Cultural Impeachment

Guilt dominates the theme of postcolonial writings and migrant literature: guilt of being white or brown

By Sidrah Haque

In a recent article, Uzma Aslam Khan discussed how the moral justification of the 19th century colonising white man was 'civilising' the native, whilst the moral justification for 21st century imperialism is 'liberating' the native. Khan goes on further to define the neo-Orientalist, a brigade of hyphenated writers (Pakistani-American, Anglo-Indian, Afghan-American) who subscribe to the "the West saved me, and so can it you" philosophy. Hence, what was previously Kipling's white man's burden, whence exotic East was explained in simpler, xenocentric terms to its western citizens -- awaiting fresh news along with their cargo of spices and teas -- has made way to the freshly-scrubbed army of brown men and women who now go about explaining this odd, vague Oriental island.

Postcolonial literature is very much about guilt. It was a guilty thing. Whether it is Barbara Kingsolver flat lining the Colonists, attaching a portion of guilt to her silent, shopping-bag totting fellow Americans to the misadventures carried out in Belgium Congo in the name of Civilian Advancement, or even if it is Gabriel Garcia Marquez penning down pokerfaced stories on the unpeopling antics of Imperialist Warfare (carried by the then Banana Company). Or even if they be modern day hyphenated writers that chop off their roots, writing on the oppressions of the east and the freedoms of the west, guilt dominates the theme of these postcolonial writings and migrant literature: guilt of being white or guilt of being brown.

Colonisation is still going on, only it is not the traditional boatload of crusaders arriving at supposedly 'empty lands' from which to pillage, or feed the slave trade. Colonisation continues on in the form of military, political, financial and cultural strings that are pulled to control the 'Lesser World'. The Washington Consensus that gives the right to the Bretton Woods Institutes to maintain a level of control over structural adjustment policies, dangling out the promise of aid, crippling today's third world countries. WTO neo-liberalist agenda ensures that in the name of Globalisation, government support is withdrawn to third-world farmers that need it the most, in order to provide a 'level playing field' with the Big Boys up west, who can afford the research and developmental cost of high-yielding varieties. Country can be invaded under a half-baked alibi that most of the world did not believe, yet not a single person could halt. Sub-Saharan Africa is not expected to reach poverty alleviation goals or complete primary enrollment by the next 140 years. The guilt should very much be there.

From the heap of hyphenated writers, emerges Khaled Hosseini. As wildly endearing as Hosseini's first novel, The Kite Runner, was, his latest offering failed to fling itself atop reader's hearts. It failed to claim itself. Mere platitudes will only take one so far. However, heart can be taken from the world that Hosseini pens around himself, the Kabul of his Books. No matter what critique his stories may fall prey to, Hosseini was undoubtedly born to tell stories rather then to fix bones, or cure coughs. Whether it is the fertility of the Indus that teems over to feed the land and the people with this virility: the people of the subcontinent are above all, great storytellers.

Telltale signs point towards a continuance in Hosseini's books: the orphanage manager with chipped eyeglasses, Zaman, makes an appearance in both books. The Taliban continue their savagery in a sequential manner. And the Capital falls over twice.

The mind goes back to Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha County, or even Gabriel Garcia Marquez's imaginary Macondo that was the backdrop of so many of his tales. Khaled Hosseini could be to Herat what Thomas Hardy was to Dorset -- "the historian that observes and recreates a freely imagined land", as Albert J. Guerard wrote in his preface to Return of the Native. There is no stopping Hosseini from creating a series on his imagined towns and townspeople, filling in the backdrop to a disintegrating land; perhaps a tribute to what his heart calls home.

Hosseini and others must write on: they must plough the soils of their lands to uncover a fairer picture of what is brown. The neo-Orientalist agenda that is dominating the markets and bookshelves must stop or must stop being read. Cultural impeachment is at stake, and it is up to the responsible writers to come out of their grottos and explore the vast shades of being brown. That is perhaps the fairest thing of all.

Courtesy: The News Pakistan