tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2370510363137369222024-03-17T10:02:31.553+00:00Bidisha _online____ broadcaster journalist critic chair host anchor hack // film TV radio newspapers onstage // political analysis // artist: films and stills ____Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger209125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-39270951017331699642020-10-13T17:30:00.127+01:002023-05-02T01:45:09.226+01:00Aurora (2020 - 2023)<div><span style="color: #444444;"><b>Updated 12st Feb 2023</b></span></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm delighted to announce the launch of my new film series, <i>Aurora. </i>It follows my first short film, <i><a href="https://bidisha-online.blogspot.com/2020/01/an-impossible-poison.html" target="_blank">An Impossible Poison</a> (</i>click the link for full details, to watch for free and to view film festival laurels) which premiered in Berlin in November 2017 and has been selected for numerous international film festivals, screened widely and very generously reviewed. </div><div><br /></div><div>Aurora is an esoteric guide, self help guru and quantum soul healing leader. Follow her for healing, validation, acceptance and inner peace.<i> </i>The films were made during lockdown in 2020 and 2021: written during the spring months, then remote directed, rehearsed via Skype, with all costume and make-up consultation done via screens. I painted all the backdrops and sent them to LA, where my star Alessia Patregnani is based, and sent sketches and film, photography and framing references via email. We recorded three-second test clips to make sure the framing was right, then went through at least ten takes of each script, which I assessed at home and edited in the middle of the night here in London. In short it was all the fun of film making, without the fun. Full credits and images from forthcoming clips in the Aurora series are at the bottom. </div><div><br /></div><div>You can watch all the <i>Aurora</i> films for free (or check them out here and below<br /> on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLA-u6vfwBKSUVrnxru_7wumxzRhgvVEeL" target="_blank">YouTube</a>, although I prefer the colour balance and sound quality on <a href="https://vimeo.com/bidisha" target="_blank">Vimeo</a>). Go to full screen and turn up the sound.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="358" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/yJbEVxWiUIs" width="649" youtube-src-id="yJbEVxWiUIs"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="418" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/UErmjGSbgNw" width="649" youtube-src-id="UErmjGSbgNw"></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="446" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/s7J0U2BBJyg" width="653" youtube-src-id="s7J0U2BBJyg"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="442" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/IQ3Tm2CL_a4" width="654" youtube-src-id="IQ3Tm2CL_a4"></iframe></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="439" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/lusXhoGnOlM" width="657" youtube-src-id="lusXhoGnOlM"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="435" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/_SbZiPA4s2A" width="659" youtube-src-id="_SbZiPA4s2A"></iframe></div><br /><div>Since lockdown began in March 2020 I found myself working all day at my desk in my study (or trying to work), doing the usual hackwork while listening to various self-styled spiritual leaders, wellness therapists, healers, meditation guides and self-appointed esoteric shamans who use YouTube to speak to vast audiences all over the world. I found myself fascinated by their speech patterns, presentation and phrasing, which they combine to hypnotic effect. The <i>Aurora </i>series, which I'll be adding to gradually until the end of the year, is my response to these persuasive and captivating self-help videos. They're in line with my interest in performativity, fallibility and superstition, the difficulty of distinguishing the fake from the real and the persuasiveness of style and mannerism over content and morality. I've always been interested in con artists who seem genuine people who aren't believed and unwitting fakes who truly believe that they're helping people (for example, pyschics who believe that they're psychic but aren't).</div><div><br /></div><div>The Bagri Foundation have written a very generous feature and interview as part of their <a href="https://bagrifoundation.org/media/30-artists-30-years-bidisha/" target="_blank">30 Artists, 30 Years</a> series, which explains my process and provides a good career retrospective, the Writing on the Wall festival have recorded an <a href="https://youtu.be/rXytSbk_bRA" target="_blank">In Conversation with me</a> which gives a little more and I recently did a quick career retrospective podcast which can be heard via <a href="https://anchor.fm/spiritofthehall/episodes/Episode-8---Bidisha-e12agmk" target="_blank">Anchor</a>, <a href="https://open.spotify.com/episode/1TuenfGFIV3sqTIafm3ZnI?si=7163acddf5b74866&nd=1" target="_blank">Spotify </a>and <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast/spirit-of-the-hall/id1549704627?i=1000524598102" target="_blank">Apple</a>. And there's a nice interview with <a href="http://www.renaissanceone.co.uk/blog2/2021/11/8/interview-with-bidisha" target="_blank">Renaissance One here</a>.</div><script src="https://player.vimeo.com/api/player.js"></script><div><p style="text-align: left;">CREDITS:</p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Starring Alessia Patregnani </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Directed, written and art directed by Bidisha Mamata</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Produced by Bidisha Mamata and Alessia Patregnani </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Hair and makeup for 1st four films by Tracey Anderson </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Costumes for the 1st three films by Natasha Simchowitz </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Costumes for films 4, 5 and 6 by Bidisha Mamata</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Hair and makeup for films 5 and 6 by Alessia Patregnani</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Edited by Bidisha Mamata</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Music from Freesound</div><div><br /><br /></div><div>Some stills from the <i>Aurora </i>series test shots:</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNPOxSiptc6RGsI43vMdR3RL2CKBrkZeJFGnTYefL0nRNTJpop0am4zIYAqEMxFQ2d3OW-YdXsoVqiVqOxK7u7ErRE9t5xBEN264neaFVKbhB2OTllnSEFttpatL4XVxVsj62k3lJri5iY/w556-h323/Screen+Shot+2020-09-22+at+12.58.53.png" width="556" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Ac4vTU9wshMZnbcFDC6CCbEpPacyO4D-BvAxrXFAOaIj1jbov1FISUu7SWI8XY3_6GLUe5wJHciaH381gTo2g8MmmBswgApHptiPvhPm1rF68GL7ZKfe567-reUd6RaIsXbE8jidFjjA/s920/aue6.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="920" height="377" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Ac4vTU9wshMZnbcFDC6CCbEpPacyO4D-BvAxrXFAOaIj1jbov1FISUu7SWI8XY3_6GLUe5wJHciaH381gTo2g8MmmBswgApHptiPvhPm1rF68GL7ZKfe567-reUd6RaIsXbE8jidFjjA/w570-h377/aue6.JPG" width="570" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4SC50dTtwzZp57ZHAGHBnU_UW2t6QcPKCqeg9pVj6gNqIjSNhcJRaRVuCHRDG7PEY18qfDYyF6dg7VxER2TWYD40AUr5nzU9mHvF8yK7XxDS_mBj8HQfjyTX6V6z7Jaln9CLeQx_PrxtS/w551-h352/Screen+Shot+2020-09-25+at+20.05.35.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCJvyNy6lo94u_VA_UAiQNFCHjbzyBAAk43YP8dx2AYF7DmNWVGavka-CBhpCbvDBe-xb2wOS3ENuAmVISeXxclC-DFHI66FTZp8uTDdtJXDUPCnMLktfQ2RpTUYT1ZAZiQkTNt9XnzQ2H/s824/aur3+m.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="554" data-original-width="824" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCJvyNy6lo94u_VA_UAiQNFCHjbzyBAAk43YP8dx2AYF7DmNWVGavka-CBhpCbvDBe-xb2wOS3ENuAmVISeXxclC-DFHI66FTZp8uTDdtJXDUPCnMLktfQ2RpTUYT1ZAZiQkTNt9XnzQ2H/w553-h355/aur3+m.JPG" width="553" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-85408757556499916782020-01-27T17:56:00.004+00:002021-10-11T20:17:47.777+01:00An Impossible Poison<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><i>Updated 11th October 2021</i></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span face="" style="font-size: 15.4px;">I am delighted to celebrate my first short film, </span><i style="font-size: 15.4px;">An Impossible Poison</i><span face="" style="font-size: 15.4px;">, which received its premiere at </span><a href="http://www.speaking-volumes.org.uk/events/breaking-ground-on-film/" style="color: #9d2020; font-size: 15.4px;" target="_blank">Lettrétage in Berlin on Thursday 16th November 2017</a><span face="" style="font-size: 15.4px;"> as part of an event called </span><a href="http://www.speaking-volumes.org.uk/events/breaking-ground-berlin/" style="color: #9d2020; font-size: 15.4px;" target="_blank">Breaking Ground Berlin: A New British Con_Text</a><span face="" style="font-size: 15.4px;">. The event also featured live performances from writer and film-maker Xiaolu Guo and performance poet Francesca Beard. </span><i style="font-size: 15.4px;">An Impossible Poison</i><span face="" style="font-size: 15.4px;"> received its London premier at the Royal Albert Hall on Wednesday 7th March 2018 as part of the That's What She Said night (</span><a href="https://www.royalalberthall.com/tickets/events/2018/thats-what-she-said/" style="color: #9d2020; font-size: 15.4px;" target="_blank">details here</a><span face="" style="font-size: 15.4px;">). It has been very well reviewed, screened widely and been selected for seven international film festivals so far. Further details, with stills, laurels and script notes, are below - and of course you can click below to watch the film for free. Go to full screen and turn up the sound.</span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i></i></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>"all the careful crafting of an art film, from its velvety decor to its heightened gothic colour palette...it is this attention to styling that brings the element of luxury...every frame is a portrait."</i></span></span></blockquote>
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Girls on Film, <a href="https://www.girlsonfilmldn.com/an-impossible-poison-and-why-diy-femme-filmmaking-is-our-future/" style="color: #9d2020; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">review and interview</a> </div>
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<i><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;">"awe-inspiring...intriguing, chilling, compelling"</span></i></blockquote>
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<a href="https://twitter.com/Poetry_London/status/1008286384526970880" style="color: #9d2020; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Poetry London</a></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><i>"[a] brilliant horror short"</i></span></blockquote>
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Emerald Street, <a href="http://e.emeraldstreet.com/t/25MN-5CHW5-ACGAPIJ95B/cr.aspx" style="color: #9d2020; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">article on women in film</a></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">An Impossible Poison </i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">is available to view for free on Vimeo below (or </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-nI0_VuvV8k" style="background-color: white; color: #9d2020; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">on YouTube here</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">). Turn the sound up and go to full screen:</span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" mozallowfullscreen="" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/241406923?portrait=0" style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="640"></iframe><br />
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<a href="https://vimeo.com/241406923" style="color: #9d2020; text-decoration-line: none;">An Impossible Poison</a> by <a href="https://vimeo.com/bidishaonline" style="color: #9d2020; text-decoration-line: none;">Bidisha</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com/" style="color: #9d2020; text-decoration-line: none;">Vimeo</a>.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">So far, </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">An Impossible Poison</i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"> has made the Official Selection of the Five Continents International Film Festival; the International Women’s Film Festival; the New York Lift-Off Festival; the 13Horror.com Film and Screenplay Contest 2018; the Fake Flesh Film Festival; the Night of the Short Film Festival in Antwerp; Shorts on Tap in association with Time Out, November 2019; and the Nosferatu Film Festival 2021. All the laurels for these are below. It is also a semi-finalist in the 2017 STIFF San Maurino Torinese film festival. The London X4 Seasonal Short Film Festival reviewed it as:</span><br />
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<span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><i>"eerie, atmospheric [and] well directed"</i></span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">and </span><a href="http://www.clubdesfemmes.com/events/" style="background-color: white; color: #9d2020; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Club des Femmes</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">, the feminist film collective, have reviewed it as:</span><br />
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<span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><i> "intriguing and very atmospheric, beautifully shot and edited."</i></span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">In a perceptive and very flattering </span><a href="https://www.girlsonfilmldn.com/an-impossible-poison-and-why-diy-femme-filmmaking-is-our-future/" style="background-color: white; color: #9d2020; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">review and interview, which can be read in full here,</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"> Girls on Film describe An Impossible Poison as having "all the careful crafting of an art film, from its velvety decor to its heightened gothic colour palette...this attention to styling brings the element of luxury...crossing over into installation-worthy territory...every frame is a portrait."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">In their official selection notes, 13horror.com reviewed it as:</span><br />
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<span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;"><i>"a very intense and intimate film …all very intriguing. The first flash of emotion when [the weird stuff happens] was superb. ...The strange, creepy [other thing] which followed gave me chills. Thought provoking stuff and enjoyable to watch. Great job."</i></span></blockquote>
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<i style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">An Impossible Poison</i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"> is an intense 7 minute narrative short feature which dramatises a few lines from some poems of mine, as commissioned by Speaking Volumes, who wanted me to reinterpret the idea of a writer performing her own work. The text deals with the aftermath of deceit, with ritualistic and ceremonial traditions and the continued attraction of a witchcraft tradition in the contemporary world. I'm interested in ritual behaviours, superstition, sublimation, obsession and catharsis. The atmosphere of the film is heightened and carefully designed, the look stylised, with the camera lingering on the details of cloth, jewellery, décor and on the profile and hands of the main character and her props. In the film, a woman enacts an occult ritual over a score of eerie music. It gets steadily more extreme as the woman is absorbed and exhilarated by the ritual, which offers both release from pain and the thrill of encountering the uncanny. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">I consider myself to be an arthouse auteur and don't think in terms of genres or performance style - so it's funny to me that <i>An Impossible Poison</i> is being interpreted as a horror film. I did the cinematography, art direction and sound design myself (as is quite common on a short auteur project) - the soundtrack is actually made up of about seven sound clips plaited together with varying speeds and levels. The wonderful thing about film is that everything you've done in your career up to that point (in my case, art direction, then a long career in TV and radio) can go into it. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">It was also shown on 25th April 2018 at </span><a href="https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/words-with-bidisha-tickets-43128333005" style="background-color: white; color: #9d2020; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Words with....Bidisha</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"> at the Albert Sloman Library, University of Essex, followed by an in-depth conversation (</span><a href="https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/words-with-bidisha-tickets-43128333005" style="background-color: white; color: #9d2020; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">details here</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">); on 16th June 2018 at APT Gallery in London as part of the Gaze symposium; at the Victoria Gallery, University of Liverpool, on Sunday 21st October 2018; and at Samsung KX in Coal Drops Yard in London on Thursday 28th November 2019 in association with Time Out (<a href="http://shortsontap.com/short-movies/shorts-on-tap-at-samsung-kx-2/" target="_blank">details here</a>).</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">The credits are as follows:</span><br />
