums, the noise of the masses of people, the sea of warm saffron-yellow clothing that the penitents wore—the color I have come to closely associate with bondié Pandialé. Sitting there on the ground together with the women I had shared so much time with, I felt proud to be among them, rather than one of the spectators outside the sacred space, and I felt fear for those who would next cross the fire pit. That is probably as close as I could get as a researcher to grasp the pride that the devotees feel when having accomplished their penitence. In this moment, they can be proud to have overcome themselves, proud to have this close relationship with the divinities, proud to be part of this group of family and friends, proud to have ancestors who suffered so much to come all that way from India to give them, the generations that followed, this opportunity in life, proud, indeed, to be Hindu in La Réunion.

Glossary

Without an official orthography of Reunionese Creole words, the spellings I have chosen here are only one of many. Furthermore, even though I have marked some expressions as Reunionese Creole, French, Tamil, or Sanskrit, many of these expressions are used in several of these languages. Agamas (Tamil/Sanskrit): collection of texts about Hindu philosophical contents and ritual instructions. Barldon (Creole): version of the Indian epic Mahabharata. bhajans (Sanskrit): Devotional songs sung in La Réunion’s ashrams and more rarely in temples. bhakti (Sanskrit): Hindu devotion that includes a personal relation to a deity. “big” temple: see “temple.” bondié/bondieu (Creole): name, title, and form of address to gods; literally: good god. brahmachari (Sanskrit): spiritual aspirant with teaching function in La Réunion’s ashrams. Conseil Général (French): departmental council. coup cabri/coup coq (Creole): sacrificing a goat/rooster. Département (French): administrative division of France, at the level between Région and the municipalities, administrated by the Conseil Général. fêt Karly, fêt Marliemmen, etc. (Creole): Karly festival, Marliemmen festival, etc. fierté (French): pride (as in national pride, in contrast to French orgueil, which means pride in the sense of haughtiness).

214 • Glossary

goulou (Creole): ancestors. gurukkal (Tamil): kurukkal.; Indian Brahmin priests. Kaf (Creole): denotes African origins (depending on context, may also have positive or derogatory connotations). Karly (Creole): goddess Kali (Kālī). karèm (Creole)/carême (French): ritual fast. kavadi/cavadee (Tamil): kāvat.i; carrying kavadi is a devotional practice for the god Mourouga, which consists of carrying burdens in a procession and often includes body piercing. Kavadi also denotes a decorated wooden structure that is carried. laïcité (French): laicism. Malbar (Creole): denotes Indian origins and/or Hindu religious affiliation (depending on context, may also have positive or derogatory connotations). Malgas (Creole)/Malgache: denotes Madagascan origins (depending on context, may also have positive or derogatory connotations). Marliemmen (Creole): goddess Mariamman (Tamil: Māriamman-). marsh dann fé (Creole)/marche sur le feu (French): fire walking. métissage (French): ethnic mixing or mixed ethnic origins. Mourouga (French): god Murugan (Tamil: Murukan-). Pandialé (Creole): also Pandialy, Dolvédé: goddess and heroine of the Barldon and worshipped during fire walking, associated with Draupadi (Tamil: Tiraupati). Pétiaye (Creole): goddess, Tamil: Periyācci, sometimes associated with Kartély (Kāt.t.ēri). Pongal (Tamil): Tamil harvest festival. poussari/poussarli (Creole): associated with Tamil pūcari, here: Reunionese priest. promès/promesse (Creole): vow. punjabi: here: any Indian dress combination of trousers, kurta, dupatta.

Glossary • 215

Région (French): administrative division of France, administered by the Conseil Régional. sapèl/chapelle (Creole): temple or other place of worship. sari (Hindi/French/English): Indian garment, pronounced [sa’rī] in La Réunion. Sinwa (Creole)/Chinois (French): Chinese. temple: “big”/“small” (French: grand/petit temple, or temple urbain/ familial): refers to the distinction commonly made in La Réunion between urban vegetarian temples built in South Indian architecture and featuring priests from India (“big” temples), and formerly rural plantation temples, mostly featuring Reunionese architecture with Reunionese priests, where animal sacrifices are conducted (“small” temples). In some temples, these categories overlap. Thaipoussam (Tamil): Taippūcam, Tamil month. timiti (Tamil): tīmiti: fire walking. Yab (Creole): descendants of Petit-Blancs, European settlers who lived more in the mountains than in the coastal areas (depending on context, may also have positive or derogatory connotations). Zarabe/Z’arabe (Creole): Muslims with Gujarati origins (depending on context, may also have positive or derogatory connotations). Zorey/Zoreil (Creole): Metropolitan French.

Index

advancing (in life), 8, 9, 91, 113, 120, 130, 131, 143, 154, 162, 163, 171, 172, 174, 177, 201, 209 Africa, 2, 10, 154 ancestors from, 10 African descent, 156 African heritage, 10 African immigrants, 36 African origins, 2, 9, 104, 214 African sources of knowledge, 163 East Africa, 94 indentured laborers from (East) Africa, 33, 34 Kaf, 9, 10, 67, 214 slaves from (East) Africa, 32, 38, 156 South Africa, 13, 46, 94, 103, 169 aesthetics, 6, 9, 11, 22, 24, 168, 169, 170, 180, 188, 192, 193, 197, 198, 201, 208, 209, 210 aesthetic experience, 6 aesthetic knowledge, 122–23, 209 aesthetic style, 193 aesthetically elaborate appearance, 87 aesthetically informed online representations, 190 bodily aesthetics, 192, 193 performance of aesthetic, 202 sensory aesthetic, 186 affect, 6, 7, 169, 178, 179, 180, 185, 187, 202 Agamas, 123, 124, 213 Agamic school 122, 124 Agamic ritual, 125 Agamic Saiva Siddhanta, 147 Aishwarya, 171, 172, 173, 174, 175, 201 Alexandre, 99, 101 Altglas, Véronique, 5, 57, 82n2, 139, 140, 143

