Literature,Critique,and Empire Today

This article examines J. M. Coetzee’s use of intuitive and interpretive exchanges within and across the tripartite structure of Diary of a Bad Year (2007). It argues that Coetzee rejects strict understandings of the novel genre in favour of a more fluid form, enabling him to explore heteroglot exchanges within the two monologues on each page of Diary of a Bad Year and complicate conventional understandings of Bakhtin’s theory of dialogism. Creating multiple layers that begin with unspoken words, pass through an “othered” interpreter, and arrive at the reader via the novel’s narration, meaning is reconfigured and reconsidered in a way that distances it from the author. The essay further argues that Coetzee’s use of dialogic discourse in Diary of a Bad Year privileges the perspective of the Filipina woman whose voice drives much of the novel’s commentary as she wins the interpretive game Coetzee creates.

This article considers protest poetry written between 1961 and 1976. I argue that the Soweto poetry of the 1970s enabled activism that would change Johannesburg’s landscape, facilitating the racial mixing of inner city areas and eroding the segregationist policies that had defined the city from its beginnings. Concomitantly, the paper focuses on representations of the train as a site through which black localities were produced as resistance. Via close readings of poetry by Mbuyiseni Oswald Mtshali, Sipho Sepamla, and Mongane Wally Serote, I show how the train establishes Soweto as a “neighbourhood”, while also constructing a white “other” against which its identity is affirmed.

Forests have always had a very special resonance with humans, one which is evidenced in the ways they are depicted in literatures and art throughout human civilization. This study attempts to look at the ways in which two contemporary authors, one Cameroonian and the other Singaporean, depict the forest in their novels. In both Linus Asong’s Crown of Thorns and Meira Chand’s A Different Sky, the nature/culture binary is shown as primal. Both narratives underline the essential inhospitability of the forests for human habitation. However, Asong’s narrative insists on the importance of ritual in negotiating this uninhabitable terrain and how, were the conduct of this ceremonial ritual to fail, the nebulous harmony between humans and this terrain will be irrevocably broken. Chand’s text, set in Second World War Singapore, reveals how, when the cultural terrain is rendered inhospitable to man due to conquest and human brutality, the forest appears as a refuge. However, this is misleading, for the essential disequilibrium between nature and culture is too deep to be overridden or resolved.

Ugandan-born journalist, Yasmin Alibhai-Brown has published two autobiographical works: No Place like Home (1995) and The Settler’s Cookbook: A Memoir of Love, Migration and Food (2008). The former is an account of her childhood and adolescence in Uganda up to the expulsion of the Asian community in 1972. The latter work is a highly unusual combination of autobiography combined with no less than 113 recipes, each of which highlights a specific person, period, or event in her memoir. While No Place Like Home responds to the accepted principles of autobiographical writing, The Settler’s Cookbook defies generic classification and is perhaps the author’s own way of depicting the Asian community, sandwiched between two communities, the Europeans and the Africans. In this article I propose to focus on Alibhai-Brown’s critical stance towards her community in her analysis of the social and political reasons for the negative image of the Asian in East Africa, as reflected in the first part of my title. Despite her frank observations on the endogamic nature of her community, she also pays tribute to the many Asian women who tried to build bridges between communities, a difficult task considering the constraints placed on female agency. As she states in The Settler’s Cookbook, “[t]o be an Asian woman in the 1950s in East Africa must have been both exhilarating and confusing” (2008: 151). Alibhai-Brown’s work, written in the diaspora and with the benefit of hindsight, has unravelled many of the paradoxes of the ambiguous position of the South Asian community in East Africa.

This article offers a comparative reading of the novel and film adaptation of The Reluctant Fundamentalist, looking at the ways these texts represent changing Western public perceptions towards Pakistan and vice-versa along the temporal axis 2001–2007–2012. Both novel and film are informed by the post-9/11 distrust of the Muslim other. Mohsin Hamid’s novel was begun before 9/11 and published seven years later, in 2007; Mira Nair’s film adaptation followed in 2012, with a premiere at the Venice Film Festival (as the opening film) and the Toronto Film Festival. Ostensibly more conciliatory than Hamid’s novel, Nair’s film adaptation attempts to build bridges, stressing the tragedy of cultural suspicion and mistrust that besets the relationships between Pakistan and the US, endeavouring to open and facilitate dialogue. Despite utilizing spaces of ambiguity to expose the dangers of binary thinking, both novel and film ultimately demonstrate that representations are still unable to escape the loop of orientalism and re-orientalism, highlighting the tension of how East and West continue as locked into this circular mode of relational identity.

This article argues that Mohsin Hamid’s How to Get Filthy Rich in Rising Asia functions as a strategic parody of a self-help book that comments on economic globalization’s failures and in turn illustrates the violence that it produces. Although globalization is detrimental to individuals and relatively inescapable within the world of Hamid’s text, opportunities for reading creatively can counter its detriments. Hence, creative ways of reading provide alternatives to buying into the globalized and ever-globalizing capitalist system — alternatives that Hamid suggests his readers should embrace.