<ul style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.4; margin: 0.5em 0px; padding: 0px 2.5em;">
<li style="margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px;">Written and directed by Bidisha</li>
<li style="margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px;">Camera operator - Amy Cameron</li>
<li style="margin: 0px 0px 0.25em; padding: 0px;">Editing – Amy Cameron and Bidisha</li>
</ul><div><span style="font-family: georgia, utopia, palatino linotype, palatino, serif;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia, utopia, palatino linotype, palatino, serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihTInm_FIYI5tnotFN7sKqszmz0kx_EnCP0eFzf40e5WA0gpBkPB_fXLLMrmc0V1yn4EGe7a9nkznhTfjxFicy6Gs1AyMhCqbyjUjybjAG_N_KeWcBveP0EjwP8zdMt82Q0dJvVNLWxGTX/s1735/OFFICIAL+SELECTION+-+Nosferatu+Film+Festival+-+2021.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="1735" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihTInm_FIYI5tnotFN7sKqszmz0kx_EnCP0eFzf40e5WA0gpBkPB_fXLLMrmc0V1yn4EGe7a9nkznhTfjxFicy6Gs1AyMhCqbyjUjybjAG_N_KeWcBveP0EjwP8zdMt82Q0dJvVNLWxGTX/w397-h263/OFFICIAL+SELECTION+-+Nosferatu+Film+Festival+-+2021.png" width="397" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, utopia, "palatino linotype", palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;">
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Just for fun, a list of some of the films I like <a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2017/10/some-of-my-favourite-films.html" style="color: #9d2020; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">can be found here</a>. Links to my film essays and reviews can be found all over the Net, although I recently wrote about <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/sep/19/angelina-jolie-powerful-voice-film-director-cambodia-khmer-rouge" style="color: #9d2020; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Angelina Jolie's work as a director</a>, the <a href="http://www.bfi.org.uk/news-opinion/sight-sound-magazine/features/syria-screen-movies-represent-crisis" style="color: #9d2020; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">portrayal of Syria in documentaries and features</a>, the new generation of <a href="http://www.bfi.org.uk/news-opinion/sight-sound-magazine/features/millennial-filmmakers-peer-ahead" style="color: #9d2020; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">millennial film-makers</a>, the documentary <a href="http://www.bfi.org.uk/news-opinion/sight-sound-magazine/interviews/even-when-i-fall-rescue-sky-neal-kate-mclarnon-elhum-shakerifar-nepali-child-trafficked-circus-performers" style="color: #9d2020; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Even When I Fall</a>, Wonder Woman and <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/jun/30/hollywood-action-woman-start-more-action-women" style="color: #9d2020; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">women in action films</a>, The Assassin and the 'wuxia' <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/articles/ttVlgB8Z4Rn0lZrhLSV2WT/deadlier-than-the-male-female-warriors-in-chinese-wuxia" style="color: #9d2020; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Chinese swordfighting genre</a>, women in <a href="http://www.bfi.org.uk/news-opinion/sight-sound-magazine/comment/women-film-sci-fi-edition-it-gets-dystopian" style="color: #9d2020; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">dystopic science fiction films</a> and documentaries on <a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/women-have-gone-from-being-considered.html" style="color: #9d2020; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">rape camps in the Bosnian wars</a> and <a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2013/11/twice-upon-time-by-film-maker-niam.html" style="color: #9d2020; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">child refugees in Lebanon and Syria</a>.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
The full text of the main poem (which I don’t use all of in the film), as well as the extra script lines, are below. The first line of the script is “deceit is my friend” and the final line is “not to suffer”.</div>
<div style="text-align: start;">
<div>
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<u>An Impossible Poison</u></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Deceit is my friend and it hangs over me,</div>
<div>
An angelic nurse hovering at my bedside,</div>
<div>
Its wings flexing open, rich and exuberant,</div>
<div>
Its long feathers dipped in cold holy water,</div>
<div>
Casting drops around me like a bare blanket.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Deceit is my life-partner, the only one I need,</div>
<div>
My counterpart, my foil, my voice of reason,</div>
<div>
My stalwart retainer who never surprises me,</div>
<div>
Accompanying me invisibly down the aisle,</div>
<div>
A ghost groom in a wedding video on repeat.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Deceit is the ally who remains at my shoulder</div>
<div>
As the others drift coolly away in plain disbelief,</div>
<div>
Politely receding while I bid them a sad farewell</div>
<div>
Like a queen standing in her castle, nobly robed</div>
<div>
In betrayal, the heavy cloak I can never cast off.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Deceit is my meat and drink, its claggy taste</div>
<div>
Sits in my throat like an impossible poison</div>
<div>
I can never fully purge as I toast the company</div>
<div>
Who have no clue that all I can taste is lies</div>
<div>
Swilling in my mouth like a long deep kiss.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
[Extra script lines as follows:]</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The offer of blood is the oldest gift</div>
<div>
I offer it up, I offer it up</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In the failure of law, rightness is restored,</div>
<div>
That is only fair.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The slow inexorable ceremony of natural justice always goes the same way.</div>
<div>
First, the procession. Then, the sacrifice. Then the shadow walk.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The offer made, the gods collect</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
And in return they grand the chance to survive.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Not to succeed,</div>
<div>
Just to continue struggling,</div>
<div>
Brute survival in the cold hard world.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I pay the blood tax to survive,</div>
<div>
Not to be destroyed.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Just survive,</div>
<div>
Not to suffer.</div>
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All images and text (c) Bidisha, 2017-2020</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-49352111353703556782017-10-22T00:30:00.001+01:002023-07-05T20:48:43.941+01:00Brown in Brexit Britain: an interview<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">IN 2017 I gave an interview to journalist Lorraine Mallinder about the Brexit era. This is an extended version of the interview.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>What does the term
'British' mean to you? Is it still a valid concept?</i> <i>Is it capable of embracing our society in all
its complexity and diversity?</i></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For me, the term ‘British’
was always a handy, geographically inclusive but not
ethnically limiting identity. Even though it was a generalisation, it said
something about where I lived, not my racial heritage. I feel British – I am
British – and I’m clearly not white English. That said, both this country
(England) and its union (Great Britain) are tainted by their definitive history
of colonial exploitation of vast swathes of the rest of the planet, fuelled by
racism and all that racism brings with it: cultural superiority, avaricious
greed, exploitation, inhumanity and breathtaking arrogance. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, the
Britain I grew up in – particularly the British London I grew up in – I associated
with other things, often very positive things: tolerance; variety; diversity of
language, colour, culture, heritage; a singularly subtle and dry humour; a
particular joyful eccentricity, even a celebration of the quirky and the
bizarre; a slightly rough and ramshackle streety edge. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the flip side,
however, England has always had terrible shadow sides: the entitled Imperial or
aristocratic white male arrogance and cronyism that rises through elite schools
and universities and is then strengthened through the boys’ clubs at the top of
every single trade and profession including seemingly progressive leftist politics
and the seemingly liberal arts and culture sectors; and, at the other end of
the traditional English class scale, a defiantly insular, monoglot, defensively
aggressive, ignorant-and-happy-about-it, yobbish, philistine, laddish, violent-in-sentiment-or-word-or-deed,
backward, racist undertow. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Given the recent disastrous
Brexit vote it was these two tendencies which rose to the surface: a bigoted,
numbskull, philistine hatred of foreigners, experts and elites of any kind; and
an upper-class delusion that England (not Scotland, who voted to remain) will
somehow regain its abusive and dominating hold and status over the rest of the
world. <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="color: #990000;">What's your
experience of living in Britain as an Asian woman? How has that evolved over
the years?</span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What do you mean, ‘living
in Britain’? I am not just on a speculative stay, I was born and brought up
here. In fact your question, with the underlying, subtle assumption that I am
not as tied to the country as someone who is white English, represents a new
movement in the way non-white Britons are seen. It is as if non-white Britons
are not really ‘from’ England and ought to feel some sort of pull to ‘return’ ‘back
home’ (that is, the country of their parents’ or even grandparents’ birth).
This is a new thing in my lifetime, and it has steadily been exacerbated over
the last ten year as lots of different bigotries and prejudices have combined
in white Englanders’ minds. Islamophobia in the wake of various terrorist
attacks like those on the World Trade Centre in New York and the London
transport network; an increase in racism based on colour, against people of
South Asian descent whether Muslim or not; a racist prejudice against migrants
from other parts of the EU like Poland and Romania; a vilification of refugees
fleeing war, fragile states, extreme poverty and political persecution, despite
the fact that the UK has accepted tiny numbers of refugees. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Life is much
colder and harder than it was – much more racist, much more suspicious, more
ignorant (and defiantly so). The general tenor of debate, both private and
public, casual and professional, has become much coarser. It has become permissible
to say just anything, no matter how narrow-minded, inflammatory, ignorant and
insulting, and waste the time of people like me, who have to ‘debate’ each
point as if it’s acceptable and legitimate in some way. As a political analyst speaking
in mainstream broadcasting (for BBC, Sky News and Channel 4) I have found myself
having to argue, as if legitimately, with people stating that learning other
languages is a waste of time, that migrants should be vetted “so they don’t
blow us up”, that “they” “don’t want to integrate”. I am having to push back
against openly racist, aggressively insular, utterly scathing and unapologetic
racists who feel their prejudices have now been endorsed and legitimised by a
significant proportion of the population – and by the shift rightwards which is
being seen all over the world, from full-on dictatorships in Turkey and Russia
to far right governments in Hungary and Romania and gains for far right parties
in Greece, France, Holland and Austria. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At a very personal
level, I’m in my 30s, very established in my career and public life – and worried
and despairing. I have seen the great dream of multiculturalism and the trend
of ‘cool britannia’ come and go. The white men’s clubs who ran everything still
run everything. Despite there being several very eminent
women of colour in my fields (journalism and broadcasting; arts and cultural
diplomacy; political analysis; human rights advocacy) we are still very much a
minority, and we are never in each other’s company. Each of us is often the
only woman and only person of colour on the panel, discussion, event, trip,
project or enterprise. Whenever this happens – whenever white male domination
refuses to break or change – the victims are blamed. This is true in the case
of all male abuse. I am hitting the famous glass ceiling and, as
a result, am probably going to become part of the ‘brain drain’ of non-white
Britons of talent who are leaving the country as a result of the racist and
sexist marginalisation and subtle discrimination we face. Let me be clear: this
isn’t overt name-calling, insult and attack. It’s more like the steady
realisation that no matter how nicey-nice people are to your face, you will
never be accepted into the club and normalised as a member. So the political
and personal are inextricably linked and (in my opinion), everything is
possible: I am aggrieved because of issues of sex and race, which have either
stalled or actively gone backwards in most areas of life in the UK. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="color: #990000;">What do you see
happening in British society today? How has Brexit impacted British identity,
if at all? </span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brexit has
impacted everything for the worse. Brexit is a catastrophe, a mistake and a
disaster. I am horrified at how a virtually half-and-half vote has been
aggressively transformed into ‘the people have spoken’ and thus regarded as
some kind of mandate to enable a tragic act of self-harm; one which has no
upside culturally, morally, financially or politically. I believe the vote was
fuelled by racism, insularity, arrogance and aggressively blunt-headed nationalism;
by grief and misery after decades of under-funding of essential services,
social care, family support, infrastructure, schools, hospitals and civic life;
by an arrogant contempt for the responsibilities and pleasures of being part of
a world community which decides things together; by a philistine rejection of
Europe’s culture, history, peoples and languages<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are all going
to pay the price for this mistake. Brexit will affect everything from students’
ability to travel and study globally; medical research; collaboration on arts
and cultural projects; joint scholarship and research; financial services and
business; agriculture and farming; travel, life, retirement, freedom;
knowledge-sharing when it comes to security and terrorism. Whichever way you
look at it, from whichever standpoint you have politically, it’s a disaster.
Politicians know this. They know it both by instinct and by the research and
the appeals which are being put to them by every sector from farming to art
galleries. The one thing that they may have learnt from all of this is that
they must never throw out a referendum so callously and so casually again.
There was no demand from the public for a vote on EU membership; David Cameron
took a gamble that he thought he was going to win. He lost, and it destroyed
his career. It’s going to do the same to Theresa May, because Brexit is not
just poisonous but impossible: we have decades’ worth of successfully working
ties with the EU. There was no need for this politically violent and culturally
backward act of sabotage and self-sabotage.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What makes me all
the more angry is that the British left – which is ruled by entitled white men,
just the same as the right – is equally provincial, insular and small-minded.
They have mounted no opposition to Brexit whatsoever and indeed Jeremy Corbyn
has punished those of his colleagues who have shown opposition to Brexit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="color: #990000;">How do you
perceive Britain's relationship with the rest of the world?</span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
England (not Scotland which voted Remain) is a laughing
stock. It is seen as arrogant, insular, xenophobic, racist, nationalistic,
petty and provincial, chasing an impossible and immoral dream signified by
meaningless words and slogans: ‘take back control’; regain ‘sovereignty’.
Britain always had control and sovereignty. Membership of the EU is membership
of a linguistically and historically diverse community, with meetings in
Brussels, which is convenient for all the member states and is a few hours’
away on the Eurostar. We lost nothing, and gained so much, by EU membership. As
a result of England’s poor image international doctors and nurses, and
international students and researchers, are choosing to go elsewhere. England
will become a backwater within twenty years, with a young generation with no
sense of themselves as being part of a world community, uninterested in the
rest of the world; England will be abandoned as a bad bet by the rest of the
world – as deluded and arrogant, and pathetically out of step. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A best case scenario will be that London – and only London –
will become a hub for the global super-rich to park their cars and buy apartments;
and developments of luxury homes, boutiques and restaurants will follow this.