Amandine, 1, 182, 186 Andoche, Jacqueline, 10, 38, 155, 156 ancestor 31, 47, 66, 87, 96, 102, 103, 110, 117, 142, 144, 149 ancestors and difficulties/suffering 7, 13, 31, 66, 94, 180, 210, 212 ancestors from different parts of the world, 9, 10, 138, 145 ancestor from India, 2, 87, 102, 110, 142, 212 ancestors’ migration, 88, 89 ancestor worship, 2, 31, 76, 94, 124 ancestral heritage/knowledge/tradition, 3, 5, 12, 13, 62, 66, 96, 97, 99, 110, 138, 149, 164 ancestral language, 79 ancestral religion, 3, 4, 5, 12, 42, 113, 115, 140 ancestral culture, 2, 3, 42, 44, 78, 115, 206 goulou, 47, 148, 214 honoring ancestors 144, 148, 207 possession by an ancestor, 119, 159, 160, 162, 164 practices of the ancestors, 97, 146–47, 153, 164, 164–65, 180, 208 pride in ancestors, 7, 13, 31, 72, 94, 99, 138, 164, 207, 210, 212 animal sacrifice, 23, 37, 43, 46, 50, 66, 94, 97, 134, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 154, 164, 165, 215 coup cabri/coup coq 146, 151, 156, 213 see also goat Aparna, 103, 109, 183, 190 Arumugam, Indira, 150 Asad, Talal, 3, 58, 59 ashram, 12, 16, 51, 52, 79, 106, 114, 125, 128, 139, 151, 169, 171, 185, 213

Index • 217 aspiration, 4, 5, 6, 8, 12, 13, 20, 22, 23, 24, 52, 53, 60, 61, 63, 66, 81, 82, 88, 89, 100, 110, 115, 131, 134, 136, 142, 145, 149, 153, 168, 170, 171, 174, 176, 206, 207, 209, 210, 211 see also aspirational pride under pride association, 43, 45, 58, 59, 60, 61, 67, 71, 74, 75, 79, 81, 82, 82n3, 128, 153, 208, 210 cultural association, 4, 5, 60, 61, 62, 64, 69, 72, 76, 135, 136, 155, 208 Fédération des Associations et Groupements Religieux Hindous et Culturels Tamouls de la Réunion. See under Fédération Tamoule merchant association, 50 religious association, 4, 5, 8, 22, 44, 60, 61, 69, 76, 82n3, 135, 136, 153, 155, 208 relief association, 38 temple association, 38, 43, 46, 47, 58, 60, 61, 92, 148 baptism, 115, 116, 124, 146, 198 Catholic baptism, see under Catholicism nāmakaran.am, 116 Barat, Christian, 40, 42, 43, 44, 46, 155 Barldon. See under Mahabharata Bates, Crispin, 34, 36 beef, 14, 16, 63, 144, 199 Benoist, Jean, 40, 44, 46, 50, 95, 147, 192 big temple. See under temple bhajans, 16, 185, 213 bhakti, 147, 183, 192, 213 Bharatanatyam, 15, 61, 98, 103, 109, 129, 145, 146, 183 body, 162, 169, 178, 180, 189, 192, 193, 198 and piercing, 50, 147, 151, 185, 199, 214 bodily acts, 192 bodily aesthetics, 192 bodily aspects of religion, 169 bodily benefits/well-being, 12, 170 bodily experiences, 6, 20, 125, 165, 169, 202 bodily forms of knowledge, 122, 139, 209

bodily movements, 188, 192, 193 bodily offerings, 151 bodily rituals/worship, 165, 169, 188, 209 bondié, 94, 97, 100, 178, 212, 213 mariage bondié, 197 Bourdieu, Pierre, 146, 192, 202 Bowen, John, 61 brahmachari, 173, 213 Brahmin, 35, 40, 44, 45, 47, 66, 91, 92, 93, 94, 113, 124, 125, 136n1, 147, 150, 153, 214 Anti-Brahmanism, 124 Brahminical Hinduism, 93, 97, 129, 147 brahminization, 45, 97, 134, 147, 150, 164 see also priest bricolage, 23, 138, 139, 140, 143, 145 business religion as business, 160 self as business, 114 calendar, 51, 61, 62, 201 Callandre, Florence, 44, 45, 46, 97 capital, 130 cultural, 8, 9, 126, 131, 139, 210 economic, 8, 9, 126, 139, 160, 207, 210 social, 8, 24, 126, 189, 210 career, 91, 113, 115, 120, 121, 126, 129, 130, 135, 139, 163, 170, 210 see also employment Carter, Marina, 34, 36 caste, 10, 35, 38, 39, 40, 41, 46, 93, 99, 104, 116, 117, 127, 147, 150, 188 Catholicism, 23, 37, 101, 120, 140, 141, 155 abandoning Catholicism, 43, 140, 141 Catholic baptism/conversion to Catholicism, 38, 41, 74, 142 Catholic Church 2, 4, 9, 32, 36, 37, 38, 39, 52, 59, 68, 69, 78, 117, 120, 136, 140, 141, 142, 145, 188 Catholic holiday, 67 Catholic Indian immigrants, 37, 38 Catholic practices/rituals, 39, 62, 64, 90, 92, 141, 142, 164 Catholic priest/missionaries/leaders, 8, 37, 38, 39, 42, 101 Catholic television program, 79 Catholic upbringing, 91, 92, 140, 142

218 • Index Catholic vocabulary, 93 Catholic-Hindu double religiosity. See under double religiosity comparison to Catholicism, 5, 115, 116, 117, 120, 136, 208 China, 138 ancestors/migration from, 2, 10, 33, 36, 142 Chinese descent/origins, 2, 9, 67 Chinese holiday/New Year, 68, 70, 71, 73, 78 Chinese religion/practices/worship, 2, 3, 142, 143, 144, 164 Chinese temple, 93, 110n1, 142 Sinwa / Chinois, 9, 215 class (social), 8, 9, 11, 35, 76, 93, 130, 133, 135, 150, 164, 169, 170, 188, 192 class suppression, 94 lower class, 96, 207 middle class, 8, 9, 42, 60, 66, 76, 81, 96, 102, 106, 129, 139, 147, 149, 150, 151, 153, 160, 165, 168, 169, 170, 173, 174, 188, 197, 207, 209 upper class, 173 see also social mobility Claveyrolas, Mathieu, 46, 125 clothing/clothes, 19, 24, 76, 103, 127, 169, 170, 183, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 196, 197, 198, 199, 201, 202, 212. See also punjabi, sari, veshti. see also fashion color (in ritual), 1, 58, 87, 178, 180, 193, 194, 195, 196, 197, 208 Conseil Général, 71, 80, 213 Conseil Régional, 215 Consulate General of India, 71, 105, 106, 190 consul general, 72, 105, 106, 107, 108 Coralie, 1, 2, 113 coup cabri/coup coq, see under animal sacrifice Creole, 10, 103 Creole language, 9, 19, 42, 78, 79, 110n3, 116, 151, 160, 213 Creole culture, 3, 12, 42, 78 Creole Hinduism, 125 creolization, 46

