On January 10, 1908, Mohandas Gandhi awaited his fate in a South African courtroom.
Less than two weeks earlier, Judge H.H. Jordan had given Gandhi two choices, leave the country before the end of the year, or apply for an ID card under the racist Asiatic Registration Act. Gandhi, rapidly approaching his fortieth birthday, had deliberately maneuvered himself here, and stood proudly non-compliant under the sword of Damocles.
How must he have felt in that courtroom? It had been more than a year since Gandhi had stood on the stage before a crowd of 3,000 in the Empire Theater and pledged never to comply with the registration law. Surely he had expected that their petitions and the united front with the Chinese would forestall any actual enforcement of the law. Was this really happening? He had a family he was responsible for, what would they tell little seven-year-old Devadas when he asked where his father was? What would happen to his law practice?
Gandhi had never been to jail before, but one of his clients, a Hindu priest, had just been released after serving a one month sentence for an expired registration certificate. The Indian community had praised the priest for his bravery, and even composed poems in his honor. But for Mr. Pundit, the experience had been so traumatic that he abandoned his congregation and fled the country when an arrest warrant was issued for his continued non-compliance.
Gandhi's thoughts turned toward courtrooms of the past. How young and naive he had been back in Bombay! Fresh out of law school, and not corrupt or clever enough do more than tread water among the entrenched interests, his career had been slowly sinking. Perhaps he blushed even now, thinking of his first actual appearance in court, the shame of being struck dumb when asked to cross-examine a witness. The sound of the mocking laughter as he slunk from the courtroom sometimes echoed in his head, even a continent away.
Judge Jordan hammered the gavel, dragging his thoughts to the here and now. There was silence as the charge was read, and the judge addressed him, “Mr. Gandhi, how do you plead?”
He stretched himself to his full height of five feet and five inches. “Your honor,” he said, testing the words in the silent courtroom. His countrymen, clustered in the back, watched anxiously as their leader approached the critical moment of his ordeal. Drawing courage from within, vanquishing the demons of doubt, Gandhi repeated in his low voice, “Your honor,” then continued with the utter certainty of a man who knows he is doing the right thing, “I plead guilty, and I ask you to give me the heaviest sentence that the law permits.”