So it’ll become like Hong Kong or Dubai or Singapore. But the rest of the country
will exist in stark contrast to that wealth. But the fundamental delusion –
that greater days are to come and there is some new era of wealth and success
on the horizon – is pathetically empty. In any case, England will never and
should never regain any kind of Imperial power; the future of the world,
politically, resides in China, India, Latin America and numerous African
countries. England could have joined in with the flow of the future. Instead,
it put up the barricades and pulled up the drawbridge. The rest of the EU
nations are understandably bemused by what is so obviously a self-damaging and
damaging act which will damn at least a generation to come.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-47641547190294909692017-10-22T00:00:00.010+01:002022-11-17T00:35:23.550+00:00I watched the film Ex Machina. Here is the full character list for men and women, with descriptions.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
M - CALEB - Late 20s, white, young, verbal, intelligent, gifted young programmer. Protagonist. Tall and thin. No nudity.<br />
M - NATHAN - Late 30s/early 40s, olive-skinned, charismatic, energetic, verbal, demonic inventor/AI developer. Antagonist. Short and athletic/chunky. No nudity.<br />
<br />
F - AVA - appears early 20s, very beautiful, olive-skinned, sexy, melancholy, alluring, coy robot. Very slender and petite. FULL NUDITY, SOME DIALOGUE.<br />
F - appears early 20s, very beautiful, East Asian, sexy, melancholy, alluring robot. Dancing. Waitress duties. Very slender and petite. FULL NUDITY, NO DIALOGUE.<br />
F - appears in early 20s, very beautiful, Caucasian, blonde robot. Slender and petite. FULL NUDITY, NO DIALOGUE. No name.<br />
F - appears in early 20s, very beautiful, East Asian robot. Slender and petite. FULL NUDITY, 1 PHRASE DIALOGUE (crying for help). No name.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">F - Faceless, headless African-Carribbean robot. FULL NUDITY, NO DIALOGUE. No Name. <br />
<br />
F - extras - 2 East Asian passers-by on the street, late teens/early 20s, pretty, smiling.<br />
F - extras - 2 unnamed non-white office workers, mid 20s, very beautiful, laughing admiringly and clapping white male protagonist in opening scene.<br />
<br />
<br />
Thanks for that guys. And it is guys. All white guys. 100% white 100% men making the film described above. Here's a snapshot of the crew:<br />
<br />
Writer and director: Alex Garland<br />
Director of photography: Rob Hardy<br />
Editor: Mark Day<br />
Production designer: Mark Digby<br />
Producer: Andrew MacDonald<br />
Producer: Allon Reich<br />
Executive producer: Scott Rudin<br />
Executive producer: Eli Bush<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-80544974003737149312017-10-22T00:00:00.009+01:002019-07-14T22:47:50.108+01:00Some films I quite like a lot<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>This was going to be a definitive list of favourites but there are far too many to mention, and they change all the time, plus there are loads of odd moments and aspects and bits-of-films, plus countless films I love in one way but not another, so here's a list of formative rather than favourite films....things I saw pretty early on that became film memories. </i><br />
<br />
Terminator and Terminator 2 - directed by James Cameron<br />
Point Break - Kathryn Bigelow<br />
Near Dark - Kathryn Bigelow<br />
A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night - Ana Lily Amirpour<br />
Lawn Dogs - John Duigan<br />
The Brave One - Neil Jordan<br />
The Last Man on Planet Earth - Les Landau<br />
The first two thirds of Twilight - Catherine Hardwicke<br />
Bits of Dark Knight, especially the interrogation scene - Christopher Nolan<br />
The first two thirds of Captives - Angela Pope<br />
The Beguiled - Sofia Coppola (plus the original by Don Siegel)<br />
Desperately Seeking Susan - Susan Seidelman<br />
Falling Down - Joel Schumacher<br />
The Lost Boys - Joel Schumacher<br />
Silence of the Lambs - Jonathan Demme<br />
Black Narcissus - Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger<br />
Close My Eyes - Stephen Poliakoff<br />
The Love Witch - Anna Biller<br />
Maurice - James Ivory<br />
A Room With a View - James Ivory<br />
W.E. - Madonna<br />
Gladiator - Ridley Scott<br />
The Killing of a Sacred Deer - Yorgos Lanthimos<br />
RoboCop the original - Paul Verhoeven<br />
Carrie - Brian de Palma<br />
Boys Don't Cry - Kimberly Pierce<br />
The Maleficent bits of Maleficent - Robert Stromberg<br />
Death in Venice - Luchino Visconti<br />
La Belle et la Bête - Jean Cocteau<br />
I Am Love - Luca Guadagnino<br />
Call Me By Your Name, except for all the roles for women - Luca Guadagnino<br />
Carol - Todd Haynes<br />
The Medusa scene in Clash of the Titans - Desmond Davis<br />
The skeleton army attack in Jason and the Argonauts - Don Chaffey (one of my absolute earliest film memories, it must have been on TV at Christmas when I was a kid)<br />
The Neverending Story - Wolfgang Peterson<br />
Labyrinth - Jim Henson<br />
John Wick - Chad Stahelski<br />
Rambo: First Blood - Ted Kotcheff<br />
Adore - Anne Fontaine<br />
American Psycho - Mary Harron<br />
American Werewolf in London - John Landis<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-27111816561337576142017-10-22T00:00:00.008+01:002017-10-22T00:00:19.658+01:00Top Girls by Caryl Churchill<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i><span id="goog_107307836"></span><span id="goog_107307837"></span>This is an extended version of an essay commissioned by the British Library this year.</i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh22ws1jvoP-EtWgXSq_E6nb6uuwDwBPc-HhsNxzqCOKWX4z6uNxvGqtgMrek60fDbvbPp4Ds0BXmY5allNN5LN8Z-6ZMrSt6cId0wHTv8uDXKQReRFuQE-_2YdKvaeaHy-xTRC6aekmoIc/s1600/IMG_0102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh22ws1jvoP-EtWgXSq_E6nb6uuwDwBPc-HhsNxzqCOKWX4z6uNxvGqtgMrek60fDbvbPp4Ds0BXmY5allNN5LN8Z-6ZMrSt6cId0wHTv8uDXKQReRFuQE-_2YdKvaeaHy-xTRC6aekmoIc/s400/IMG_0102.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Caryl Churchill’s play <i>Top Girls</i>
premiered in 1982 at The Royal Court and instantly became a classic with its
sly reflection of the nascent Reagan-Thatcher era of yuppie individualism, its
coruscating take on class, sex and inequality and its interrogation of the
hollowness of the capitalist dream and the hidden costs of women’s historical
renown, personal ambition and financial success. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
The play starts on a spectacular
note, with a fantasy dinner party hosted by Marlene, one character who is a
constant throughout the play. Marlene is an executive at the Top Girls
recruitment agency, and to celebrate her success she has assembled a group of
historical women whom she clearly considers to be her symbolic peers. The
setting is a restaurant – a public place, formerly the preserve of male
executives, in which Marlene can order stereotypically masculine far like rare
steak, wine and brandy, commanding the waitress (who does not speak) to bring
extra rounds of food and drink as the party progresses. Here, early on, we see
the incisiveness of Churchill’s take on sex and class: Marlene’s success and
apparent liberation has ‘enabled’ her to behave towards the anonymous and
silent female serving staff exactly as a pompous and dominating man. The host of the party, Marlene, remains
largely private, unknowable, self-controlled and in control – a driven,
ambitious 20<sup>th</sup> century self-creation – until the raw final scene of
the play.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
At the opening dinner part, as the
women get to know each other, tell their life-stories, preen and bond. Marlene’s
guests have all achieved a certain iconic status in history or myth and are
all, on the surface of it, from radically different times and cultures: the 19<sup>th</sup>
century Scottish world traveller, Isabella Bird; Lady Nijo, a13<sup>th</sup>
century Japanese courtesan who was forced to become a nun after losing her
master’s favour and who then travelled all over Japan; and the 9<sup>th</sup> century
Roman Pope, Joan, who disguised herself as a man and attained the highest
ecclesiastical rank in the Empire. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
There are also two very different fictional
characters, both brought to life by male writers and artists: Griselda, the
archetypal medieval good wife, written about approvingly by Chaucer, Boccaccio
and Petrarch, whose husband Walter subjects her to all kinds of tests including
forced marriage, banishment and separation from her children; and Dull Gret, a
heroic folk figure painted by the Flemish artist Breughel as a woman who leads
other peasant women to the mouth of hell to fight demons (symbolically
resisting the constant wars and invasions in 16<sup>th</sup> century Holland)
armed with pots and pans from the home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
It becomes immediately clear that the
obstacles, oppressions and challenges all the women have encountered are remarkably
similar despite their differences of language, culture, country and century. So
too is their range of response: some of the women, like Pope Joan and Isabella
Bird, are determined from the outset to break beyond the limitations and
expectations of sex and gender; others, like Lady Nijo and Griselda work
unquestioningly within the rules of their societies; others, like Dull Gret,
fight for survival in the absence of all other options. Both Lady Nijo, from
Imperial Japan, and Griselda, from feudal Europe, have internalised their
submissiveness to male power. They make excuses for the men who abuse them and
believe what they are told: that women need protection and definition by men
and are nothing without them. All of the women, except Isabella (whose story is
not coincidentally the happiest, most uncomplicated and laudatory), are mothers
whose children have been given up or taken away from them or whose babies have
died. All the women suffer because of the same things: structural inequality
caused by the lack of education and rewarding employment for women; male
violence; the expectation of conformity to femininity (even Marlene says that
she doesn’t wear trousers in the office); female disempowerment and the absence
of women’s right to shape their own destiny and that of their children. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Yet despite these similarities,
each woman has a different personality and interprets her life’s events and her
own cultural context differently. For Isabella Bird, travel is a chosen escape,
a source of inspiration and adventure; for Lady Nijo, it is the result of exile,
banishment from the court and emotional desolation. Restless Isabella never
felt at home in Scotland, even as a privileged and independent lady doing good
works in society, while Lady Nijo felt settled at the Imperial court, enjoying
her status and perks even though she was nothing more than men’s sexual
plaything. Lady Nijo (and Griselda) put their faith in male
father-husband-protectors and patriarchal systems, which ultimately used,
humiliated and betrayed them, while Isabella answered to no-one but herself and
consequently did better, assisted by her class privileges. Isabella regards
ladies’ dressing-up as daft and time-wasting while Lady Nijo adores beauty and
aesthetics and Griselda allows herself to be dressed in finery as her husband’s
trophy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
This first scene also introduces
the constant theme of women’s dress as carrying messages about class or
propriety or purpose; the judgement of women by appearances; women’s own
preoccupation with the way they come across and women’s attempts to influence
others’ perception of them through their choice of clothing. In the 1980s
scenes later in the play, clothing is a way for women to advance, to remake
themselves, to subtly control their image or to allay others’ suspicions.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
At the same time there are interesting
echoes across the class divide: the highly educated and erudite Pope Joan is
self-possessed, ambitious and tough, and so is Gret, an unlettered and mainly
monosyllabic peasant woman. Neither of the two resorts to feminine wiles and fake
delicacy or identifies with the performative fragility and modesty of Lady Nijo
and Griselda. As Joan says, impatient with Lady Nijo’s tears, “I didn’t live a
woman’s life. I don’t understand it.” The working-class character, Gret, does
not have the luxury of dressing, beauty or courtly ennui, nor does she glory in
service to others, marital or sexual masochism, fashion and social duty the way
the privileged characters of Griselda and Lady Nijo do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Despite not living a woman’s life,
Joan is still punished – indeed, brutally murdered – by men for having stepped
beyond and defied what is expected of her as a woman. When she gives birth
during a Papal procession and it is discovered by her colleagues that she has
attained her role by dressing as a man, she is dragged into a sidestreet and
stoned to death by them. She is murdered by her peers not just for her
deception but for defiling the male role of Pope with her very femaleness. Her
determination to go beyond sex barriers, to dedicate her life to study, to be
active instead of reactive, ambitious instead of dutiful, intellectual instead
of defined by her biology, to be patriarchally powerful instead of
patriarchally subjugated, to achieve in the outer world, are undercut by
nothing more than her biology – and male judgement. Women want more than mere survival and
endurance; but Joan, the one who attempts to climb the highest, is brought down
in the most brutal way. Her story horrifies the other guests at the dinner party
and unites them in sympathy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
By bitterly perverse contrast, the
apparently infantile, dependent, not very bright and
grateful-for-anything-that-is-done-to-her Griselda lives out her years as a
cherished wife and mother despite everything her husband subjects her to. Yet
even female obedience doesn’t guarantee protection: Lady Nijo is cherished in
the Imperial court until she falls out of favour with her masters; given that
her father is also dead by then, she loses all status and has no home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
As the party progresses and becomes
more raucous, alcohol unlocks the women’s rightful pride, valour, hilarity and
relish. The ‘ladies’ stop behaving in a ladylike way and begin to speak more
frankly. Despite Isabella insisting on her gendered conventionality when sober
(“I always travelled as a lady and I repudiated strongly any suggestion…that I
was other than feminine”) she suddenly declares “I cannot and will not live the
life of a lady” and her most joyful memory is of herself, liberated to wear
“full blue trousers and great brass spurs” abroad at seventy. Lady Nijo is obsessed
with courtly protocol and fine gradations of class privilege within a
suffocating system, yet she schemes with the other courtesans to fight back
against male violence within the court and crows, “We beat him with a stick!” Even timid Griselda admits, “I do think – I do
wonder – it would have been nicer if Walter hadn’t had to [test me],” despite
having been an apologist for his cruelty throughout.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
All the women’s potential is compromised
by society, across five different countries and eleven centuries (9<sup>th</sup>
century Italy to 20<sup>th</sup> century England). Instead of finding any
fulfilment or outlet, they have to strategise simply to survive; and even then,
they don’t always survive. Gret, Joan and Lady Nijo are all subject to overt
male violence; Lady Nijo and Griselda are also caught up in wider systems of
emotional control and domination, as well as in Lady Nijo’s case sexual
exploitation. Historically, the women who adopt patterns of stereotypically
male dynamism, male authority, male mannerism and dress and male occupation of
space achieve the most. Those who stay clear of personal entanglement (Marlene)
or have emotionally undemanding lovers (Marlene, Joan) achieve the most and
enjoy themselves the most, and only the 20<sup>th</sup> century character,
Marlene, is openly critical of macho power systems and of specific men.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
At the end of the dinner party,
after they commiserate with each other and drown their sorrows, the women
celebrate their survival and their adventures. They find each other inspiring,
particularly when talking about fighting back. Travelling is a “joy” for the
privileged Isabella – as it is for the characters in the 1980s-set scenes which
follow, offering novelty, experience and opportunity – the closing line of the
first scene is a great cry of relish from her: “how marvellous while it
lasted”. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
But the question of class is still
disturbing and unresolved. Many of the historical characters have centre-stage,
sensational stories and have had inspiring adventures. Gret, on the other hand,
gains victory and release in fighting the symbolic devils assailing her
homeland, but derives no sense of lasting liberation from her actions: “I’d had
enough, I was mad, I hate the bastards.” Her actions are undertaken out of
desperation, not valour; of being down to her last basic resources, not
reaching for victory: “You just keep running on and fighting.” Her abrasive
manner and rough attitude – like Marlene’s sister Joyce centuries later – come
from dogged survival, from fighting because she is at the bottom of the social
ladder and has nothing left to lose. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
The early scenes of the play are set
Marlene’s favoured territory: the restaurant and the employment agency. Both
are public-facing, stage-like, calculatedly designed places where she and other
women can impress and exercise power over each other. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
The characters we see later in their
home settings, like Marlene’s sister Joyce’s garden and kitchen, are trapped,
bickering, dreaming, ripping each other apart in their frustration and
unhappiness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Immediately following the grand
spectacle of the dinner party, Act 1 Scene 2 is set in the garden of Marlene’s
sister Joyce’s house in an anonymous, provincial Northern town with no
prospects. Joyce’s daughter Angie is with her friend Kit and is alternately
dominating her and trying to impress her. Angie is poor, unhappy, frustrated
and desperately claustrophobic, nakedly (yet pathetically) trying to be
shocking: “I’m going to kill my mother and you’re going to watch.” The
characters’ unhappiness expresses itself in suicidal, homicidal and nihilistic
imaginings. Angie is obsessed with war, in between anxiously asking her much
younger friend, “Do you like me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
The young girls have absorbed the
language of men’s hatred of women and use it on each other, calling each other
“slag”, “silly cunt” and “stupid fucking cow”; Joyce calls Angie, her own
daughter, a “fucking rotten little cunt… you make me sick”. Here, the female
characters’ world is one of misery, entrapment
and fury, not restaurants or inspirational heroes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Joyce is a tragic character whose
frustration and despair lead her to insult and bully her daughter, yet her rage
conceals an intelligence, even a kindness, which have nowhere to go. Joyce’s
ex-husband bullied her, Joyce bullies her daughter Angie, Angie bullies her much
younger friend Kit. Yet Joyce says perceptively of Angie, behind her back, “She’s
one of those girls might never leave home…she’s not simple…she’s clever in her
own way…she’s always kind to little children.” Both Joyce and Angie have innate
good qualities which have been soured by lack of opportunity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
The central section of <i>Top Girls</i>
shows the agency’s employees interviewing prospective clients. These
perceptive, almost wince-inducingly exact scenes reveal that the women who have
gained a position in the ‘new’ office culture of the 1980s have inherited a
specific form of sexist power that cleaves narrowly to the macho values and shallow,
misogynist judgements that went before. Sexist judgements about women’s marital
status, motherhood, appearance and age have been absorbed by and are replicated
by the new generation of women who are succeeding in a man’s world by re-enacting
men’s prejudices. In the real, hard
world of the 1980s the women characters are not free to enjoy spectacularly
imagined lives of rebellion and iconic achievement or travel. Life is still a
daily grind for survival, in which grand ambitions are subjected to petty
reasoning, rigid hierarchies and unjust expectations. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
In one of the interview scenes we
encounter Janine, who is caught between ambition, tradition, shyness,
romanticism and female duty. She states, “I wanted to go to work” and, “I want
a change…I do want prospects. I want more money….I’d like to travel.” At the
same time she apologises for herself and talks herself down: “I expect it’s
silly.” But she is apologising for wanting what many men want: to be married
but “now and then” leave London to travel for work and get away from family
life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Just as it was for the historical
characters, there is a deep ambivalence about babies and motherhood in the
1980s scenes. There is an unspoken assumption in all the interview scenes that
motherhood kills a woman’s career and that women must leave work when they have
babies. But, throughout the play, there is also a contemptuous assumption that
men, even if they are brutes who hold all the power (all the bosses Top Girls
recruits for are male), are themselves babies: “you won’t have to nurse him
along” says one Top Girls employee to an interviewee about a prospective boss. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Another candidate, Louise, is told
that her age – only 46 – is “a handicap” and that she should hope that
“experience does count for something”. She is not encouraged to attempt to earn
more than she already does; she should be happy with her station and not
overreach herself. Both she and Janine are subtly pressured over their looks
and clothing; the capitalist ‘modern’ world is not a meritocracy after all but
a game in which women must look and act the part, strategise as objects in
order to win. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Louise finds that even success as a
working woman doesn’t offer a sense of balance, joy and stability in life. Capitalist
attainment is hollow and not worthwhile: “I’ve given my life really”, “If you
are committed to your work you don’t move in many other circles”. Despite being
in the workplace and having previously done well, she is encountering the glass
ceiling in corporate culture as young men she trained are promoted above her.
She is the first of a generation of women feeling the anger of discrimination
and finding that they have few options either to express that anger or to gain
credit, let alone justice, leading to empty statements like “they will notice
me when I go, they will be sorry.” In a cruel, rigged system where there is
always more talent than there are jobs, they will <i>not</i> notice her and
they will <i>not</i> be sorry. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<i>Top Girls</i> has much to say
about women’s own internalisation of womanhatred – which Louise betrays when
she refers casually to the typing pool at her company as “the girls”. The play
also tracks fine sociological differences in age and class: in her mid-40s,
Louise is not one of the new yuppie generation and is less entitled than them.