crying, 99, 178. See also tears Csordas, Thomas, 88 dance, 44, 53, 70, 103, 129, 131, 134, 146, 157, 176, 183 see also Bharatanatyam see also “dancing” the kavadi Danya, 44, 117, 120, 160 Dawson, Andrew, 8 Dean, Melanie, 197 death, 17, 33 and ritual impurity, 100, 171 death ritual, 62, 76 decoration (ritual), 23, 49, 76, 87, 89, 90, 119, 169, 170, 180, 181, 182, 188, 189, 190, 192, 193, 197, 199, 200, 201 Deepan, 115, 146, 147 Delphine, 102, 103, 105, 109 diaspora, 3, 5, 6, 12, 20, 22, 39, 43, 87, 88, 89, 95, 102, 103, 105, 106, 108, 109, 147, 153, 159, 176, 187, 188, 206, 207 diasporic belonging, 89, 102, 105, 109, 110, 207, 208 diasporic consciousness, 5, 6, 23, 88, 89, 92, 95, 96, 98, 102, 109, 110, 207 diasporic identification, 206 diasporic project, 207 diasporic connection/relationship, 79, 208 Dipavali, 16, 52, 72, 74, 75, 78, 81 disinterested worship. See under interested religion distinction, 162, 169 caste distinction. See under caste cultural distinction, 127, 146, 180, 202 distinction through religious knowledge, 23, 74, 77, 96, 103, 114, 115, 119, 125, 126, 130, 135, 171, 192, 208, 209, 210 distinction through India travels, 97, 98, 146 distinction through food habits, 14, 144, 147 distinction through religious practices, 23, 170, 180, 187, 188, 189, 192, 194, 197, 201, 202 distinction through Tamil language, 146

Index • 219 ethnic distinction, 104 social distinction, 3, 102, 114, 127, 138, 139, 146, 153, 164, 165, 188, 192, 202 diversity (religious/cultural) and Hinduism. See under Hinduism recognition of (religious/cultural) diversity, 3, 58, 59, 211 respect of religious diversity, 37, 42, 58, 72, 143 vivre-ensemble, 4, 58, 68, 73, 74, 80, 116 Divya, 98, 99, 185, 195, 197, 198 double religiosity, 23, 31, 139, 140, 141, 144, 146, 156, 157, 161, 164 multiple religiosity, 31, 139, 140, 141, 142, 145, 153, 156 drum, 1, 20, 40, 58, 119, 141, 178, 181, 182, 185, 186, 187, 202 economy, 11, 33, 35, 79, 102, 126, 139, 198 economic aims/aspirations, 23, 120, 160, 9 economic conditions, 41, 152, 165, 8 economic oppression, 66 economic connections/globalization/ relations, 5, 44, 52, 88, 101, 102, 103, 105, 108, 110, 120 economic capital/status/situation/wellbeing, 6, 8, 11, 12, 66, 114, 126, 139, 160, 170, 207, 210 economic success, 4, 42, 43, 47, 126, 150, 165, 168, 201, 209, 210 education, 9, 11, 12, 20, 41, 42, 58, 72, 91, 121, 126, 130, 163, 173 education in dance/music, 103 religious education, 5, 22, 43, 51, 52, 61, 62, 64, 66, 76, 77, 79, 81, 106, 113, 114, 119, 120, 121, 124, 127, 130, 133, 139, 143, 156 Elodie, 14, 15, 17, 18, 77, 175, 192 emotion, and ancestor, 94, 124, 180 and diaspora, 96, 98 and divinities, 94, 97, 98, 99, 100, 124, 180, 186 and fieldwork, 17, 20, 181, 182, 186, 211 and India, 96, 97, 98, 99

and pride, 6, 7, 24, 126, 201, 207, 210, 211. See also pride and recognition, 3, 6, 14, 24, 211 and ritual, 1, 6, 20, 22, 24, 90, 94, 124, 125, 147, 151, 165, 168, 169, 170, 175, 177, 178, 180, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 186, 187, 201, 202, 209, 211 and well-being, 6, 12, 168, 201, 202 display of, 6, 169, 180, 181, 182, 187, 202, 210, 211 historically grounded, 6, 7, 179, 180, 210, 211 talking about, 6, 168, 169, 175, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185 employment, 91, 120, 121, 129, 135, 150, 160 job (market)/work, 66, 91, 115, 120, 121, 136, 163, 170, 171, 172, 174, 202, 207 unemployment, 11, 12, 91, 113, 126, 129, 130, 132, 171, 210 see also career English language, see under language entrepreneurial career, 163 entrepreneurial priesthood / religious entrepreneurship, 113, 120, 127, 135, 177, 202 ethnic category, 10, 67, 68, 69, 73, 75, 156 ethnic endogamy, 9 ethnic features, 40, 104 ethnic identification/identities, 11, 46, 70 ethnic minority, 206, 211 ethnic mixing, See under métissage ethnic origins, 9, 130, 138 European Union, 1, 11, 59, 79 evil, 14, 74, 154, 155, 157, 160, 161 evil eye, 154, 157, 197 Facebook, 14, 15, 16, 18, 21, 22, 23, 44, 93, 98, 107, 109, 114, 115, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, 144, 146, 149, 151, 155, 173, 175, 176, 182, 189, 190, 191, 194, 199, 209 faith, 6, 120, 172, 180, 202 fashion, 44, 100, 104, 192, 197 see also clothing fast/fasting 1, 2, 16, 19, 39, 49, 99, 100, 120, 141, 147, 151, 158, 160, 161, 170, 171,