This article uses close textual analysis of Kamila Shamsie’s Burnt Shadows in order to reevaluate contemporary theorizations of Islamophobia in relation to global speciesism. By addressing the lacuna in current work engaging with Islamophobia of an understanding of speciesism as a form of discriminatory oppression engrained within the hierarchical divisions of categories of human identity, the article seeks to establish a radically new vegan mode of reading with which to approach literary texts. Exploring the concept of a vegan lens as a mode of reading that seeks to expose the power of language and metaphor in maintaining the absent referent of nonhuman animals, and to challenge the way we understand the construction of human and nonhuman animal identity in relation to Islamophobia, it suggests the variety of ways in which speciesism has been foundational to the assertion of an “us” versus “them” dichotomy. Shamsie’s novel is thus read in order to complicate and multiply the human/nonhuman animal divide apparent within current discussions of postcolonial identity.

This article investigates representations of gender and class inequality in Attia Hosain’s classic novel Sunlight on a Broken Column (1961) and her short story collection Phoenix Fled and Other Stories (1953). It compares her work with that of Shama Futehally, another elite Muslim Indian woman writing in English several decades later. Born 40 years after Attia Hosain, the postcolonial world of Shama Futehally is very different, but the issues she explores in her fiction are remarkably similar: social and economic inequality, exploitation of the poor, and the ambiguous position of women privileged by their social class and disempowered by their gender. Both authors write carefully crafted realist fiction focusing predominantly on the experiences and perspectives of female characters. Shama Futehally’s novel Tara Lane (1993), like Attia Hosain’s Sunlight on a Broken Column, is a coming-of-age novel whose protagonist is a young Muslim woman in an affluent family, coming to terms with the uneasy combination of class privilege, gender disadvantage, and a strong social conscience. Both authors explore the perspectives of working-class Indian women in their short stories, emphasizing their vulnerability to exploitation (including sexual exploitation), as well as the deeply problematic nature of “noblesse oblige”. Aware of the interconnections between gender and class inequality, Attia Hosain and Shama Futehally have written powerful fictional works which effectively dramatize not only the complex relationship between gender and social class hierarchies, but also the ways in which all privilege is predicated on inequality.

Dalit conversion to Christianity has a long history, predating Dr Ambedkar’s call for conversion in 1935. The contexts of conversion are many; however, the strong urge among Dalits to escape the oppressive, dehumanizing socio-spiritual condition remains the chief motive. The colonial administration, and even before that, the missionaries, were the first to make interventions in the lives of the Dalits, providing access to education, employment, healthcare, and mobility. Consequently many Dalits converted to Christianity en masse. However, post conversion, they became “doubly marginalized” (Omvedt, 2009) both in terms of caste and religion. Several attacks on Dalit Christians in colonial as well as post-independence India illustrate these two bases of victimization. A few writers, such as Bama, Imayam, and Raj Gouthaman, have attempted to explore the lived experience of Dalit Christians with a focus on caste within the Catholic Church. Kalyan Rao’s Telugu novel Antarani vasantham (Untouchable Spring) is the first novel that seriously engages with the complex of Dalit conversions and in an epic fashion explores the lived experience and struggle of Telugu Dalits and Dalit Christians in history from the colonial times to the present. The primary focus of this article is to explore Kalyan Rao’s representation of Dalit experience using the optics of mission history and liberation and Dalit theologies, which I argue, enable us to contextualize the novel’s representation of Dalit habitus.

This article considers Kamau Brathwaite’s formal articulation of the migrant experience in Rights of Passage (1967). More specifically, it demonstrates how Brathwaite uses patterns of repeated sound — and the way those repetitions work in conjunction with, run counter to, or enter into a complicated relationship with, the metre of a line and stanza — to explore the role of migration in the Caribbean. This rhythmic principle closely mirrors his theory of Caribbean history as “tidalectic” rather than “dialectic”, cyclical rather than linear. Thus the rhythmic shifts described in this essay enact, and give poetic shape to, a historical reality specific to the poet’s native region.

Samuel Selvon’s fiction reveals the author’s abiding concern with questions of identity and community and his investment in reconciling the seemingly conflicting subjects of creolization and ethnic identification in Caribbean societies, particularly in his native Trinidad. The pervasive and often violent ethnic conflict between Trinidadians of Indian and African heritage is linked to constructions of the nation in which claims to, as well as exclusion from, Creole identities play an important role. In response, Selvon’s fictional interventions position Indian communities (whether peasant, working- or middle-class) in relation to other ethno-racial groups in ways that construct Trinidadian-ness as an inclusive and dynamic negotiation of self and culture across the various communities represented in the nation. Drawing on Kamau Brathwaite’s seminal concept of creolization as well as the work of other theorists (including Mintz, Bolland, and Munasinghe) of Creole identities and the creolization process, the analysis of “Turning Christian” — a short story excerpted from Selvon’s unfinished novel — provides an account of Selvon’s identity politics in this and his other works of fiction.