The yuppies are, as she correctly hints, a pleasingly visual marketable brand as
well as a psychological type: “new, kind of attractive, well-dressed”, they are
confident enough to “take themselves for granted” without feeling insecure;
they expect to be successful.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
The sexism and ageism Louise is
encountering in office culture has no resolution. She feels “it’s now or never”
and the answer seems to be never; there will not be a triumphant resolution of
success in the final act of Louise’s story. The Top Girls staff tell her she’ll
be competing against younger men in any new job she goes for, and push her
towards cosmetics companies and “fields that are easier for a woman”, just as
they pushed the previous candidate, Janine, towards soft furnishings and
knitwear companies, stereotypically female items in traditional retail companies
rather than the financial services or computing companies of the future. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Despite Marlene’s personal glamour,
life in the Top Girls agency is not spectacular and iconic, like the women
Marlene invited to her fantasy dinner party. Act 2 Scene 3 is a conversation
between Nell and Win, two of the employees at Top Girls. Win embodies the same
message that runs throughout the play: the characters who are the worst off and
the most humiliated are men’s women, women who grovel to men or place
themselves under men’s power. Win is a mistress who romanticises her lover
despite her humiliation (such as having to lie down in his car so as not to be
seen by his neighbours when he instals her in his marital home for a dirty
weekend). She says defensively “it was funny”, but this rings hollow. Her lover
teaches her the names of flowers, pointing out that flowers are often named
after women: pretty objects with a limited shelf life, to be named by men. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Nell is the opposite type, similar
to Marlene, ambitious – “I’ve never been a staying put lady” – and contemptuous
of Win’s deluded romanticism. For both of them, however, the office culture of
the early 1980s hardly offers a lot of “room upward”; there is “nothing going
on here”. Despite the fact that they are succeeding as women in this
environment, the cruelty of the capitalist grind, class divisions, professional
competition and internalised misogyny suffuse their outlook and conversation.
The world they operate in may be all-female but it is still harshly judgemental.
Nell and Win see themselves as “tough birds” and Marlene as a “smashing bird” and
think the other women in the office are “top ladies” while their young clients
are mere “little girls” over whom they wield some power. Yet they themselves
are locked into a frustrating hierarchy in which “the top executive doesn’t
come in as early as the poor working girl” – in the broader scheme of things
they are indeed poor working girls, not the tough birds they see themselves as.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
The Top Girls staff are not exempt
from the injustices their clients experience. The vision of seamless success
and a rise to the top is not something they themselves have experienced; it is
a false image, a fantasy of success, which they are selling. Win is actually
overqualified, we discover late in the play – she has a science degree and went
into medical research. She shares Marlene’s contempt for men and, unlike the
generations of women at the dinner party who did not criticise men or
patriarchy directly, says men are “bullshitters” who “make out jobs are harder
than they are.” Yet despite her tough exterior, like all the women in the play
she is restless and struggling to find her place in the world. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Marlene’s past and future come
together when her niece Angie comes to visit her at Top Girls. Angie is everything
Marlene has fled; this flight involves a wilful rejection of her heritage, so
much so that Marlene doesn’t recognise Angie at first and speaks contemptuously
of her own sister Joyce who is the “same as ever”. The class difference between
aunt and niece is already pronounced: Marlene assumes Angie came up on the
train (it was actually the bus, which is cheaper) while her casual offer of a day of lunch, shopping and sightseeing is
seen by Angie as the height of indulgence. Angie idolises Marlene, but this appreciation
is not reciprocated. Marlene’s assessment of Angie is correct but stingingly
cruel: behind the young girl’s back, she says Angie is “a bit thick”, destined
to work in a supermarket and is “not going to make it”. For Marlene, Angie is tainted with failure and
with her own shameful and deprived origins. Marlene’s world is one of hardcore
Darwinian survival of the fittest, but, as the play makes clear, there is no natural
justice to this fight. Disadvantage and prejudice bedevil the les fortunate
characters, while the gains of success are both tawdry and impermanent. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Throughout the play it is the women
who are intimately subject to men who suffer the most. The suffering has an
agonised, degrading, colluding quality as the women seek to justify their
abusers’ actions. Consider the harsh, somewhat cruel characterisation of Mrs
Kidd – the only woman in the play who name is her man’s surname, and who has no
first name – the wife of Top Girls employee Howard. Like the medieval Griselda
she is submissive and apologetic, her world is small and defined by the parameters
set by her husband: “I know office work isn’t like housework, which is all
interruptions.” She is both pitiful and risible, and is there as an apologist
and little defender of her husband, whose job Marlene has been offered. Just
like Griselda she over-identifies with her man’s success and suffering, has no
feelings or ideas of her own and at once babies and lionises him (“he hasn’t slept…I
haven’t slept”, “He’s very proud”, “he’s very hurt”, “He’s in a state of shock”).
She is in a terrible predicament: her years of submissiveness towards Howard
does not result in him prizing and cherishing her. Instead, she is his
emotional punchbag: “it’s me that bears the brunt”. Underlying all this is the
threat of male violence, as ever. Mrs Kidd warns, slyly, “You’re going to have
to be very careful how you handle him.” Marlene refuses to take on the role of
housekeeper to a man’s finer feelings –
“he really is a shit” – and gives Mrs Kidd short shrift. Sad as Mrs Kidd’s
plight is, she too, like so many of the 1980s women in the play, resorts to
crude woman-hating under pressure, calling Marlene a “ballbreaker” who is
“miserable and lonely” and “not natural”. She parrots her husband’s hatred and
fear of women in the workplace, along with the Classical and medieval prejudice
that ambitious women are monstrous in some way. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
The play has been moving steadily
backwards in time, providing a sort of origins story for Marlene, who gives
little of herself away in speech. At the end of the play as we watch it – but
in fact about a year or so before the dinner party that opens the play -
Marlene goes back to her hometown to visit her sister Joyce and niece Angie,
bringing stereotypically feminine gifts of a dress and perfume. While the
ambitious female clients at Top Girls are anxious about how to use such things
as tools to navigate corporate capitalism, to Angie they are prized in
themselves, giving an all-too-rare taste of luxury, beauty and pleasure. Angie’s behaviour in this scene is loving,
childishly desperate for approval; Marlene is like a fairy godmothers whose
visit is “better than Christmas”. Joyce is resentful of the gifts, telling
Angie she’s “a big lump”, stupid and a liar. When Angie wants to try on the
dress Joyce says “we don’t want a strip show … you better take it off, you’ll
get dirty”, although we know from earlier in the play that Angie will,
heart-wrenchingly, continue to wear the dress long after she’s outgrown it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Marlene’s sister Joyce’s
unhappiness and spikiness are painful to witness. A gulf has opened up between
the sisters since Marlene left: “I don’t know what you’re like, do I?” says
Marlene. Just as in the first scene of <i>Top Girls</i>, alcohol unlocks the
truth of women’s lives as Joyce and Marlene have it out long into the night and
the early themes are reprised: patriarchal control and domination; gendered
expectation and stereotypes; class; motherhood and babies; entrapment and
flight; male violence. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
At first, Marlene is
self-possessed, proud of her success, telling her sister with spiteful
faux-modesty, “I’m not clever, just pushy” – the implication being that Joyce’s
life is as it is because of a lack of pushiness. Marlene utters the ultimate
capitalist, individualist exhortation: “If you’d wanted to you’d have done it.”
Like Isabella Bird, Marlene sees herself as a great adventurer going “up up up”
and “on on into the sunset”; unlike her sister, “I need adventures more”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
The devastating last pages of <i>Top
Girls</i> reveal the injustice, cruelty and ruthlessness behind Marlene’s
mantra. We learn that Joyce’s husband was resentful, controlling of her
attempts to better herself through evening classes, a bad father and
unfaithful. Joyce’s life is one of constant work, both physical and emotional.
The physical work is underpaid and exhausting – she has four cleaning jobs. The
emotional work of visiting their father’s grave and visits their mother once a
week is unpaid. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
It becomes clear that Marlene’s
success has come at Joyce’s expense. First – a nasty surprise but half-expected
– is the revelation that Angie is actually Marlene’s daughter, not Joyce’s.
Additionally, we learn that Joyce had also been pregnant but lost her baby due
to the stress of caring for Angie. The myth Marlene has been creating around
her own drive and vision and self-knowledge and bravery and success is not
true. It was Marlene, not Joyce, who got pregnant at seventeen; Marlene, not
Joyce, who has been cowardly in avoiding facing their mother’s old age or her
daughter’s needs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
We learn that Joyce and Marlene’s
father was a manual labourer, wifebeater and alcoholic and their mother had a
“fucking awful life…fucking waste.” Marlene’s drive goes beyond mere career
goals and is fuelled by a vehement trauma (“I still have dreams”, she says –
meaning nightmares) and repulsion, an absolute rejection and horror of domestic
life, of being turned into “the little woman” as her sister and mother were;
she says she will “never let that happen to me.” It is this understandable
fear, hatred and anger, not just pushiness, which have propelled her away from
her origins and towards an existence in which she chooses life, life doesn’t
just happen to her. She is repelled by all weakness, including her own, and
calls Joyce’s legitimate grievances “whining”. She loathes where she comes from
culturally and also the way it makes her feel emotionally. Marlene hates “beer
guts and football vomit and saucy tits”
– the worst clichés of northern working class life – “I hate the working
class,” says, characterising them as lazy and stupid, although it is obvious
that Joyce works far harder than she does. Instead, she says, “I believe in the
individual”- in time, determination, monetarism, thinking for oneself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
In a rather nasty way the play
actually supports the opinion of its most misogynistic characters: that women
who succeed are somehow monstrous, cold, unnatural, grotesquely selfish,
pathological and unmotherly. Marlene is disgusted by Joyce’s overt suffering
and misery and in denial about the domestic mess she left behind. She calls
Joyce’s speculation about babies mere “gynaecology” and “messy talk about
blood” as if she has absorbed some Pope Joan-era medieval misogyny regarding the
unique rankness and corruption of the female body. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Nonetheless, <i>Top Girls </i>shows
that one woman’s success does not elevate the fate of all women; advancement,
money and status in the office do not make the world fairer or change the
system, lessen women’s emotional, sexual and practical exploitation or ease the
demands made on them and the dilemmas they are in. “Nothing’s changed for most
people, has it?” says Joyce – and we are reminded that these two sisters are
probably equal in intelligence. Joyce correctly says, “How could I have left?”
and although Marlene is reduced to tears in this scene, she recovers quickly –
because in a capitalist framework, she still ultimately has more power on her
side, she has achieved more, she is in a stronger position, she has ‘won’ and
Joyce has ‘lost’.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
The play has moved from the lavish,
the celebratory and the international to the tawdry, the recriminatory, the
doggedly local. As <i>Top Girls</i> ends, the battle lines are drawn – and they
are lines of class, not just sex; culture, not just economics. Marlene and
Joyce are emotionally not sisters, not friends and not ideological allies. The
play doesn’t debunk the notion of political sisterhood but shows how sisterhood
is complicated by class, by women’s absorption and replication of men’s
misogyny, by female masochism and also – most powerfully than anything else –
by ingrained injustice, exploitation and lack of opportunity. Marlene’s famous line, “I think the eighties
are going to be stupendous”, which always gets a dark laugh, is less affecting
now than the lines that follow. Joyce asks, “Who for?” and Marlene says
blithely, “For me”. Joyce becomes capitalism’s unseen, uncelebrated collateral
damage: still poor despite doing four jobs, with no time to study; bringing up
her niece in a town without a future. For Joyce and Angie, there will be no
Marlene-like rise into a new age of being “free in a free world.” Quite the
opposite: when Angie is older, says Joyce presciently, “her children will say
what a wasted life she had.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-59914588711122807682017-10-22T00:00:00.006+01:002017-10-22T00:00:10.906+01:00Poetry reviews: Joy Harjo, Patricia Jabbeh Wesley and George Szirtes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>This is a reprint of a review I wrote for Poetry Review earlier this year.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxTQvIyx0TCJ_gDkr8jayuUPfGlJwMjASXJ3EePdquMsJwvsIe2YBaLePXpTZOutk1cSjS7idi41y4DBbh-b-pVOw4PSLDNkDK81XgVM3uRuWzDT1RQjD7BddbqTWA43rG-3W7bqarP8FB/s1600/003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxTQvIyx0TCJ_gDkr8jayuUPfGlJwMjASXJ3EePdquMsJwvsIe2YBaLePXpTZOutk1cSjS7idi41y4DBbh-b-pVOw4PSLDNkDK81XgVM3uRuWzDT1RQjD7BddbqTWA43rG-3W7bqarP8FB/s400/003.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Joy Harjo, <i>Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings</i></li>
<li>Patricia Jabbeh Wesley, <i>When the Wanderers Come Home</i></li>
<li>George Szirtes, <i>Mapping the Delta</i></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Roots and belonging, journeys and homecoming, the fallout
from conflict, the raging political self and the devastated personal self all
feature in these three topical collections. Joy Harjo sings the long song of
Native American history with bluesy devotion, Patricia Jabbeh Wesley returns to
her native Liberia from America to scour the remains, collect war stories and
find herself while George Szirtes watches with an ironical eye as people come
and go, falling in love, travelling, experiencing bereavement and somehow
moving on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings</i> is a fierce
summoning, opening not so much with a dedication as an anointing: “Bless the
poets, the workers for justice, the dancers of ceremony, the singers of heartache,
the visionaries”. Joy Harjo’s elision of poetry, song, activism, physical movement,
lament and prophecy imbues her collection with an exhilarating vitality. Harjo
is a Creek Nation Native American, yet she does not write resigned elegies to a
lost people or an erased culture. Instead, her identity gives her poetic voice a
hearty survivalism, an earthy constancy and great humour. In ‘Calling The
Spirit Back From Wandering the Earth in its Human Feet’ she counsels the reader
in a magazine list of half ironic affirmations, rejecting self pity in favour
of the larger story of group survival: “Make a giveaway, and remember, keep the
speeches short./ Then, you must do this: help the next person find their way
through the dark.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Harjo’s poems jazz-step from one to the next, with
evocations of cool urban life interspersed with untitled, dry, best-friend
jokes like “Do not feed the monsters./ Some are wandering thought forms,
looking for a place to set up house” and stunning natural imagery in which a
panther “is a poem of fire green eyes and a heart charged by four winds of four
directions”, as in the long title poem at the heart of the collection. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In easily flowing conversational lines, Harjo fuses the
mythic with the realist, the sentimental with the elemental. In ‘Talking With
The Sun’ she comments casually, “I walked out of a hotel room just off Times Square
at dawn to find the sun.” Yet she is no idler; the walk is part of a ritual to
present her fourth granddaughter “to the sun, as a relative, as one of us.” The
poem closes with her, the sun and the baby joined in “this connection, this
promise.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Connection is the driving impulse behind this collection,
which is full of images of singing and dancing and invitations to a collective celebration,
where even sorrow is shared. In ‘Mother Field’ the narrator can’t resist “the
music humping through the door” of a bar. Later, in a brilliant image, she
writes that “Midnight is a horn player warmed up tight for the last set.” Like
a consummate band leader the collection carries us through the darkness, just
as Harjo instructed in that early poem. It ends, indeed, with a lovely tribute
called ‘Sunrise’, in which we all “move with the lightness of being, and we
will go/ Where there’s a place for us.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
In Patricia Jabbeh Wesley’s powerful <i>When The Wanderers
Come Home</i>, the search for a place of arrival, self-recognition and
remembrance continues, but doesn’t find a resting place. Wesley was born in
Liberia but settled in America; this pained and poignant collection focuses on
her return to Liberia. She traces relatives, interviews women war survivors and
figuratively and literally searches through the detritus of violence, poverty
and natural decay to uncover the past. In ‘Erecting Stones’ the past is fragmented,
“trash”, “debris”, “broken pieces” mixed up with “remnants of bombs…missile
splinters, old pieces of shells.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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In ‘Coming Home’ Wesley describes “dust from the past,/ eating
away the present” and indeed the whole collection carries a note of wariness, a
fear of imminent violence, of impermanence and mistrust in which history is
always threatening to repeat itself and “Liberia smells again of corpses”
(‘Send Me Some Black Clothes’). In the aftermath of violence, the text crawls with
images of decay, of consumption by scorpions, locusts and termites, “the eater
of all life”. Wesley sees herself not as a noble witness or a returning
countrywoman but “an outsider, at the doorpost” (‘So I Stand Here’) who is
“standing among caskets” (‘Send Me Some Black Clothes’), “a lone traveller/
without a country” (‘In My Dream’). <o:p></o:p></div>
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The Liberia of Wesley’s childhood has been transformed into
a place of numb, shell-shocked survivors – “death was more alive than us,” she
writes, devastatingly, in ‘The Cities We Lost’. In ‘Becoming Ghost’ she
conducts interviews with women who have survived unimaginable abuses and considers
“how each one of us carries between our/ breasts, stories no one will believe.”