220 • Index 175, 176, 178, 181, 184, 188, 198, 199, 201, 214 carême/karèm, 16, 39, 120, 214 Fédération Tamoule, 43, 45, 51, 52, 57, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 74, 76, 77, 78, 80, 81, 131, 135, 141, 150, 153, 156, 157, 159 Fédération Tamoule Populaire, 66, 94 Fierté. See under pride fire walking, 1, 2, 16, 18, 39, 48, 49, 51, 57, 60, 70, 77, 92, 97, 99, 104, 113, 118, 119, 123, 124, 125, 126, 134, 136n2, 142, 143, 148, 149, 153, 165, 168, 169, 170, 171, 173, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 186, 188, 189, 190, 192, 193, 194, 195, 197, 199, 201, 211, 214, 215 France, 2, 3, 10, 11, 22, 32, 37, 58, 59, 63, 64, 128, 139, 150, 154 Metropolitan France, 4, 12, 14, 20, 31, 41, 57, 58, 60, 64, 69, 73, 141, 155, 160 French Republic/State, 3, 4, 5, 11, 12, 22, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 67, 69, 70, 74, 75, 76, 80, 81, 140, 149, 153, 208, 209, 211 Franchina, Loreley, 123, 176, 177 François, 160, 161, 162, 163, 168 Fraser, Nancy, 4, 57, 67 Fuller, Christopher J., 124, 147 gender, 8, 17, 23, 113, 115, 127, 130, 131, 132, 176, 194 genealogical research, 31, 44 generation, 5, 7, 12, 21, 22, 24n1, 40, 41, 42, 49, 51, 66, 81, 88, 93, 99, 101, 105, 128, 133, 141, 207, 212 Ghasarian, Christian, 8, 24n2, 46, 156, globalization 3, 5, 23, 78, 88, 100 global/trans-local interactions, 5, 53, 89, 100, 102, 207, 211 global religion 89, 102, 207, 208. See also world religion religion as globalizing force, 5, 88, 89, 100, 110, 206 goat, 14, 48, 144, 145, 146, 148, 150, 151, 152, 156, 193, 194, 213

GOPIO (Global Organization of People of Indian Origin), 105, 107 goulou. See under ancestors Guadeloupe, 10, 106, 129, 151, 152 Gujarati origin, 104 Gujarati Hindus, 9, 108 Gujarati Muslims, 35, 104, 105, 106, 108, 144 Z’arabe / Zarabe, 9, 10, 215 gurukkal. See under priest Guyana, 94, 152 health, 11, 33 rituals/wishes for health, 9, 47, 91, 150, 161, 163, 172, 173, 176 healing, 157, 158, 160 Henri, 160, 173, 174 heritage, 12, 13, 41, 59, 72, 76, 94, 95, 97, 110, 138, 146, 164 Hindi, 77, 106, 109 Hindu nationalism, 12, 44, 51, 66, 105, 106, 147 Hinduism/Hindu religion as global religion. See under global religion as religion, 23, 81, 115, 116, 155, 209 as sorcery, 7, 37, 116, 155, 208 as world religion. See under world religion Brahminical Hinduism. See under Brahmin comparison to Catholicism. See under Catholicism diversity of, 10, 134, 135, 136, 147, 153 Hindu ritual. See ritual image/status of, 7, 52, 74, 76, 81, 101, 116, 122, 133, 136, 138, 151, 153, 155, 189, 190, 202, 208, 210 knowledge about. See under knowledge (religious) opposition to, 37, 42, 75 pride in Hinduism/Hindu religion. See under pride recognition of. See under recognition revival of, turn to, 97, 141 Reunionese local Hinduism versus Indian Hinduism, 46, 94, 100, 110

Index • 221 versus magic. See under magic visibility of, 4, 10, 22, 42, 44, 52, 57, 58, 60, 64, 79, 80, 81, 98, 129, 134, 151, 152 identity and diaspora, 88, 94, 187 and movements, 24, 206 and pride, 169, 188 class/social identity, 9, 11 cultural identity, 70, 150, 156 ethnic identity, 11, 46, 70, 209 French identity, 4, 62 identity politics, 4, 74, 75, 79, 206, 210 religious identity, 11, 14, 15, 46, 70, 89, 93, 94, 115, 144, 169, 187, 198, 211 impurity. See under purity indenture, 2, 22, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 37, 38, 40, 49, 50, 67, 74, 94 indenture background, 13, 93, 94 indentured laborers, 13, 31, 33, 34, 35, 36, 42, 37, 38, 50, 51, 105, 156, 180, 188 postindenture contexts/societies, 10, 13, 39, 45, 52, 94, 95, 105 see also pride in indenture background India ancestor from. See under ancestor as modern, 72 and poverty. See under poverty and India as world power, 101, 108 consulate. See under Consulate General of India flight connection to, 100, 105 image of, 87, 100, 101, 109 India Business Day, 108 India Day, 108 Indian architects. See temple architect under temple Indian clothing. See under clothing Indian fashion. See under fashion Indian government/state, 12, 102, 105, 106, 107, 108 Indian name. See under name Indian origins/descent, 2, 8, 9, 10, 13, 14, 31, 33, 34, 35, 36, 40, 41, 42, 45, 63, 67, 71, 75, 76, 79, 87, 100, 104, 105, 106,

107, 108, 115, 138, 152, 153, 156, 207. See also Malbar Indian priest. See under priest Indian television. See under television Indianness/indianité, 12, 13, 103 internship in, 104 institutional relation with India, 44, 100, 102, 105, 106, 108 interest/disinterest in India, 9, 20, 23, 52, 87, 89, 91, 92, 93, 96, 100, 101, 103, 109, 141, 142, 157, 206, 207 knowledge about India/knowledge acquisition in India. See under knowledge living/long-term stays in, 99, 103, 104, 109, 122, 124, 146, 183 migration from, 2, 10, 13, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 47, 52, 88, 144, 165 orientation toward, 2, 5, 8, 21, 23, 32, 41, 43, 44, 45, 46, 50, 51, 52, 75, 88, 89, 100, 106, 110, 136, 145, 148, 149, 158, 173, 206, 207 PIO (Person of Indian Origin)/OCI (Overseas Citizen of India) status, 31, 105, 210 recognition/misrecognition from India, 12, 23, 102, 107, 109, 207, 210 travel to, 2, 5, 9, 12, 15, 44, 45, 51, 87, 89, 92, 93, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 103, 104, 105, 109, 110, 122, 127, 128, 129, 135, 142, 144, 145, 157, 159, 173, 174, 186, 197, 207, 208 see also Pravasi Bharatiya Divas (PBD) see also GOPIO Indian Ocean, 1, 10, 31, 32, 35, 78 Indian Ocean Commission, 42 interested religion/worship, 156, 157, 173, 174 disinterested worship, 173, 174 internet, 132, 158, 187 see also online interreligious dialogue, 73 Interreligious Dialogue (Groupe de Dialogue Inter-religieux de La Réunion, GDIR), 68, 69 Islam, 4, 58, 61, 68, 155. See also Gujarati Muslims, Muslim

