Published: 11:06 PM, 02 October 2026
Why Mahatma Gandhi’s Philosophy Matters More Than Ever in the 21st Century
Every 2 October, we remember Mahatma Gandhi—a man whose physical presence disappeared decades ago, but whose moral question remains stubbornly alive: Can we resist injustice without becoming unjust ourselves?
For me, Gandhi has never been merely a historical figure, a political leader or an icon preserved in photographs and textbooks. His philosophy of Ahimsa (non-violence) has been a quiet influence on my life since childhood.
As I have grown older, entered journalism, encountered disagreements and attacks, witnessed political conflicts and observed the darker sides of human behaviour, I have found myself returning again and again to one principle: violence may silence a person, but it rarely settles the question. I still try to live by that principle.
Gandhi was born on 2 October 1869. In 2026, we mark his 157th birth anniversary. His birthday is also observed by the United Nations as the International Day of Non-Violence—a recognition of the universal relevance of a principle that transcends borders, religions, nationalities and political traditions.
But perhaps the greatest misunderstanding about non-violence is that it means weakness. It does not. Non-violence is not the absence of courage. It is courage under discipline.
It is easy to respond to hatred with hatred. It is easy to insult someone who insults us, to humiliate someone who humiliates us or to seek revenge when we have been wronged. Human beings have an ancient instinct for retaliation. Violence often offers the intoxicating illusion of immediate power.
Non-violence asks something much harder. It asks us to remain human when others are trying to strip away our humanity. That is why Gandhi’s philosophy continues to speak to me.
There is another misconception worth challenging: that choosing non-violence means accepting injustice passively. Gandhi’s life contradicts that interpretation.
Non-violent resistance is not passive submission. It is a form of resistance that refuses to reproduce the cruelty it opposes. The United Nations describes non-violent action as a means through which people can resist oppression and pursue political or social change without physical violence.
Historically, Gandhi’s campaigns of civil disobedience—including the Salt March—demonstrated how mass resistance could challenge an entrenched system without making violence its instrument.
This distinction matters enormously. One can be uncompromising against injustice without becoming hateful toward human beings. One can disagree profoundly without dehumanizing the person on the other side. One can resist oppression without allowing anger to become one’s moral compass. And perhaps this is where non-violence becomes relevant not only to politics, but to ordinary life.
To practice Ahimsa is to recognize the fundamental interconnectedness of all human beings. It demands that we look past artificial divisions of nationality, religion, caste, gender and ideology to see the shared humanity beneath. When Gandhi stated that “an eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind,” he was offering a radical critique of cyclical retribution. He understood that true justice cannot be birthed from malice.
When we hear the word violence, we tend to imagine weapons, wars and physical destruction. But there are quieter forms of violence. There is violence in humiliation. There is violence in hatred. There is violence in deliberately destroying another person’s dignity.
There is violence in refusing to listen because we have already decided that the other person does not deserve to be heard. There is violence in language when words are deliberately used to wound rather than communicate.
A truly transformative philosophy must be inclusive, leaving no one behind at the margins of society. Gandhi’s vision of Swaraj (self-rule) and Sarvodaya (the rise of all) was deeply rooted in this principle. He famously championed the cause of the marginalized, famously referring to the Dalits as Harijans (children of God) and tirelessly working to dismantle the rigid barriers of the caste system, religious friction and economic exploitation.
And in the age of social media, there is another disturbing phenomenon: people can attack strangers from behind screens without ever having to witness the consequences of their words. Our technological progress has not automatically produced moral progress.
We can communicate faster than any previous generation, yet understand one another less. We can instantly reach millions of people, yet increasingly live inside ideological and emotional bubbles. This is precisely why non-violence must be understood as more than the rejection of physical force. It is also a discipline of thought, language and conduct.
One lesson Gandhi has given me is that the method matters as much as the objective. If we want a peaceful society, we cannot endlessly normalize violence while merely hoping for peace at the end.
If we want dignity, we cannot build our arguments through humiliation. If we want justice, we cannot become indifferent to the humanity of those with whom we disagree.
This does not mean that every conflict can be solved through politeness, nor that dialogue alone can immediately overcome every injustice. There are circumstances in which resistance must be firm, institutions must act and wrongdoing must be confronted. But confrontation does not require hatred. That distinction has become increasingly important to me.
As a journalist and writer, I often encounter ideas, political positions and social realities with which I strongly disagree. But journalism, at its best, should not be an exercise in vengeance. It should be an attempt to illuminate reality—even when reality is uncomfortable.
The pen should challenge power, expose falsehood and defend human dignity. But it should not become another instrument of cruelty.
Look at the world today. Wars continue. Societies are polarized. Hate speech travels across borders in seconds. Civilians suffer in conflicts they did not create. Human rights and international law are repeatedly placed under pressure. Dialogue is often treated as weakness, while aggression is mistaken for strength.
The United Nations’ 2026 message for the International Day of Non-Violence again invoked Gandhi’s example, calling for dialogue and diplomacy to heal divisions and build peace.
Human civilization has developed extraordinarily powerful weapons, but our moral imagination has not always developed at the same speed. Perhaps the most dangerous question of our time is not whether humanity possesses the power to destroy, but whether humanity possesses the wisdom not to.
It is tempting to think that peace is something governments negotiate in conference rooms and diplomats construct through treaties. Of course, institutions matter. But peace also begins much closer to home.
It begins with how we speak to our parents, colleagues, friends and strangers. It begins with whether we can disagree without hatred.
It begins with whether we can apologize. It begins with whether we can forgive without forgetting the lesson. It begins with whether we can refuse to humiliate someone simply because we have the opportunity to do so.
And it begins with the courage to ask ourselves a difficult question: Am I trying to win an argument—or am I trying to understand the truth?
For me, this is where Gandhi’s legacy becomes deeply personal. I do not follow non-violence because I believe the world is always gentle. I follow it precisely because the world is often not.
I believe strength should be controlled by conscience. I believe disagreement should not destroy dignity. I believe resistance should not require hatred.
And I believe that the person who refuses to answer cruelty with cruelty is not necessarily the weaker person. Sometimes, that person possesses the greater strength.
Gandhi was neither flawless nor beyond criticism. No historical figure should be placed beyond scrutiny. But intellectual honesty does not require us to dismiss an idea simply because the person who advanced it was imperfect. The enduring question is whether an idea can help humanity confront its recurring problems. Non-violence can.
Its relevance does not depend on whether we agree with every aspect of Gandhi’s life or politics. Its relevance lies in the challenge it presents to all of us: Can we pursue justice without reproducing the very brutality we oppose? On his 157th birth anniversary, that question seems more urgent than ever.
I have carried Gandhi’s principle of non-violence with me since childhood. I continue to carry it today—not as a slogan, but as a personal discipline. Because ultimately, non-violence is not simply about refusing to strike back. It is about refusing to surrender our humanity.
And perhaps that is Gandhi’s most enduring lesson: The world does not become more peaceful when we defeat one another. It becomes more peaceful when we learn how to disagree, resist, struggle and seek justice without losing our capacity for compassion.
In the twenty-first century, inclusivity demands that we extend Ahimsa to every marginalized voice. It means ensuring that minority communities, indigenous populations, refugees, and those silenced by systemic power structures have a seat at the table.
In an age increasingly defined by outrage, perhaps choosing non-violence is itself an act of courage. And perhaps the greatest revolution begins there.
Emran Emon is an eminent journalist,
columnist and a global affairs analyst.
He can be reached at [email protected]