Despite the brokenness of what she describes, Wesley’s poetic form is smooth
and steady, the neat stanzas and non-rhyming couplets capably containing the
most shocking revelations. The horror is belied, however, by the line breaks,
which do not occur at the natural end of a thought or image but as a gasp of
awful realisation – as when the sun falls “on the backs of children/ who may
never grow up” (‘I Go Home’).<o:p></o:p></div>
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Wesley pays particular tribute to women’s resilience, from
the South African protest singer Miriam Makeba whose band’s records sounded “as
though its players were born playing” to an ode to Hurricane Sandy, in which
she jokes that “A woman by herself is category 7 hurricane.” There are further
works written on journeys to and from Colombia, Libya, America and Morocco, but
at heart <i>When the Wanderers Come Home</i> is a grieving love letter to
Liberia, a country that contains her story just as she tries to contain all its
stories, woman and country intertwined like “branches and limbs of the same oak”
(‘When Monrovia Rises’).<o:p></o:p></div>
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Both <i>When the Wanderers Come Home </i>and <i>Conflict
Resolution for Holy Beings</i> express the determination to pay testimony and
bear witness, sorrow at the repetitiveness of human cruelty and the ferocious
optimism of artists determined to resist, rebuild and revive. Joy Harjo collects
us in a defiant party against the darkness while Patricia Jabbeh Wesley
carefully pieces together the lost stories of the living dead. Meanwhile, George
Szirtes offers an airily delicate and tender take on belonging. <i>Mapping the
Delta </i>portrays human life as a precious daily struggle of small victories in
which human encounters like love affairs, artistic anxiety, hotel stays and
hospital visits are bright pinpricks compared to the inscrutable largesse of
nature. <i>Mapping the Delta</i> is a subtle, panoramic work which starts with
the distant but affectionate focus of the title poem, in which time and tide
literally wait for no man: <o:p></o:p></div>
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The river was charted but now the tide rises<o:p></o:p></div>
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and presses on and moves between tongues<o:p></o:p></div>
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of land to emerge in a mouth that blazes<o:p></o:p></div>
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with its own ideas, its own flickering songs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Mapping the Delta)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The happy idea of the natural world singing, of the earth
generating its own verses in its own language, flows through the collection, as
does the appreciation for conversation generally. There are constant references
to social groups, singing and lively banter : a crowd in a cinema queuing excitedly
to watch an early talkie, a drunk man muttering in a bar. ‘The Voices’ is a daft riot in
which the night streets reverberate with voices “shouting
nonsense…reiterations, cries, endless repeats”, its easy rhymes –
floor/door/more, stairs/bears/affairs – creating a riddling verse that is both a
descriptive celebration and an expression of human exuberance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Compared to messy humanity, nature is sober, eloquent and a
good listener. In ‘Listening to the Weather’ the narrator imagines an entire
landscape focused on the sound of itself as the rains break and “words poured/
out of drains into gardens”. The landscape is in dignified private conversation
with itself: “when the winds spoke…the rain heard.” The earth is sentient,
while seemingly still things are full of tension: “The lake strained to hear/
the utterances of light”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite the impeccable, featherweight construction of the
poems, their breathy rhythm and modish references to everyone from Elaine
Feinstein and Auden to Bruno Schulz, Chet Baker, Bartók and Rembrandt, this is
not a whimsical metropolitan amusement. <i>Mapping the Delta</i> touches upon nearly
every meaningful human experience, every ‘moment’ in a lifespan, from falling
in love to losing a parent – as in the beautiful, long sequence The Yellow
Room, Szirtes’s cautious and ambivalent rumination on his late father, “you
mystery, father of diminishing returns”. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Mapping the Delta</i> wears its emotionalism lightly and
its beautiful images modestly. Best of all, it carries its sweet hope and garrulous humour with life-affirming pride; an important
corrective when so much else in the world seems dark and devastated. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-36314295359207448972017-10-22T00:00:00.005+01:002017-10-22T00:00:04.893+01:00'Poetry is the only place that I feel human.' An interview with Kurdish poet Bejan Matur<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>This interview can be found in the new issue of Wasafiri Journal of International Literature. </i><br />
<br />
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<br /></div>
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Bejan Matur’s poetry is put down as
if engraved rather than written. Her ideas are expressed with a carved
simplicity, a resonant depth, formal control and an imagistic mastery which is
at once varied and disciplined. What she writes about, however, is shocking in
its jagged violence and unresolved grief. Matur was born in Maraş in Turkey and
writes mainly in Turkish. She is of Kurdish-Alevi heritage and her
experience has been one of injustice, discrimination, silencing, denial and
erasure. She witnessed the massacre of Alevis in her hometown during her
childhood and was tortured in prison during her university years. Her law
degree remained unused as she lost faith in established forms of language,
argument and authority to gain justice and convey the truth. In the aftermath
of torture, she turned to literature.</div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Matur’s poetry is a declamatory
reclamation of history, identity and land which, while it may be emotionally rooted
in her past, reads as universal. She could have been writing a thousand years
ago; she could be predicting the aftermath of wars to come, a thousand years
from now. Her poems evoke felled civilisations, buried truths and broken links.
Her narrators wander through a ravaged society in which the very stones are
soaked with mourning because of man’s inhumanity and violence. Rubble and earth
reverberate with grief, pain and longing. Nature absorbs what really happened
but cannot speak it back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Matur is a prolific and award winning
poet whose work is gaining a strong English-speaking readership thanks to two
volumes produced by Arc Publications. <i>In The Temple of a Patient God</i> (2004)
contains an extensive selection of work from her first four collections: <i>Winds
Howl Through the Mansions </i>(1996); <i>God Must Not See My Letters</i>
(1999); <i>Sons Reared By The Moon</i> (2002); and <i>In His Desert</i> (2002).
The poems have been translated by Ruth Christie, who also translated Matur’s
most recent complete collection, <i>How Abraham Abandoned Me </i>(Arc
Publications, 2012), along with translator Selçuk Berilgen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Most recently the Poetry Translation
Centre in London have produced the pamphlet <i>If This is a Lament</i> (2017), which
contains a career-wide selection of Matur’s poetry in new translations by Jen
Hadfield and Canan Marasligil. In this project the image of the razed homeland
abounds: it is depicted as a place that never was; a charred forest; a cold,
dead heart full of black stones. The landscape is alive, a repository for human
suffering in which “almond trees and stones…recognised me” but cannot speak
what they know. Nonetheless, nature can give comfort as well as reflect human
pain. In the poem Glacier, “White light from the depth of the glacier/ floods
into my skin.” Other people, however, provide less comfort. Even love is a
morbid union, a joined march towards death where “together, our hearts decay.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Matur’s cynicism comes not from
iconoclastic contempt but from the devastation of cultural betrayal. Formal
religion is nothing more than a justification for political and cultural
abuses; a temple is “just a place”, she writes in the poem In The Temple of a
Patient God. Ritual has lost its ability to safeguard against annihilation, so
ceremonial robes are mere “roots swaying on the hanger”, symbols of death
rather than protection, “wan shrouds sweeping.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Words, appearances, the official
version of events and voices of authority are not to be believed. But in the
absence of those, what is there? “What words can we use to speak of pain,/ in
what language can we ask to be forgiven?” asks Matur in Growing Up in Two Dreams.
We feel the bitter irony of her writing in the language of her oppressor,
following Ataturk’s excision of words of Persian, Arabic and Kurdish origin
from the official Turkish lexicon. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Truth
eludes language but the truth, let alone justice, is so slow in coming that
there is no vindication when it does break the surface; truth is a “last gift”
grasped “too late” by accident “when I looked back” and it represents only
“harm”, Matur writes in I Know the Unspoken.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Despite Matur’s own lack of faith in
language to convey the truth, the reader is struck loud and clear by her work’s
ringing beauty, effigy-like strength and stillness, its eloquently expressed
pain and its haunting quality of permanence, timelessness and universality. I
meet her in London in the summer of 2017, during a busy week of readings and
talks about <i>If This is a Lament</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB">What were you like as a little
girl?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I grew up in a Mediterranean
climate, in the cotton fields, with all these oak trees around us, in a very
large tribal family, with five sisters and two brothers. My father’s a farmer, he
used to grow cotton, It was a very picturesque, beautiful scene and there was
this feeling of beauty, of paradise. This was shattered and collapsed by the
tragic events that happened to Kurds and Alevis, all these [military] operations
I witnessed, this massacre [at Maraş] which happened when I was ten. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I was very different from my
siblings and the villagers felt sorry for me, a little girl who was always carrying
big, heavy books, sitting in the shadow if the oak tree, reading Tolstoy and
Zola and Hugo. In my mind I was like the characters from the novels, while the
others were living in a simple, pure, archaic world where life was real, strong
and very earthy. I was writing poetry when I was very young and even then it
wasn’t what I call “pink poetry”. It was very rebellious. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">When I was a child, we had a big
house, a family house. The women were cooking and doing their daily things and
I was always on the terrace reading my book. When my mum called me to come and
cook, my father always protected me. He said, “Don’t call Bejan, don’t bother
her, she’s reading.” He always protected me and I always feel his eyes, his
gaze on my shoulder. He was supportive to all my sisters and he sent us all to
good schools – but I continued my education after that. It’s important, in that
kind of society, when you have support from a father.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB">How did you come to be tortured?
And how did that lead to you becoming a poet?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">When people ask me this, I always
give a little smile. Because it’s obvious in Turkey, it’s political: if you are
a Kurdish Alevi, of course you’re put in prison. During my university time I
was always asking questions because of this oppression and inequality. We
weren’t treated as equal citizens as Kurds, as Alevis. It was a basic human
rights problem: they treated Kurds like second class people. We were in a group
with other Alevis, we were talking, so they detained us. And in the end, after
a year, they couldn’t produce any proof [of wrongdoing] so they let us out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I was tortured in detention during
that year. I was locked in a very dark cell, darkness all around me for more
than twenty days. This darkness was like mercury, very concrete, very strong. I
had no light, I couldn’t see anything, I was trying to not lose my connection
with my being. Then I found a strong feeling dragging me in a kind of shamanic
ritual. I was trying to say something without words; it was a kind of humming. After
a while I found words like diamonds in the darkness. They were shining like
stars and I found them, but I didn’t have a pen and notebook so I couldn’t make
notes. I wish I could have. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Writing poetry wasn’t in my control.
It was the only way that I could heal. I couldn’t stop it. When I heard it, I
had to write it. My early poems are darker, stronger. My latest ones still have
a sense of sorrow, but they are not heavy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB">You write your poetry in Turkish.
How do you feel about that?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I have only my second language,
Turkish, to write in. I was born Kurdish, I spoke Kurdish with my family, with
my mother – I still speak in Kurdish with her. My first shock was when I
started primary school, because I had to leave my mother’s language at home. I
was forced to learn Turkish because the education system was in Turkish. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">When people say my Turkish poetry
sounds so beautiful and so soft, it makes me feel sorrow because my Turkish
contains my Kurdish. I am writing in a different way compared to other Turkish
poets and writers, because I have another layer of understanding, I come from a
different world, I have a story to tell about the things I witnessed since I
was a child and the things I read about in the history of my people. All these tragedies
bring a feeling of elegy for me, which is what makes it different. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Turkish is the language I was
tortured in – the police were speaking to me in Turkish. Some people say my
poetry is revenge, artistic revenge, taking Turkish and using it back against
them. ‘They’ try to ruin your being, they try to shatter your existence,
paralyse you through torture, through killing, through oppression. And to tell
them NO, I do exist, I am here, I won’t have you to ruin my being, because
hatred is very destructive. In my writing I always try to keep the bitterness away.
Poetry for me was a kind of tool by which I healed my soul and spirit, it was a
kind of consolation or therapy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I have begun writing more poetry in
Kurdish, which for me is a language of music. It’s like lullabies. Language is
not about grammar or vocabulary; your mother tongue is the music you remember
from your early childhood. The sound of wind, the sound of your mum calling you
when you’re playing somewhere, the sound of the river stream passing by your
house – all this is language. Now I feel in my mind that these sounds are
coming to me in Kurdish. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB">Do you see your work as political?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I don’t use any political terminology
or political slogans. Nonetheless, my poetry is very political, because being
political is about changing people’s viewpoint, showing them a different way of
seeing things. When my poetry first came out, the first Turkish readers were
shocked, surprised, because my viewpoint was not familiar to them. I was trying
to show them that they have to recognise that we are here, we have a voice, we
are people, we are<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>human, we deserve
respect, we deserve understanding. When I go to my village or to Kurdistan or
all these Alevi societies, the moment they see me they start telling their
stories because they don’t have access to representation, they have no
opportunity to speak about themselves. It’s a kind of responsibility I feel
towards my people. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB">What is your process?</span></i><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I don’t have a strategy to write, it
just comes. Usually I hear the sound when I walk, it’s a real shamanic ritual
for me. Then there are two different stages. The first is not in my control,
it’s just a very strong inspiration that comes to me as a kind of music. If I
have a notebook I make notes, but then I leave it, because I want to create a
space, a distance between myself and my first emotions. Poetry is not just
about the raw emotions, it’s more deep and philosophical. The second part is a
very disciplined editing part. Editing, for me, is like making a sculpture. My
first notes are like a piece of marble, then I bring it to my atelier, then I
carve it. I don’t add, I carve until I reach the concrete essence of the
poetry. It’s there, I know the shape, I know the sound, it’s waiting for me.
And I throw away all the emotional stuff. I am very perfectionist about the
things I published. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB">Your poetry has a mysticism and
spiritual resonancet. Do you see yourself as religious?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I’m not a believer, I don’t believe
in religion and I don’t believe in God. But I use all these allusions because
it’s a cultural thing for me. The environment I grew up in has these
references. I just give them new meanings; it’s a personal ontology, a personal
mythology. The way I use God is very equal: I criticise him, I ask questions.
That’s very Alevi, it’s in my blood. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB">You tackle huge cultural,
political and historical themes in your work. Do you think poetry can make a
difference?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Before, I thought that politics
could change the world. I took a break from poetry [after her fourth
collection] and did journalism for eight years. I went on TV as a commentator
and my newspaper columns were very effective. They were shaking the country.