222 • Index island, 2, 10, 11, 12, 32, 33, 52, 94, 102, 108, 116 Jacobsen, Knut A., 95, 187 Jayashri, 127, 128, 129, 132, 133, 134, 135, 151, 152, 155 Jean, 162, 163 Jeffrey, Craig, 113, 130 Josephine, 77, 78 Kaf. See under Africa Kali. See under Karly karèm. See under fast Karly, 47, 50, 51, 93, 94, 97, 98, 122, 146, 148, 157, 161, 162, 178, 182, 193, 194, 196, 214 Kali (Caribbean), 152, 194 Karly festival/fêt Karly 16, 48, 49, 51, 70, 134, 145, 146, 152, 154, 165, 197, 213 kavadi/cavadee, 214 and mythology, 61, 91, 99 carrying kavadi, 19, 51, 61, 87, 89, 91, 92, 93, 99, 104, 109, 134, 141, 142, 151, 157, 161, 168, 169, 171, 172, 174, 176, 180, 183, 184, 185, 186, 193, 194, 199, 201 “dancing” the kavadi, 192, 193, 201 kavadi procession, 51, 58, 61, 87, 89, 91, 134, 141, 185, 193, 195, 196, 201 the festival, 16, 49, 50, 51, 61, 90, 91, 141, 147, 148, 153, 169, 170, 176, 186, 188, 189, 191 the decorated wooden structure, 50, 89, 90, 91, 170, 171, 180, 186, 188, 189, 199, 200, 201 Kloß, Sinah Theres, 17, 152, 193 knowledge bodily/embodied knowledge, 120, 122, 123, 124, 139, 160, 193, 202, 209 cultural knowledge about India, 44, 103, 104 desire for/interest in religious knowledge, 42, 44, 52, 100, 103, 106, 113, 114, 121, 123, 209 distinction through religious knowledge, 23, 74, 96, 103, 110, 114, 115, 117, 119, 125, 126, 135, 143, 147, 171, 189, 192, 198, 209, 210

knowledge acquisition, 2, 23, 113, 114, 115, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 126, 127, 135, 160, 206, 208 knowledge acquisition in India, 2, 5, 9, 12, 43, 44, 45, 66, 92, 96, 101, 110, 121, 122, 136, 159 aversion to knowledge from India, 93 perceived lack of, 7, 39, 42, 52, 94, 113, 115, 116, 119, 121–22, 147 knowledge and ancestors, 5, 39, 62, 66, 96, 99, 149 religious knowledge and diasporic consciousness, 89, 96, 98, 207 religious knowledge and diversity, 23, 66, 96, 114, 122, 136, 138, 141, 159, 209 religious knowledge and Facebook, 114, 127, 128, 130, 132, 133, 134, 173 knowledge and gender, 113, 114, 115, 126, 127, 131 religious knowledge for justification, 23, 115, 136 textual religious knowledge, 22, 42, 62, 91, 97, 120, 122, 123, 124, 125, 139, 160, 161, 168, 202, 209 see also knowledge and pride under pride see also language knowledge under language laicism, 59, 214 French laicism/laïcité, 3, 22, 57, 58, 59, 67, 69, 70, 72, 73, 75, 80, 82n2, 140, 142, 153, 210, 214 French laicist state, 22, 69, 211 laicist celebration/festival, 72, 75 laicist support for religious manifestations, 60, 75 Lakshmi, 87, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 101, 109, 141, 142, 143, 145, 158, 161, 162, 163, 164, 186, 201 language, 213 ancestral languages, 71, 79 Creole language. See under Creole English language, 61, 100, 102, 103, 105, 107, 115, 128, 151, 160 French language, 107

Index • 223 Indian languages, 2, 10, 41, 62, 79, 102, 106, 108, 208 Tamil language, 5, 44, 61, 62, 63, 74, 79, 93, 102, 103, 105, 109, 121, 124, 125, 130, 134, 139, 145, 146, 157. See also Tamil class vernacular languages, 147 leave (from work, for religious purposes), 64, 65, 70, 74, 81, 170 local (importance of) the local context, 6, 9, 45, 46, 67, 78, 96, 207 local aims/projects, 74, 79, 89, 102, 110, 206 local/locally created knowledge/ traditions, 3, 13, 22, 23, 32, 41, 42, 43, 45, 46, 78, 93, 94, 95, 96, 125, 149, 154, 164 recognition from/in the local context/ society, 4, 13, 64, 89, 102, 188 Madagascar, 73, 163 migration from, 2, 32, 36 ancestors from Madagascar, 10, 142 indentured laborers from Madagascar, 33 Madagascan origins, 2, 9, 14, 144, 154, 156, 214 Madagascan practices, 144, 145, 164 Madagascans of Indian descent, 36 Malgache/Malgas, 9, 14, 71, 144, 145, 214 slaves from Madagascar, 32 Mahabharata, 48, 49, 97, 99, 118, 119, 123, 125, 136n2, 214 Barldon, 48, 97, 123, 126, 136n2, 170, 213, 214 magic, 98, 155, 156, 157, 158, 161, 162, 163 black magic, 117, 155, 157, 158 magic book, 158 magical/magico-religious practices, 17, 23, 38, 53, 125, 134, 156, 159, 161, 162, 163, 164 religion versus magic. See under religion Malbar, 9, 10, 14, 24n3, 33, 76, 101, 144, 145, 146, 214

malbarité, 13 religion malbar, 44–45, 46, 128, 144 Malgache/Malgas. See under Madagascar Manuel, 124, 184, 186, 189 Marco, 60, 62, 63, 70, 76, 77, 96, 97, 101, 102, 109, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127, 173, 178, 181, 182, 189 Marie, 98, 99, 101, 104, 109, 127, 129, 130, 132, 133, 134, 135, 144, 145, 151, 152, 155, 157, 158, 159, 164, 173, 174, 175 market metaphors, 177 commerce (religion as), 156, 183 see also business (self as, religion as) see also temple as supermarket Marliemmen/Mariamman, 47, 49, 51, 94, 98, 124, 134, 148, 157, 160, 165, 174, 175, 178, 182, 185, 186, 193, 194, 214 Marliemmen festival/fêt Marliemmen, 48, 49, 51, 213 marriage, 40, 104 Martinique, 10, 152–53 Mauritius, 10, 12, 13, 34, 35, 37, 43, 45, 49, 52, 66, 71, 75, 93, 94, 102, 103, 104, 105, 114, 125, 129, 148, 151, 187, 192 media ancestral language and diaspora, 79 educational media, 22, 62 (public) media, 42, 45, 58, 78, 79, 80, 202, 209 Indian media, 100 (religious) mediation, 127, 134 social media, 114, 128, 130, 176. See also Facebook menstruation, 16, 18, 100, 130, 132, 198 métissage/mixed origins 2, 9, 10, 11, 31, 36, 39, 40, 41, 46, 75, 93, 138, 156, 214 Metropolitan France. See under France Michaels, Axel, 181 Michelle, 14, 144, 154 Minienpoullé, Daniel, 57, 105 minority, 10, 211 minorities and pride, 7, 82, 211 recognition as a religious minority, 3, 5, 10, 58, 59, 65, 67, 188, 208, 210

224 • Index religious minority, 101 making/self-fashioning as a religious minority, 3, 4, 59, 60, 82, 89, 207, 208, 211 Mitterrand, François, 41, 42, 94 Modi, Narendra, 106, 107, 108 Monique, 99, 100, 104, 159 motivation and religion, 165, 169, 170, 172, 174, 175, 176, 177, 201, 206, 209, See also self-optimizing projects Mourouga/Murugan, 49, 50, 51, 61, 87, 91, 98, 99, 110, 127, 147, 148, 157, 158, 165, 174, 183, 185, 186, 193, 194, 195, 199, 201, 214 Muslim, 9, 67, 215 Muslim calls to prayer, 58 Muslim celebrations, 64, 71 Muslim public holiday, 68, 71 Muslim immigrants, 38 Muslim origins, 141 Muslim practices, 39, 144 Muslim saint Nargoulan. See Nargoulan Muslim television program, 79 see also Gujarati Muslims see also Islam see also Muslim name mythology (Hindu), 61, 91, 97, 99, 100, 101, 109, 123, 161, 162, 188, 202 Nabokov, Isabelle, 131 name Christian first name, 24n1, 63, 93 French first name, 64, 93 Indian family name, 24n1, 31, 35, 40, 63, 76 Indian first name, 63, 64, 91, 129 Muslim first/family name, 63, 141 Tamil first name, 64, 74, 93 Nargoulan, 47, 144 neoliberal self. See under self Nicaise, Stéphane, 155 online online contact with India, 128, 207 online search for religious knowledge, 98, 130, 135

online-offline continuation, 21, 114, 132, 135 see also Facebook see also internet openness to religious diversity, 42, 130, 140, 141, 143, 145 Padèl, 76, 77, 79, 80 Pajani, 77, 93, 94, 95, 96, 101, 109, 110n5, 124, 126, Pajani Malai (Pal-an-i Malai), 98, 99, 110n5, 185, 186 Pandialé/Draupadi, 1, 48, 49, 51, 97, 118, 123, 136n2, 148, 178, 182, 186, 193, 194, 195, 197, 212, 214 Paul, 115, 116, 117, 124 penitence, 1, 16, 20, 57, 61, 90, 91, 98, 123, 131, 134, 150, 151, 160, 161, 168, 169, 174, 175, 177, 178, 180, 182, 183, 184, 185, 186, 188, 189, 193, 197, 201, 202, 212 Pétiaye, 47, 48, 49, 148, 158, 193, 214 see also poul nwar philosophy (Hindu), 91, 106, 118, 119, 123, 125, 133, 161, 202, 209, 213 piercing, see under body Pierre, 103, 106, 109 pilgrimage, 99, 102, 186, see also Pajani Malai, Tirupati PIO (Person of Indian Origin)/OCI (Overseas Citizen of India) status. See under India Pondicherry, 34, 35–36, 104 Pondicherrian, 45 Pondicherrian origin, 9, 104, 116, 146 Pongal, 37, 39, 74, 214 “popular” religious practices, 38, 42, 125, 147 possession (ritual possession), 118, 119, 131, 134, 142, 147, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 164 postcolonial context/society, 66, 152 postindenture contexts/societies, see under indenture poul nwar / poule noire, 158, 159, 163, 173 poussari. See under priest

Index • 225 poverty and India, 35, 87, 93, 101, 109 Pravasi Bharatiya Divas (PBD), 102, 103, 105, 109 pride and animal sacrifice, 151, 152, 153 and clothes, 188, 189, 192, 194, 197, 198, 201 and diaspora, 12, 108, 110, 206 and esteem, 77, 114, 146, 161, 162, 163, 164 and India, 12, 22, 45, 72, 96, 97, 98, 99, 101, 103, 108, 122, 146, 207 and knowledge, 22, 23, 45, 113, 115, 117, 122, 124, 126, 135, 136, 146, 189, 192, 193, 207, 209, 210 and recognition, 3, 4, 6, 9, 14, 22, 23, 24, 65, 81, 82, 114, 136, 169, 188, 192, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, 211 and ritual, 1, 22, 91, 168, 169, 174, 175, 176, 184, 187, 188, 193, 201, 202, 210, 212 and ritual possession, 161 and self-esteem, 2, 8, 65, 169 and shame. See shame and social mobility/status, 3, 4, 53, 117, 135, 209, 210 as discourse, 2, 6, 53, 72, 126, 206, 210, 211 as haughtiness/showing off, 2, 7, 24, 169, 189, 197, 199, 201 as (historically grounded) emotion, 6, 7, 210, 211 as lens of analysis, 20, 82, 170, 208, 210, 211 as motivating force, 82, 206, 208, 209 as social practice, 6, 206, 211 as strategy, 6, 14, 65, 94, 96, 206, 211 aspirational, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 13, 82, 113, 209, 210, 211 assertion/affirmation of, 2, 3, 9, 13, 60, 113, 152, 210 balanced, 8, 24, 169, 170, 188, 189, 198, 199, 201 display of, 2, 13, 71, 152, 170, 187, 207, 209, 210 fierté, 2, 4, 7, 8, 101, 188, 208, 213