But I came to hate all these ready political slogans and clichés. During my
time doing all this activism, I saw that there are minor and major politics,
and that activism is about minor politics. Major politics is about [bigger
things like] natural resources, the arms trade and macro economics. And when
everything is corrupt, on all sides, it all becomes a game. I wanted to go
deeper, to return to literature and defend human rights through literature. Poetry
is everywhere, in political speeches, in social media. Poetry is the essence of
all that. Writing a tweet in 140 characters, having to summarise your feelings
in that space, that’s poetry, and people are always looking for it. Poetry is
the only place that I feel human.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB">This interview with Bejan Matur
was facilitated by the organisers of the </span></i><i><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Ledbury Poetry Festival, where Matur performed from If This Is A
Lament in summer 2017. Ledbury is the UK’s biggest poetry festival,
running annually for ten days in late June or early July. A preview of the 2018
festival can be found at <a href="http://www.poetry-festival.co.uk/" target="_blank">www.poetry-festival.co.uk</a><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="footnote text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="footer"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="caption"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="table of figures"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="envelope address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="envelope return"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="footnote reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="line number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="page number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="endnote reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="endnote text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="table of authorities"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="macro"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="toa heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Closing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Message Header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Date"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-12563452858710533102017-10-22T00:00:00.004+01:002017-10-22T00:00:07.118+01:00On sexual exploitation, gender and inequality in China<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This is an extended version of my Times Literary Supplement essay on the Chinese writer Lijia Zhang's novel Lotus from June 2017. <a href="http://www.the-tls.co.uk/articles/public/one-big-boys-club/" target="_blank">The original is here.</a><br />
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Earlier this month, as part of the Asia House Bagri
Foundation literature festival, writer Lijia Zhang tackled gender, exploitation
and equality in an event celebrating her novel, <i>Lotus</i>, about the lives
of women in China’s sex industry. She was interviewed by Jemimah Steinfeld,
author of <i>Little Emperors and Material Girls: Sex and Youth In Modern China</i>,
a fresh and informative study of the sexual mores and personal expectations of
the relatively privileged post-Mao generation. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Zhang was a hugely charismatic and inspiring presence, personally
funny and self-deprecating but serious, well-versed and insightful about
China’s challenges. As she described in her memoir, <i>Socialism is Great!</i>,
she grew up in a housing compound with her mother, who worked in a rocket factory,
as did everyone they knew. Zhang dreamed of becoming a writer and won some
writing competitions, but was put to work at the rocket factory from the age of
sixteen to twenty-six. “I hated my life,” she said. She taught herself English
by listening to the BBC on the radio. “The government didn’t like it [foreign
media] so there was a lot of interference on the frequency. But every night I
glued my ears to the sound of a crackling radio.” Meanwhile, people around her
mocked her ambitions: “They said it was like a toad who dreams of eating swan’s
meat.” She got to London to study creative writing at Goldsmiths and by 1991 was
living in Oxford, when she was asked by a Chinese publishing company to write a
book about the Western impression of Chairman Mao. She said, “I interviewed
plenty of people about it. But the book didn’t pass Chinese censorship. After
that, I vowed only to write in English.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now based in Beijing, although travelling widely, she reports
and comments on the complicated reality behind China’s economic success and
increasing power. Zhang is hardly alone in chronicling these issues and writes
alongside a number of excellent contemporary commentators: I’d recommend
anything by the journalist Xinran; <i>Scattered Sand</i> by Hsiao-Hung Pai and <i>Factory
Girls</i> by Leslie T Chang, which look at labour exploitation and
rural-to-city migration; <i>One Child</i> by Mei Fong, which explores the
abuses and consequences of China’s one child policy; and <i>Leftover Women</i>
by Leta Hong Fincher, which tracks China’s increasing gender inequality. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Zhang’s novel <i>Lotus</i> is a rich, enjoyable read, by
turns shocking, hilarious, gritty and poetic. It was inspired by Zhang’s own grandmother,
who was forced to become a “flower girl” in the 1930s. Zhang described her grandmother’s life as one
of “terrible, extraordinary hardship”. She was orphaned at the age of six or
seven and her aunt’s family adopted her and worked her like a slave. “When she
blossomed into a beautiful young woman, her uncle sold her to a brothel, and
that is where she met my grandfather. On the job. And just as you don’t
associate your grandmother with a prostitute, you don’t associate your
grandfather with a john.” Zhang’s grandfather, a grain dealer, later committed
suicide, afraid of being persecuted during the Cultural Revolution. Despite her
tough life, said Zhang, her grandmother “always said how lucky she was. She
survived the Japanese war, the rape of Nanjing, my grandfather died, she was so
poor. She brought us up. For me she belonged to the generation of older Chinese
women who could take suffering without bitterness.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Lotus</i> is dedicated to her, although it’s set in the
contemporary southern town of Shenzhen and reflects the transformations of
modern China: rapid urbanisation and industrialisation; the movement of workers
from rural areas to cities; the reification of money and success contrasting
with poverty and lack of opportunity among the populace; the surveillance-heavy,
police-state communism wrapped around a heart of fierce survivalist capitalism;
increasing gender inequality decades after Mao’s edict that women “hold up half
the sky”; the commodification, sale and consumption of everything from counterfeit
handbags to women’s bodies. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Shenzhen is the ultimate ‘new China’ city, says Zhang: “It’s
a new city, very dynamic, just across the water from Hong Kong. It’s known as a
‘mistress village’ – a place where businessmen keep their mistresses.” The idea
for the novel came from a reporting trip there: “I innocently went into a hair
salon to get my hair cut. The girls started giggling and admitted, ‘We don’t
know how to cut hair.’ I looked on the floor and realised there were no hair
clippings.” The women were from the poor Sichuan and Hunan provinces and had
worked on factory production lines, but said they’d opted for prostitution
because the pay and conditions were better – “and the seed of <i>Lotus</i> was
planted,” said Zhang.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She focused on prostitution as a way to reflect China’s
national quandaries: “internal migration, the rural/urban divide, tradition and
modernity, the growing gap between men and women. Prostitution is an
interesting window to explore social change, and a brothel is not a bad place
to stage a novel because at the heart of every drama is moral conflict.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Lotus</i> reflects the resurgence of very old forms of
sexual exploitation and sex-for-survival which Mao had once eradicated. “In the
olden days, the way for a man to show his prestige and wealth was by keeping
concubines,” Zhang said. “In 1949, with the establishment of the People’s
Republic, the government banned all prostitution. But things changed in the
[post-Mao] reform era, with growing wealth, relaxed social control and a
growing hedonistic tendency.” She noted, “STDs are growing fast among older
Chinese men. They’ve suddenly got money and they feel they missed out on
something. Meanwhile, wives of their generation are not supposed to be
interested in sex.” Asked about why Chinese men use prostitutes, Zhang said,
“Power. They also say they’re lonely. And sometimes it’s young people looking
for adventure.” The growth of corporate culture is also tagged to the rise in
prostitution: “In China, business deals are done over dining tables. But these
days, wining and dining is not enough. Prostitution is becoming the blueprint
of business.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Lotus</i> is a humane novel honouring stigmatised,
usually unheard women who are often referred to by the pejorative term,
“chickens”. Yet, according to Zhang, “Every
single Chinese city, small or big, has an unlabelled red light district. The
sex industry is huge in China. The more prosperous the city is, the more
developed its sex trade. The vast majority of women are obliged [to work in the
industry] through some very unfortunate circumstances and desperate situations.
Prostitution is one of the very few options open to them.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Zhang’s fictional characters are streetwise, brutalised into
toughness, yet also full of tenderness, hope, humour and camaraderie. Her
research came from forays into massage parlours and hair salons, accompanying a
Tianjin-based NGO worker who was distributing condoms. It’s hard for NGOs to
exist in authoritarian China, where the government prefers to be in control
even of social outreach initiatives; and it’s even harder for those who try to
help prostitutes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Zhang commented that post-Cultural Revolution changes might
have enabled corporate growth, but didn’t do much for social welfare or social
equality: “[Post-Mao leader] Deng Xiaoping’s reforms afforded some
opportunities for educated, urban women. But the market economy has undermined
gender equality. The government retreated from its role and let the market take
over, but the market doesn’t always treat women kindly. Women are bearing the
brunt of the shift from the planned economy to the free market economy: women
have to attain higher grades to be admitted to universities, women are the ones
who are laid off first, women over forty-five are sacked from companies,
companies can stipulate that they want only young and pretty women.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Zhang’s research showed that prostitutes are vulnerable not
just to psychotically violent men “who see them as women of loose morals who
deserve to be punished”, they are also subject to police harassment and abuse. Despite
prostitution being considered a social evil, said Zhang, “it’s placed under
administrative law, not criminal law, so it’s dealt with through fines and
sanctions. The police interpret the laws themselves. They beat up the women and
extract ‘confessions’, put them in detention with no legal representation. They
have leeway for corruption, abuse and a violation of the women’s rights.”
Meanwhile, she said, measures to curb prostitution “don’t tackle fundamental
social problems. The root of the problem is the growing gender gap and a thin
social safety net.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Having spoken in front of an avid audience of journalists,
diplomats and Sinophiles (myself included – I lived for most of last year in
Beijing and have been visiting China since 2014), is Lijia Zhang hopeful that
gender equality will improve in this fascinating and rapidly transforming
country? When it comes to change driven from the top down, she isn’t hopeful: “Female
political participation is low – women make up less than a quarter of the
National People’s Congress and well under a fifth of the Standing Committee.
And the top level of government is just one big boys’ club.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-65117850412038615182017-10-22T00:00:00.003+01:002017-10-22T00:00:28.819+01:00"It's very hard to be xenophobic when you can speak someone else's language." Historian Bettany Hughes on Istanbul past, present and future.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>This is a longer version of an article originally
published by BBC Arts in January 2017. <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/articles/Kfd1xMZkJc60tr4cLXnWyg/city-of-revolution-and-renewal-bettany-hughes-on-istanbul" target="_blank">The original piece is here.</a><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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As told by historian <a href="https://www.bettanyhughes.co.uk/" target="_blank">Bettany Hughes</a>, the story of Istanbul –
formerly Constantinople, formerly Byzantium – reads like a tumultuous epic. Hughes’
third book <i>Istanbul: A Tale of Three Cities</i> depicts the Turkish city as
a site of trade and luxury, radicalism and revolution, coups and takeovers, restless
movement and rooted ambition, gorgeous aesthetics and terrible violence. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Fittingly, I meet Bettany Hughes at a crossing point of the
past, present and future. We are in the Grade II listed English elegance of
Somerset House where her new film, radio and TV company SandStone Global is shortly
going to be based, beginning a new phase in her career, from writer and
broadcaster to producer and power-player.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hughes’ book is dedicated to “those who can no longer walk
the streets of Istanbul.” It pays tribute to the citizens who have occupied the
land since the 5<sup>th</sup> century AD and were, as Hughes tells me, “forced
off the streets by an early death.” The comment is all the more poignant given
that the city’s conflicts are no less disturbing today; Hughes is telling a
story which is far from over. In 2013 there were protests in Gezi Park against
repressive President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s infringement of freedom of the
press, expression and assembly and the increasing religious conservatism of everyday
life, while in July 2016 a military coup against him was brutally quashed. Challenge
hasn’t only come from within: a terrorist attack at Ataturk airport last year
and another during the 2017 New Year’s celebrations at a city nightclub (the latter
claimed by Isil) have left dozens dead and hundreds injured.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“The history kept on happening,” she says. “During the week
of the attempted coup I was due to fly [to Istanbul] for my final stay. I went
to my favourite baker, where you can buy a loaf of bread, pay for two, they
make a cross on the blackboard outside and it means you’ve paid for a loaf for
someone in need. He showed me the bullet holes all around his oven.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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With a historian’s long view, she reminds me that recent popular
demonstrations against the government echo the Nika riots of 532AD, where jostling
between rival charioteering teams escalated into protests over taxation and
legal reforms. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Istanbul </i>dissolves sharp distinctions between eras of
the city’s past and also between the conflicting parties who sought dominance
there: there is no stark latitudinal battle<i> </i>between broad-brush
Christian Western and Muslim Eastern forces, which Hughes refers to
sardonically as “the Ottoman peril that threatened Christian civilisation” in the
minds of Victorians in “the parlours of the west.” Instead there are cameos
from Vikings and Britons and an account of long in-fighting between Sunni and
Shia Muslim forces across swathes of territory from North Africa to Azerbaijan –
again, an ongoing story.<i> </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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Istanbul was at the heart of a web of trade routes where
horses, crystal, jade and silk came from the East; amber, honey and wax came from
the North East; cotton and porphyry came from the South; oil, wine and fruit came
from the South West; and linen and livestock came from the North<i>. </i>Meanwhile
there were attacks and blockades from all points including Egypt, Russia and
Britain and immigration from everywhere including Albania, Georgia and Ethiopia.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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“There’s a tenacious characteristic of the city, beginning
in the 5<sup>th</sup> century AD,” says Hughes. “It’s always been a city of
sanctuary. It’s very unusual in welcoming in and providing hospitality to
refugees of any nationality.” She first visited Istanbul when she was eighteen
and remarks, “In my study of the world I’ve never before come across any other
city where you have the notion that you have a duty to accept refugees. In the
Ottoman era you have dragomans coming in speaking nine or ten languages. It’s
very hard to be xenophobic when you can speak someone else’s language.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Instead of a sequential history, Istanbul offers the visitor
a simultaneous history in which ancient pagan shrines are appropriated into
churches and then into sanctuaries and temples. Coins from 1<sup>st</sup>
century BC show Hecate, protector of a pre-Roman “citylette” called Byzantion,
whose symbol was the moon and star – “a design echoed in the Turkish flag
today,” Hughes notes. The ancient scriptoria of the city itself preserved Greek
plays, Roman philosophy, Christian texts and Muslim poetry.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At once thunderingly brisk and joyfully rich, the book is
unerring in its straight shot from the past to the future and yet generous in
its contingencies, exceptions and felicities. Hughes has looked into everything
from the city’s priestesses to the poetry written about it by foreign visitors,
picking out the lives of spectacular personalities like the Athenian general
Alcibiades, “acting like quicksilver, twisting and turning.” “A city is the
people who live in it, she tells me. “Architecture is a kind of
macro-historical guide. But it’s the lived, breathed, hoped, feared lives of
the people in it that stick with me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I ask why she’s telling the story of a city which has
already been depicted and examined so many times. She concedes that a historian
can only say something original if their work is based on “new evidence and
fresh archive discoveries, manuscripts, the physical accumulation of
documentary evidence.” She points to exciting material, much of it coming from
former communist countries in eastern Europe – “literally, sealed boxes with a
sign saying ‘old Turkish documents’” – which are now slowly being translated,
along with fresh archaeological finds:
“there’s going to be a lot of stuff coming out of the ground.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Istanbul</i> joins Hughes’ two previous books <i>The
Hemlock Cup: Socrates, Athens and the Search for the Good Life</i> and <i>Helen
of Troy: Goddess, Princess Whore.</i> In the course of her research, she has
had to adopt a panoply of different roles: linguist, archaeologist,
sociologist, art historian, military analyst, travel adventurer, natural
geographer and academic. The unique result, in all three cases, is history
which is astonishingly alive, told with the rigour of a scholar and the vigour
of a storyteller.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hughes is also a prolific and magnetically erudite presenter
on TV and radio. For the BBC alone she has examined the geniuses of the modern
world (Marx, Nietzsche and Freud), those of the ancient world (Buddha, Socrates
and Confucius); studied the hidden history of women in religion in Divine
Women; explored the mythologies of Alexandria, Atlantis and Athens; and chronicled
the Aryans, the Ancient Egyptians, the Minoans, the Spartans and the Moors. Her
radio work has covered everything from playwright Shakespeare to poet Sappho.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Yet she goes red and says “I absolutely don’t feel prolific”
when I tell her I admire her work. She is motivated not by relics from a dig
but by “empathy and excitement with the characters, sharing the delight I feel
in discovering new evidence: ‘Aha! I get it. That explains why that person did
that thing and that moment.’”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now she is launching her own production company. SandStone
Global will produce international documentaries, working with fully diverse
teams in front of and behind the camera. They are already well into filming the
story of Aphrodite, “the goddess of love and war – not a soppy Venus,” working
with Cypriot partners and “telling the story from the point of its origin
rather than helicoptering in.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Yet in following a story from its origins, one can’t help
but notice the perennial quality of war and conflict. <i>Istanbul</i> takes us
past the Crusades, the Crimean War, the two world wars and the fall of the
Ottoman empire to eight months ago. And the headlines keep coming. Hughes
admits, “I was expecting the pages [of my Istanbul book] to be full of people
sitting listening to bees buzzing, having a sherbet at the hammam. The sad
truth of history is that rage is so close to the surface. It’s a city where as
well as the beauty, you feel anger crackling beneath the surface. The only
thing that keeps it together is people’s desire to do so, and to find something
to celebrate and respect.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Nonetheless, Hughes asserts, “Whatever monoculture anyone
tries to impose on it, the people will shrug it off. There have been so many
rulers who tried to create the city in their own image. The city always fights
back.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><i>Istanbul: A Tale of Three Cities</i> by Bettany Hughes is out now.</o:p></div>
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-85250685100512861282017-10-22T00:00:00.002+01:002017-10-22T00:00:10.153+01:00Modern Women: 52 Pioneers by Kira Cochrane<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQHcc-U4Ihyphenhyphenuf6nWZffSNq2pikoaZhIbFDqnqRfIR0Q1mDRJkP3ITwxmpNwof9ldDEGGgJ1_h5xV57_Qpw-yIUFVmvpE6_QFrZid0V_KsIdIu_364yYOu_qBdxrGGZyTwF-FZ496Xrho6/s1600/WP_001462.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQHcc-U4Ihyphenhyphenuf6nWZffSNq2pikoaZhIbFDqnqRfIR0Q1mDRJkP3ITwxmpNwof9ldDEGGgJ1_h5xV57_Qpw-yIUFVmvpE6_QFrZid0V_KsIdIu_364yYOu_qBdxrGGZyTwF-FZ496Xrho6/s320/WP_001462.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i>An extended version of a BBC Arts article I published earlier this year. <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/articles/1K3Z4yd5vQXMMWSk9vBhcdg/ten-modern-women-who-helped-to-change-the-world" target="_blank">The original piece is here.</a></i></div>
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It’s not often that one book weaves together the stories of
a Russian cosmonaut, an American pilot, a German Resistance fighter, a Kenyan
environmentalist, a Japanese mountaineer and an Icelandic pop star. Kira
Cochrane’s book <i>Modern Women: 52 Pioneers</i> achieves such a feat. A beautifully
produced, inspiring and revelatory edition of potted biographies, it crosses
disciplines, countries and centuries, with one aim: to celebrate “women who led
really big lives, who broke down boundaries, who make us think differently
about the possibilities for women,” says Cochrane.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Modern Women: 52 Pioneers</i> includes celebrated figures like
TV mogul Oprah and architect Zaha Hadid, photographers Lee Miller and Dorothea
Lange, scientists, athletes, artists and international activists “who pioneered
the fight for LGBT rights, who were at the forefront of the civil rights
movement, who championed equality and freedom.” Cochrane says it was important
to “make sure there was a really big spread of representation, geographically
and historically. I [also] wanted to bring to life the stories of women who’re
often unheard.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Cochrane is quite the modern pioneer herself. She is Opinion
editor at The Guardian, one of the world’s most-read broadsheets, as well as
the author of two acclaimed novels, <i>The Naked Season</i> and <i>Escape Routes for
Beginners</i>, and editor of the feminist anthology <i>Women of the Revolution</i>.You
could say Cochrane’s glittering career is an indication of how positively
things have changed for women over the centuries. The acknowledgements at the
end of the book are a sisterly and grateful roll call of Cochrane’s equally-celebrated
women peers, colleagues and allies in the British media.</div>
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However, reading through the stories of the women in Modern
Women: 52 Pioneers, whatever the woman’s profession and whatever century or
country she’s working in, discrimination, sexual violence, betrayal, belittlement,
abuse, marginalisation and injustice - perpetrated against men by women - are
perennial obstacles. The book reminds us how far we’ve come, how much is
possible for women, and yet how much still stands in our way. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipPEAR7TptVRtymGLeeB2wu8wa2XlCYgkwSuOqDo7Pq1LtVV1ATsjunL1Pjzb6wWL6ek5GXZ6uwwdZgtbWuYuLoFTZW8EbldnhL0Yck6FZhplJPQzyzaocUsK6YFYzbTIog4bHXdI2Vgqw/s1600/WP_001463.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipPEAR7TptVRtymGLeeB2wu8wa2XlCYgkwSuOqDo7Pq1LtVV1ATsjunL1Pjzb6wWL6ek5GXZ6uwwdZgtbWuYuLoFTZW8EbldnhL0Yck6FZhplJPQzyzaocUsK6YFYzbTIog4bHXdI2Vgqw/s320/WP_001463.jpg" width="320" /></a>I’m interviewing Cochrane at her home on a rare day off. At
the end of the garden is a beautiful white wooden writing shed, its desk and
floors stacked high with hundreds of in-depth studies of the lives and work of
the women in the book. The stacks represent “this huge swathe of biographies,
written by other women, over the last fifty years. What’s happened since 1970s
feminism is a huge number of women authors making sure other women aren’t
forgotten. It’s been a revolution on the bookshelves,” says Cochrane. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Leaning against one wall is a huge cork board (below) of pinned
black and white pictures of stars from the heyday of old Hollywood: inspiration
for a possible new novel. “The best times in my life, the most euphoric moments
have been writing fiction…like you were flying, like you were in another world.