in ability to believe, 180 in ancestors, see under ancestor in ancestral religion/heritage, 12, 13, 72, 110, 113, 138, 164 in being Hindu, 2, 60, 101, 102, 187, 188, 193, 212 in engaging with diverse religious practices, 141, 142, 143 in Hinduism/Hindu religion, 9, 12, 22, 32, 110, 112, 117, 207 in indenture background, 13, 31 in locally created traditions/practices, 22, 41, 45, 93, 94, 95, 96, 110, 122, 164 in magical power, 155 in métissage, 41, 138 in world religion, 89, 101, 208 justified, 2, 8, 24, 189, 201, 210 performance of, 198, 199, 210, 211 politics, 3, 57, 82, 206 see also self-confidence priest (Hindu) Becoming a priest, 114, 117, 126 entrepreneurial priesthood, 77, 118, 120, 121, 135 Indian Brahmin priest/gurukkal, 5, 37, 40, 43, 44, 45, 47, 62, 63, 66, 79, 91, 92, 93, 94, 100, 103, 113, 117, 121, 122, 124, 125, 126, 135, 147, 148, 153, 175, 214, 215 Indo-Caribbean priest, 117 Indo-Mauritian priest, 43 Mauritian priest, 125 priest in Guyana, 152 priest in India, 98, 100, 114 priest and gender, 126, 131 Reunionese priest/poussari, 1, 2, 16, 19, 23, 40, 44, 45, 46, 52, 60, 62, 66, 70, 76, 77, 79, 93, 95, 96, 99, 102, 113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 130, 131, 136, 147, 148, 150, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160, 170, 171, 173, 174, 177, 178, 181, 182, 183, 187, 189, 190, 194, 197, 199, 214, 215 Sri Lankan priest, 43

226 • Index procession, 1, 9, 37, 38, 39, 49, 51, 53, 57, 58, 60, 61, 75, 76, 87, 89, 90, 91, 114, 134, 141, 147, 165, 175, 180, 181, 185, 187, 188, 189, 193, 194, 195, 197, 201, 202, 208, 209, 214 promès/promesse. See under vow Prudhomme, Claude, 37, 38, 39 punjabi, 127, 145, 170, 178, 192, 193, 197, 214 public holiday, 22, 59, 63, 67, 68, 69, 70, 73, 74, 75, 76, 78, 80, 81, 208 purity (ritual purity/impurity), 8, 16, 18, 40, 43, 46, 99, 130, 131, 132, 198, 199 Ramsamy-Nadarassin, Jean-Régis, 33, 35, 50 Rani, 194, 197 Raphaël, 92, 93, 96, 109, 142, 143, 145, 156, 173 Recognition and audience/from others, 3, 6, 23, 115, 117, 135, 136, 162, 202, 208, 211 and clothes, 192 and the self, 8, 169 as priest, 117, 120, 136, 177 as religious minority. See under minority felt recognition, 3, 4, 14, 22, 24, 57, 63, 80, 82, 136, 162, 210, 211 formal/institutional recognition, 3, 5, 14, 22, 57, 65, 75, 80, 136, 210 from India. See under India in the French context, 3, 12, 164, 207, 208 in the Reunionese context/Reunionese society, 8, 12, 22, 23, 44, 61, 62, 74, 102, 109, 188, 207 in the temple, 189 legal recognition, 152 of Hinduism, 4, 8, 11, 22, 23, 52, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 69, 81, 114, 115, 133, 140, 153, 155 of (religious/cultural) diversity. See under diversity of ritual, 123 of Tamil first names, 74 of temple, 119

process of claiming recognition, 4, 14, 22, 60, 81 social recognition, 3, 4, 5, 44, 57, 63, 66, 67, 75, 80, 133, 135, 136, 153, 162, 164, 169, 202, 208, 209, 210 state recognition, 3, 4, 12, 22, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 67, 74, 81, 202, 208, 209, 210 struggle for recognition, 3, 4, 8, 9, 22, 52, 57, 59, 60, 63, 65, 66, 67, 75, 76, 80, 210, 211 redistribution, 4, 67, 210 Région/Conseil Régional, 11, 42, 44, 71, 73, 80, 105, 213, 215 relief (emotion), 1, 6, 90, 175, 184, 186 religion ancestral religion, 3, 4, 5, 12, 42, 113, 115, 140 and choice, 138, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 145, 147, 148, 156, 164, 165, 185 and the senses. See ritual: sensory experience of as a category, 4, 63, 69, 101, 155, 208 Hindu religion. See Hinduism religious diversity. See under diversity versus magic, 138, 139, 154, 155, 157, 158, 159, 160, 206 see also world religion respect toward religious diversity. See under diversity ritual and emotion. See under emotion and gender, 131, 176, 177 and tradition, 95 and meaning, 39, 62, 113, 114, 116, 146, 150, 175, 185, 188, 201, 202, 209 and magic, 154, 155, 158, 159, 160, 163 bodily ritual. See under body collective ritual, 6, 58, 124, 165, 168, 169, 170, 177, 187, 188, 201, 202, 209 death ritual, 62, 76, 77 explanation about, 62, 114, 116, 117, 125, 128, 209 family ritual, 15, 18, 98, 158 hair cutting ritual, 17 initiation ritual to become priest, 117 initiation ritual to magic, 163

Index • 227 interest in rituals in India, 97, 129, 159 learning how to perform rituals, 118, 160 life cycle ritual, 16, 62 penitence ritual, 151, 177, 188 ritual benefits, 6, 150, 162, 165, 168, 169, 170, 173, 176, 177, 183, 187, 201, 209 ritual expertise, 114, 124 ritual knowledge, 38, 121, 125, 202 ritual possession. See possession ritual purity. See purity sensory experience of, 6, 18, 20, 39, 165, 168, 169, 177, 180, 181, 184, 185, 186, 202, 209 status of, 124 see also animal sacrifice, fasting, fire walking, kavadi, poul nwar, sacrificing the self Robert, 44, 45, 99, 100, 104, 117, 159, 160, 190 Sanskrit, 42, 102, 124, 147, 213 Sanskritization, 147 sapèl/chapelle, 46, 120, 215 Sarasvati, 40, 99, 138, 186 sari, 178, 192, 197, 215 secularism, 3, 5, 58, 59, 67, 140, 206. See also laicism self and recognition. See under recognition as business. See under neoliberal self co-constructed on Facebook, 21 neoliberal, 114, 115, 135, 136, 139, 143, 177, 202, 209 sacrificing the self, 145, 153, 171, 176, 183, 188, 193, 201, 202 selfless action, 171, 173 self-confidence, 7, 13, 45, 93, 94, 95, 99, 101, 102, 120, 122, 124, 125, 134, 145, 153, 161, 164, 173, 184, 187. See also pride self-making, 23, 89, 110, 113, 114, 115, 118, 122, 127, 135, 136, 145, 169, 183, 199, 209, 211 self-mastery, 176 self-optimization/self-perfection/ improve/work on the self/work

toward a preferred self, 113, 121, 122, 131, 135, 143, 156, 169, 175, 176, 177, 187, 202 self-positioning, 6, 12, 13, 22, 23, 52, 89, 207, 209 self-presentation, 21 self-realization, 114, 139 self-reflection, 103, 115, 135, 183, 185 self-responsibility, 176 selfie, 21, 190, 191 shame, 7, 101, 115 singing, 49, 94, 97, 170, 185 Sinha, Vineeta, 139, 140, 143, 144, 149, 199 Sinwa/Chinois. See under China Shiva, 50, 51, 93, 122, 147, 148 slave/slavery, 22, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 37, 38, 40, 66, 67, 78, 79, 89, 156 small temple. See under temple social media. See under media. See also Facebook social mobility, 4, 8, 11, 35, 42, 53, 76, 81, 113, 114, 135, 139, 140, 150, 209, 210. See also class sorcery, 7, 8, 22, 32, 38, 45, 52, 53, 74, 101, 115, 116, 152, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 162, 163, 198, 208, 210 South Africa. See under Africa state. See under France Stodulka, Thomas, 6 stress (and religion/ritual), 16, 90, 98, 99, 173, 175, 183, 184, 185, 197 success (as aspiration), 2, 4, 6, 7, 12, 42, 43, 47, 113, 117, 119, 120, 121, 126, 130, 131, 133, 134, 136, 139, 142, 145, 146, 150, 157, 160, 162, 164, 165, 168, 173, 174, 176, 177, 193, 201, 209, 210, see also advancing, aspiration, career, self/ self-optimization syncretism, 139, 143 Tamij Sangam, 64, 67, 71, 74, 75 Tamil from focus on Tamil to India more broadly, 108, 129 representation of Tamil culture in public media, 78 Tamil class, 15, 93, 98, 102, 124, 129, 134

228 • Index “Tamil community”, 57, 67, 68, 70, 71, 80 Tamil culture, 52, 62, 68 Tamil diaspora, 43, 187 “Tamil ethno-cultural population”, 68 Tamil harvest festival, see under Pongal Tamil identity, 188, 210 Tami laborers, 38 Tamil language. See under language Tamil months, 51 Tamil name. See under name Tamil origins, 141 Tamil public holiday, 67, 68, 71 “Tamil revival/renaissance”, 61, 97 Tamil script, 42, 44, 93, 109, 124, 146 Tamils, 7, 95, 99, 128, 187 tamoul, 9, 10, 43, 44, 45, 68, 70, 97. See also Fédération Tamoule, Fédération Tamoule Populaire Tamil Nadu, 7, 39, 44, 100, 101, 105, 107, 131 Tamil New Year, 52, 65, 67, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 78, 79, 80, 81, 107, 190 tamoul. See under Tamil Taylor, Charles, 140, 145 Taylor, John P., 198 tears, 90, 175, 182, 186. See also crying television/TV, 16, 22, 78, 79, 101 French television, 79, 81 Indian television channels/shows, 77, 79, 109, 192 Reunionese local television, 44, 45, 60, 62, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 101, 182, 201, 208 temple, 10, 46, 215 access/entering, 14, 16, 19, 41, 100, 130, 132, 175, 198, 199. See also fasting atmosphere (sonic) in the temple, 20, 94 big temple, 40, 43, 46, 47, 49, 50, 51, 66, 76, 91, 92, 93, 94, 97, 98, 103, 113, 117, 145, 147, 148, 150, 153, 154, 157, 158, 161, 163, 173, 175, 189, 215 Chinese temple. See under China construction of, 38, 42, 46, 47, 48, 60, 93, 119, 120. See also temple architect clothing and temple, 16, 19, 104, 127, 190, 191, 192, 196, 197

decoration of, 23, 189, 190, 196, 197 educational offers in temples, 61, 128 family temple, 15, 17, 46, 47, 141, 151, 158, 162 gender and temple, 16, 100, 114, 130, 131, 132, 134, 176, 198. See also temple access small temple, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 51, 60, 66, 76, 77, 90, 92, 93, 94, 97, 98, 113, 118, 119, 120, 126, 145, 146, 148, 150, 153, 154, 158, 160, 161, 162, 170, 173, 215 temple architect/sculptor, 5, 100, 119, 120 temple as economic system, 120, 126 temple as social network/space, 1, 19, 20, 21, 113, 114, 120, 121, 126, 146, 170, 171, 186, 187 temple as supermarket, 117, 120, 160, 177 temple association. See under association temple festival, 16, 18, 48, 53, 121, 144, 146, 149, 169, 170, 187, 201, 209. See also fire walking, Karly festival, kavadi. temple in India, 43, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 109 temple president, 19, 61, 121, 128, 198, 201 temple and public visibility, 18, 52, 53, 57, 58, 74, 77, 128, 187 worship in temple versus home/ ashram, 44, 70, 92, 100, 121,185 Thaipoussam/Taippūcam, 51, 57, 188, 215 Thomas, 121, 122, 124, 125, 126, 127, 135, 171, 194 Tirupati, 99 tolerance, 116 tourism in India, 44, 97 in La Réunion, 19, 58, 181 trance, 119, 134, 161, 162 Trinidad, 33, 94, 152 Trouillet, Pierre-Yves, 43, 45, 187 Tully, James, 4, 65

Index • 229 unemployment. See under employment vegetarianism/vegetarian practices/ sacrifice, 16, 47, 48, 50, 66, 139, 147, 148, 149, 151, 153, 154, 157, 160, 164, 170, 175, 183, 215, Vertovec, Steven, 5, 6, 88, 95, 106, 152, 153 veshti, 178, 190, 192 vivre-ensemble. See under diversity vow/promès/promesse, 1, 39, 49, 87, 120, 173, 175, 178, 185, 214

Willaime, Jean-Paul, 59, work. See under employment world religion, 4, 5, 8, 45, 59, 89, 101, 110, 135, 136, 164, 208, 209, 210. See also global religion Wulf, Christoph, 181 Yab, 9, 215 Younger, Paul, 46, 94, 95, 188 Z’arabe/Zarabe. See under Gujarat Zorey/Zoreil, 9, 215