And that makes up for the other times when you’re agonising because you can’t
make this perfect thing in your head translate onto the page.” Cochrane’s rich
and ready humour and gorgeous treacly voice remind me of Frances de la Tour and
indeed it’s no surprise to find out that at the very beginning of her career,
it was a toss-up between acting and writing; “writing a novel,” she says, “is
the closest thing to acting because you’re thinking your way into a character.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNOESqDBxV5ge6sS78Rcr-qd1FUCZIL8NOPICQXiPVWiNSwPtgBGHi7laVq1fxwGWWnaY_nTP_YBg2QGPJSU_XcgHjGWQQgwKoPU3QSN7zUjvU97yGx_XLccwCP-gximnUQ3sKQ7TMcK7c/s1600/WP_001527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNOESqDBxV5ge6sS78Rcr-qd1FUCZIL8NOPICQXiPVWiNSwPtgBGHi7laVq1fxwGWWnaY_nTP_YBg2QGPJSU_XcgHjGWQQgwKoPU3QSN7zUjvU97yGx_XLccwCP-gximnUQ3sKQ7TMcK7c/s320/WP_001527.jpg" width="320" /></a>When we return to talking about Modern Women and I marvel at the research she’s done, she says gleefully, “When I’m in, I’m all in! It was a real joy to absorb myself with the worlds of other women, who in every case were phenomenally accomplished but also courageous, who got on with it and took a risk. I’d hope Modern Women is a positive contribution to the [feminist] movement, so people can read it and feel uplifted and inspired by all the work these incredible women have done.”<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGMuwnhyphenhyphenaxNfPkeAG6QFOxwLbN-BKFaWtnwdUx9J4N2-dYoUjYx7ubLPbq_g3ZJGM5p18p5g9mdUZfrEoOEVEaSYhZiqk2tzuFxgtUCFKPDyTxkzw6wVey26BfDYfsX0yF607J-FG0w3cQ/s1600/WP_001523.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGMuwnhyphenhyphenaxNfPkeAG6QFOxwLbN-BKFaWtnwdUx9J4N2-dYoUjYx7ubLPbq_g3ZJGM5p18p5g9mdUZfrEoOEVEaSYhZiqk2tzuFxgtUCFKPDyTxkzw6wVey26BfDYfsX0yF607J-FG0w3cQ/s400/WP_001523.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Research stacks for Modern Women: 52 Pioneers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMdLOj-ICv739ZGiTVHsBkU-f1ZQbOWAu2p6wU5qNf2El-lAl-3z8VExegedX0S2Kqy6VXaa1pvrCKCi5h5EoMUdyuMIFyE6dYxwHFNMFFUIn50bJM8nIB4ofaWYvISr3bXsb8kJfc_q34/s1600/WP_001528.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMdLOj-ICv739ZGiTVHsBkU-f1ZQbOWAu2p6wU5qNf2El-lAl-3z8VExegedX0S2Kqy6VXaa1pvrCKCi5h5EoMUdyuMIFyE6dYxwHFNMFFUIn50bJM8nIB4ofaWYvISr3bXsb8kJfc_q34/s400/WP_001528.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kira Cochrane's writing shed</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkaqjuNyUtCKHU1bsBUoTF-RbU5peROJxIH-RMTuY1EfJ3WmJTJopCGTeFkrimR2our6mxDd8QbCHL1OJZTlWDVeVw6uXptiTbXfYtojpq2BnIJiomLtaXiKUUr8gKTAO1x45269yArATT/s1600/WP_001464.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkaqjuNyUtCKHU1bsBUoTF-RbU5peROJxIH-RMTuY1EfJ3WmJTJopCGTeFkrimR2our6mxDd8QbCHL1OJZTlWDVeVw6uXptiTbXfYtojpq2BnIJiomLtaXiKUUr8gKTAO1x45269yArATT/s400/WP_001464.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Modern Women: 52 Pioneers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<i>Modern Women: 52 Pioneers by Kira Cochrane was published on 2<sup>nd</sup>
March by Frances Lincoln</i></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-6917356570459449242017-10-22T00:00:00.001+01:002017-10-22T00:00:14.312+01:00On Elle, Paul Verhoeven, rape and apologism<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This is an extended version of <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/mar/28/rape-elle-five-star-paul-verhoeven-film" target="_blank">my Guardian article</a> from March 2017.<br />
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<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidOa7u9xeKHTrffoNacQP6IGPvlrKCaerlNHptwDeeVCcMz3sTsiO7yK5SWwVtMFEgxlwR5Biy05HzGySqzT2nbbIixYsHfhVRgoCmpgl0zXiwpFX7pjqmcLLauEVL8yMAS16QwfkOdd30/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidOa7u9xeKHTrffoNacQP6IGPvlrKCaerlNHptwDeeVCcMz3sTsiO7yK5SWwVtMFEgxlwR5Biy05HzGySqzT2nbbIixYsHfhVRgoCmpgl0zXiwpFX7pjqmcLLauEVL8yMAS16QwfkOdd30/s400/001.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222;">Rape apologists: do you like the cinema? Have you always
suspected that women secretly </span><i style="color: #222222;">want</i><span style="color: #222222;"> to be stalked, brutalised and raped? And
that the biggest most callous womanhaters on the planet are not men, but women themselves?
Then brace yourselves for a celluloid treat.</span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">The film Elle opened in the UK earlier this year and has received
rapturous praise, trailing five star
reviews and an Oscar nomination for its star, Isabelle Huppert, who is “utterly
arresting” (Peter Bradshaw in the Guardian), “exhilarating…bottomlessly
impressive” (Robbie Collin in the Telegraph) and has an “astonishing, almost
terrifying talent” (A O Scott in the NY Times).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Huppert is all those things and Elle gives her a lot to
do and say, alongside an excellent cast working with a full, dynamic script. But
that is separate from the toxicity of the film’s gender politics. Indeed the
praise, from an overwhelmingly male critical establishment, shows how
entrenched and unquestioned rape culture is. The film is described as controversial –
but there is nothing controversial about men turning rape into an ambiguous act
in which women victims are portrayed as duplicitous, untrustworthy and perverse.
All over the world, men rape. And all over the world, other men collude to
misconstrue the attack in a way that minimises the rape, muddies the context, excuses
the perpetrator and imputes shady motivations to the victim. It happens in
court rooms and companies, house parties and political parties, corporate
workplaces – and film companies. Elle is no different. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">In this “rape revenge comedy” the central character
Michele, played by Huppert, does not seek revenge against her rapist. Quite the
opposite: she tries to escalate her connection to the rapist once she finds out
who he is. And there is no comedy in watching a brilliant performer act out
demeaning slanders created by men: Philippe Dijan, who wrote the original
novel; Harold Manning, who did the French story adaptation ; Said Ben Said and
Michel Merkt, who produced the film; David Birke, who wrote the screenplay; and
Paul Verhoeven, who directed the film. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Verhoeven has spoken about how hard it was getting the
film made because no US actors would take on the lead role, as if they suffered
from some kind of inner female cowardice. Perhaps they were, instead, galled
and insulted to read a script bubbling over with facetious speculation about a
rape survivor’s psyche. Perhaps they have disdain for a previous film of
Verhoeven’s, Showgirls, where the camera lingers greedily over the brutal rape
of a young costume designer by a celebrity who gets away with it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">With its beautiful interiors, great clothes and virtually
all-white cast, Elle has the same Misogyny: The Lifestyle Edit vibe as Tom
Ford’s Nocturnal Animals, another highly praised piece of work in which all the
women are mocked, stripped, raped, humiliated, betrayed or murdered. But Elle
goes further, ascribing to women a masochistic pathology which somehow excuses
the abuse that men choose to perpetrate. Despite Michele’s ex having beaten
her, she tells him, “We should still be together.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">In Elle, the ferocious hatred behind men’s sexual
violence is nothing compared to women’s masochism, misogyny, venality and
irrationality. Men’s brutality is presented as uncomplicated, even attractively
virile, while women are apologists for it. Be warned – there are spoilers
ahead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">The film opens with Michele being viciously beaten and
raped in her Paris home. After a frown of surprise and a day of PTSD, it’s back
to life as usual. Michele runs a video game company developing a product in
which a woman is raped by a tentacled monster. The victim groans in pleasure
but Michele is not happy: “The orgasmic convulsions are not strong enough.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Michelle and her female friends repeatedly refer to her
son’s girlfriend as a “slut”. The young woman is presented as a screaming nag and
then shown to be, indeed, “a little slut” when she gives birth to a baby who is
clearly mixed race; the dark-skinned baby is used as a racist sight-gag in a
film where racial mixing is a greater outrage than rape. The son himself
is a womanhater, both physically and verbally threatening towards his
girlfriend and his mother, but this male violence is depicted and passed off as
the passion of a man pushed to the brink by the women’s behaviour. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Michele is represented as a spiteful, sneaky woman-betrayer
with an eye for her friends’ partners. She is disgusted by her mother, who is
portrayed as a deluded grotesque who still has a soft spot for Michele’s
father, who was a serial killer (yep). Meanwhile, Michele’s neighbour is a
wholesome religious maniac who insists upon saying grace before dinner. But
don’t worry, her naivety gets its comeuppance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">There are some moments of psychological truthfulness: Michele’s
numbness in the immediate aftermath of the attack, which lead her friends to
think she is “bravely soldiering on”; her aversion and cynicism about going to
the police; the flashbacks and brief fantasy of having fought back; the impulse
to buy mace and an axe and enrol at a gun range. And, most correct and chilling
of all, the fact that the perpetrators are functional, outwardly nice guys –
friends, colleagues, relatives, family men. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">But then it gets really gonzo, like full-on Rapist Polanski
Brian de Palma Ken Russell sexploitation shtick. When the rapist attacks again,
Michele fights back, unmasks him and it’s lust at first sight. Her terror turns
to rapture, the fear in her eyes becomes a smoulder of interest. She pursues
him with the raw zeal of an unhinged cougar in a ludicrous psychosexual potboiler
dreamed up by a club of men who have clearly never listened to an actual rape
survivor in all their lives. The
ultimate message, delivered with a smirking shrug, seems to be: men may be
bastards, but ladies be <i>crazy</i>! Michele even refers to herself handily
as a “psychopath” when recalling a childhood memory of colluding with her
father before his arrest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">In Elle, abusive men are depicted as the real victims of
women’s demented caprices, while women are portrayed as complicit in their own
abuse, as wanting it, engineering it, deliberately provoking it. “The whole
ridiculous situation is unbearable,” says Michele at some point, accurately. Soon
after discovering the rapist’s identity, Michele has a car accident. She calls
the rapist as if he's a friend of hers, and he tenderly bandages her leg while she talks to him in
a baiting yet minxy way. Later, during a party, he invites her to the basement
and attacks her for a third time, smashing her head against the wall, and she
loves it. </span><span style="color: #222222;">“Do it!” she cries, prostrating herself – but that turns
him off, because he likes to </span><i style="color: #222222;">really</i><span style="color: #222222;"> rape. She eventually induces him to
find some inner strength and finish the job, and her orgasmic throes earn a
telling look ofopen disgust from him. </span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222;">Indeed, rank, puzzled revulsion at women’s cravenness is the alpha and omega of the film. </span><span style="color: #222222;">In Elle, the only person
who enjoys rape more than the rapist is the victim and good old-fashioned male
violence is more honest than base, twisted female psychology. </span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222;">In a punch in the face to all survivors of men’s endemic sexual
violence, the filmmakers have recast the perpetrator and his victim as being in
some kind of relationship or affair driven by her masochism, in which his
abusiveness is simply a necessary fuel. “What’s between us, it’s sick,” she
sighs as he, miraculously transformed from terrifying rapist to sullen lover,
drives her home like they’re a couple. </span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">It’s a classic, malicious lie, invented
by men: that rape awakens women’s sexuality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Watching Elle, I wondered if Verhoeven or his male club
know any women. Do they know that we are not like this, that this is not how we
react, think, feel, behave? Do they know what it’s like to survive male abuse,
even as a woman as cool and capable as Michele? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222;">Why has the critical reception been so wholeheartedly
approving? There was outrage when it was revealed that the actress Maria
Schneider was abused onscreen when filming the rape scene in Last Tango In
Paris and that the film’s director Bernardo Bertolucci and star Marlon Brando
had colluded to set her up and violate and abuse her on camera and film her horror. Why not with Elle? Is it
that Bertolucci and Brando are dead, reputations still intact, but misogynist
critics don’t want to impede Verhoeven’s progress as a man in the world –
because bros before hos? Is it that Elle is too ludicrous to take seriously? Or
too confidently presented to be challenged? </span>Surely critics aren’t afraid
of speaking up, out of fear that they will look like an unfashionable prude who
doesn’t get with Elle’s pacy, racy provocation? <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="m-7552686343472519991gmail-p1" style="background: white;">
Or perhaps it’s
much simpler than that, and after centuries of patriarchy, endemic male sexual
violence, victim-blaming, rape myths and male impunity on screen, in life and
in court, viewers are genuinely 100% five star fine with unrestrainedly lauding
a film in which a woman loves to be beaten and raped.<span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-81326784041308456632016-10-28T21:27:00.000+01:002020-06-22T01:31:20.829+01:00Asylum and Exile: Hidden Voices of London<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV_TysNdXWpP3jyBf_gdSN43AAXIxPlzi7caQN6RLTPJxd8sk87OTUpSVXdCQOIy_22A2j6jp0NDTxG5-TfSps4_Wobb9htrY_AHB3BWnr2DmpBj6RifNt4qUkxnYO9dNI8GBXuLTHjma_/s1600/WP_000280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV_TysNdXWpP3jyBf_gdSN43AAXIxPlzi7caQN6RLTPJxd8sk87OTUpSVXdCQOIy_22A2j6jp0NDTxG5-TfSps4_Wobb9htrY_AHB3BWnr2DmpBj6RifNt4qUkxnYO9dNI8GBXuLTHjma_/s1600/WP_000280.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
I am delighted to announce the publication of my 5th book,<i> </i><i><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Asylum-Exile-Hidden-Manifestos-Century/dp/0857422103/ref=sr_1_10?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1398013760&sr=1-10" target="_blank">Asylum and Exile: The Hidden Voices of London</a> </i>(Seagull Books/Chicago University Press), which<i> </i>is the result of my outreach work with asylum seekers, refugees and undocumented people in the capital and includes their testimonies alongside my own account. The publisher's page <a href="http://press.uchicago.edu/ucp/books/book/distributed/A/bo19118168.html" target="_blank">is here</a> and the Amazon UK page <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Asylum-Exile-Hidden-Manifestos-Century/dp/0857422103/ref=sr_1_10?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1398013760&sr=1-10" target="_blank">is here</a>.<br />
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For Books' Sake have already given Asylum and Exile an attentive and very generous 5 star review <a href="http://forbookssake.net/2015/02/12/asylum-exile-bidisha/" target="_blank">which can be read here</a> and there has also been some great press in <a href="http://www.noseinabook.co.uk/2015/02/04/asylum-and-exile-the-hidden-voices-of-london/" target="_blank">Nose In A Book</a>, a long interview in <a href="http://asianculturevulture.com/portfolios/bidisha-asylum-and-exile-fear-loathing-newcomers/" target="_blank">Asian Culture Vulture</a>, another for <a href="https://www.festivalofideas.cam.ac.uk/speaker-spotlight-bidisha" target="_blank">The Festival of Ideas </a>and another in <a href="http://www.theheroinecollective.com/bidisha-bbc-broadcaster-activist-writer/" target="_blank">The Heroine Collective</a>. I've covered the project in a recent Guardian article headlined <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2015/jan/14/asylum-seekers-britain-insular-suspicious-cultural-ignorance" target="_blank">I want to give asylum seekers in Britain a chance to tell their own story</a>; two pieces for Wasafiri called <a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2016/10/shouting-down-facts-and-militarising.html" target="_blank">Militarising Against Refugees</a> and <a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2016/10/shouting-down-facts-and-militarising.html" target="_blank">Shouting Down The Facts</a>; and two essays for the Free Word's Briefing Notes series, called <a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2014/12/psychogeography-of-trauma-inside-uk.html" target="_blank">Psychogeography of trauma: inside a UK detention centre</a> and <a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2014/12/the-reality-of-asylum-and-refuge-in.html" target="_blank">The reality of asylum and refuge in modern Britain</a>. I've also discussed the issues in my introduction to <a href="http://www.scribd.com/englishpen/d/91810547-Big-Writing-For-A-Small-World" target="_blank">Big Writing for A Small World</a> (Scribd copy of English PEN publication) and the articles <a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/rape-refusal-destitution-denial-refugee.html" target="_blank">Rape, refusal, denial, detention: refugees dancing at the edge of the world</a> and <a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/asylum-no-woman-should-be-missed-out.html" target="_blank">Asylum: no woman should be missed out</a>. English PEN have written up the debate at one of my events on this issue in a wonderful piece <a href="http://www.englishpen.org/events/asylum-and-exile-event-report/" target="_blank">here</a> and The Nation have written an article on my work called <a href="http://nation.com.pk/national/30-Nov-2015/i-came-to-you-for-help-and-you-treated-me-like-a-prisoner" target="_blank">'I came to you for help and you treated me like a prisoner'</a>.<br />
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In-depth TV and audio interviews:<br />
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<li><a href="http://www.cctv-america.com/2015/12/18/the-heat-our-worlds-tragically-displaced" target="_blank">Half hour special on migration and refuge</a> with CCTV America (December 2015)</li>
<li><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tL9LL09VEU8" target="_blank">Sky News debate on the refugee crisis</a> (September 2015)</li>
<li><a href="https://youtu.be/tDzaIRfayMk" target="_blank">Half hour interview with Suzi Feay</a> at English PEN/London Book Fair events (April 2015)</li>
<li>Mehvish Arshad at Asia House has published an long<a href="http://asiahouse.org/bidisha-calls-greater-understanding-lives-asylum-seekers/" target="_blank"> text and audio interview with me here</a> (Jan 2015) </li>
<li>Donna Freed at Radio Gorgeous has produced <a href="https://www.mixcloud.com/radio_gorgeous/bidisha-asylum-and-exile-the-hidden-voices-of-london-100-authors-on-radio-gorgeous/" target="_blank">a beautiful half-hour interview with me here</a> (February 2015)</li>
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<i></i> <i>Asylum and Exile</i> follows the publication, in May 2012, of my fourth book <i><a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2014/01/beyond-wall-writing-path-through.html" target="_blank">Beyond the Wall: Writing a Path Through Palestine</a></i>. An extensive selection of 2012 and 2013 interviews and press <a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2014/01/beyond-wall-writing-path-through.html" target="_blank">can be found here</a> and a March 2014 interview<i> </i>by Clarissa Sebag-Montefiore can be found <a href="http://www.timeoutbeijing.com/features/Books__Film-Interviews__Features/27594/Interview-Bidisha.html" target="_blank">here</a>. There's a full press release just below this video of me giving some readings from the book. I come in at 57:58<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: x-large;">press release</span></div>
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<i><i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I see books like Asylum and Exile as evidence of a deep seated refusal to tolerate the divisive politics that extend right across the political divide. Well done for speaking up and bearing witness. We must never stop telling the stories of those we consign to the margins.</span></i></i></blockquote>
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Maurice Wren, Chief Executive, <a href="http://www.refugeecouncil.org.uk/">The Refugee Council</a></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It’s a little book, but in its 150-odd pages it manages to be wide in scope yet intimate, funny, warm, sad and horrifying. ...Asylum and Exile is a 4 star read, with an additional star because it’s so fundamentally important.</span></i><span style="text-align: right;"> </span></blockquote>
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Jennie Gillions, <a href="http://forbookssake.net/2015/02/12/asylum-exile-bidisha/">For Books' Sake</a></div>
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The result of Bidisha’s outreach work with refugees and asylum seekers since 2012, <i>Asylum and Exile</i> goes behind the stereotypes and scare stories to reveal the humanity, tragedy and bravery – and frequently the humour – of the individuals who’ve left everything behind to seek sanctuary from violence.<br />
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The men and women Bidisha worked with were of all ages from 19 to their late 60s. All had fled war, persecution, extreme poverty and civil unrest in countries as diverse as Cameroon, Iran, Syria, Somalia, Malawi, Burundi, the Democratic Republic of Congo and Sierra Leone. Some had been in the UK for months, others for more than a decade. All spoke at least two languages. Among them were mathematicians and criminologists, soldiers, students and teachers: the man who had lectured in Persian music at Tehran university and now works in the freezer room of a sandwich factory; the woman who had been a teacher but was asked, when she arrived in England, if she knew how to turn on a light switch; the woman who became a manager in an English company only to be pulled out by police in front of her colleagues and imprisoned, who loves her red dancing shoes above all her other possessions.</div>
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In England, with no money, no access to public funds and no papers authorising them to work they labour illegally as cleaners, factory workers, dishwashers, care assistants and in other unstable, unseen, underpaid and gruelling roles. Many have bounced between prison and detention centres. Their London life is one of trying to survive on five pounds a day, of interminable bus journeys across the capital, appointments with legal aid workers and reliance on near strangers to get a foothold on life in the city with little or no support. Despite this, their unerring vivacity, talent and will to survive are a testament to the strength of the human spirit. </div>
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<i>Asylum and Exile</i> comes out at a time when immigration is one of the most passionately debated issues around, with a rise in anti-immigration, anti-asylum rhetoric both in the UK and elsewhere, particularly in western Europe and Australia. Asylum seekers and refugees are being argued over, demonised, scapegoated and disbelieved – or patronised and advocated for in heart-wrenching yet generalised terms – but are almost never given a chance to speak in their own words about their own lives. Bidisha gives space to their testimonies, which are by turns shocking, moving and hilarious. She gained rare access and was met with such trust and frankness that <i>Asylum and Exile</i> stands as a unique document|: an accessible, uplifting and humane book whose stories are as buoyant, noisy, confrontational and diverse as Bidisha’s classroom itself.<br />
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<i>Poster greeting arrivals at Praxis</i></div>
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The outreach sessions were co-ordinated by the literary and human rights charity English PEN with the Migrants Resource Centre in Victoria and Praxis in Bethnal Green. <i>Asylum and Exile</i> began in the unheated rooms of severely underfunded charities in London. Yet its narratives and characters cross the globe, reflecting the consequences of some of the world’s most violent conflicts and fragile states. Stereotypes and generalisations disintegrate and what emerge are the stoical spirits, vital personalities, inner strength and defiant intelligence of the individuals themselves. The book is not an academic tract or a fierce polemic but a humane account based on personal stories expressed in idiosyncratic voices, not clichés from a newspaper. <i>Asylum and Exile</i> is a tribute to the honesty of raw experience, the power of personal testimony and the ability of the spoken word of truth to transform both the teller and the listener.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-60280656828235782122016-10-28T11:46:00.004+01:002016-10-28T11:46:57.630+01:00Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>Wide Sargasso Se</i>a (1966) is a visceral riposte to Charlotte Bronte’s treatment of Mr Rochester’s ‘mad’ first wife, Bertha, in her classic Victorian novel <i>Jane Eyre</i>. Rhys reveals the horrifying reality that might lie behind a man’s claim that a woman is mad and humanises Bronte’s grotesquely caricatured invention, the now-archetypal and heavily symbolic ‘madwoman in the attic’. The novel is a vindicatory howl of rage and injustice that leaves the reader thrilled yet rattled. It is a scathing indictment of Rochester, a skin-flaying revelation of sadism that is all the more horrifying for its intricacy and realism. <br />
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<i>Wide Sargasso Sea</i> is also a valuable historical work, written in the 1960s but set in the 1800s, which explores Victorian paternalism, sexualised racism and the complex social and political history of the West Indies. Rhys vividly imagines Rochester’s time there when he met Bertha, who is a Creole – a naturalised West Indian of European descent. The Emancipation Act freeing slaves but compensating slave owners for their ‘loss’ has been passed, England and France are the dominating and competing colonisers while Spanish colonial exploration is a past influence and many formerly profitable estates are in decline because of the absence of exploited labour and a slump in the sugar market. <br />
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The novel is alternately narrated by Antoinette (Bertha’s much more elegant real name) and Rochester, with scalding frankness. The novel has three settings: Antoinette’s crumbling family estate, Coulibri; an unnamed honeymoon house on an estate called Granbois on a different island; and finally the attic room in which Antoinette is imprisoned in Thornfield Hall in England. In the West Indian settings Rhys skilfully evokes the seething impulses of anger, trauma, fear, mockery and suspicion between, amongst, towards and from former slaves originally from Africa, black West Indian servants who are the children of slaves, mixed race illegitimate children of white plantation owners who impregnated female slaves, non-white naturalised Creoles, former slave-owners, house masters, newly impoverished plantation owners, colonial interlopers and prospecting entrepreneurs wanting to buy derelict estates. <br />
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Within the home, Antoinette is horribly aware of her mother Annette’s aversion to her and of the danger her formerly rich family are in, on an isolated estate whose ex slaves have fled although they still surround it, seeking justice. Annette feels “marooned”, an image which evokes isolation, peril, the loss of possessions and the erasure of public identity and social context. Sneered at as a poor, rough “white nigger” by black, mixed race and white English and French people alike, very early on the young Antoinette “got used to a solitary life”. <br />
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Antoinette is a lonely, intelligent, brooding individual. Yet she is also a product of a racist society and historically one of its beneficiaries, saying carelessly that she doesn’t always understand the “patois songs” of her beloved maid, ex-slave Christophine. She has absorbed the cultural values of white colonisers, loading her shelves with Englishmen’s books, by Byron, Thomas de Quincy and Walter Scott. When ex slaves burn down her family home, the Coulibri estate, she thinks they “all looked the same” and likens them to animals, “brute beasts”. She characterises “the blacker folk” as being so superstitious that they can only be controlled by religious threats of “eternal fire”. She finds the smell of a black girl’s “daubed” hair oil “sickening”, yet her own hair isn’t smooth and her prettier schoolmate is “too polite to say the obvious thing”. The hierarchy of racial difference is finely demarcated and noticed by everyone. In a place where race is such a battleground and also so hard to ascertain, those who have the most to gain from exploiting doubts will cause the most damage.<br />
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Antoinette’s feelings of unworthiness affect her at both a personal and a cultural level. She yearns for a mother figure (and finds one in the straight-talking Christophine), yet the reasons for Annette’s rejection of her are never made clear; throughout the novel, slanderous lies fill the space of ignorance and doubt. Antoinette is desperate for affection but is “pushed…away, not roughly but calmly, coldly, without a word”. Her fear and self-questioning as a daughter are exacerbated by being surrounded by hatred outside the home, leading to an obsession with being “safe from strangers”. Antoinette is uncomfortable with her own identity as a person who is physically white, European by racial heredity yet culturally West Indian, a Creole whose parents owned slaves but are now stripped of their status: “I often wonder who I am and where is my country and where do I belong…” This anxiety goes beyond race and touches upon mortality itself: “…and why was I ever born at all.” <br />
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There is a morbid death drive throughout <i>Wide Sargasso Sea</i>, which is thickly planted with intimations of Antoinette’s fate: her childhood fear of not being “safe from strangers” comes true and she is ultimately destroyed by a stranger. Death is represented as liberation from torment and worry, “to die and be forgotten and at peace”. Yet 20th and 21st century readers know that after her death, as described in <i>Jane Eyre</i>, she is neither forgotten nor at peace. Antoinette-as-Bertha goes on to become a legend just like the suffering women martyrs she is taught about at her convent school: a complex symbol of man’s inhumanity to woman; of repressed sexuality in the Victorian age; of women’s unvoiced but powerful anger; of the ugly truth about colonialism; and of a family secret which is hidden away to preserve the appearance of decorum. <br />
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<i>Wide Sargasso Sea</i> has an unnerving atmosphere of decay and perpetual danger, as if Antoinette’s longed-for sensation of “feeling safe in bed” is either irrevocably gone or never existed. We learn that “road repairing is a thing of the past”, the water wheel at the sugar works has “not turned for years” and the estate has “gone to bush.” Antoinette’s mother Annette Cosway is “beautiful” and “ferocious” in the Scarlett O’Hara mould, but as a widowed former slave owner who has lost her standing, she is in an endangered position. For Antoinette, poverty and fear are all she has ever known: “I did not remember the place when it was prosperous.” Physical and social structures have gone to seed and what is left is a formless, vigilante society. Despite the ending of slavery, the story is far from over: violent justice, a raw fight for survival and the possibility of yet more waves of exploitation are still to come. <br />
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Rhys is excellent at conveying the idea that certain things – like slavery – are so traumatic that they are unsayable and that deliberate forgetting is a trauma response but also a survival mechanism. When Rochester asks about a place called Massacre – a rare instance when the violence of local history is conveyed explicitly – he is told vaguely, “Something must have happened a long time ago. Nobody remembers now.” When he finds the remains of a road he is told, “No road.” <br />
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Willed forgetfulness, feigned deafness, self-censorship, denial and obfuscation are both a means of avoiding painful realities and a form of resistance in an unequal situation. Annette is frustrated knowing that an intransigent servant “isn’t deaf – he doesn’t want to hear.” When Annette’s horse is poisoned by ex slaves, Antoinette says, “I thought if I told no-one it might not be true.” Later, “I forgot, or told myself I had forgotten.” Annette wants “not to know that one is abandoned, lied about, helpless.” Discarded, slandered and vulnerable: Antoinette’s experience is exactly the same as her mother’s experience. She learns young that something is considered true if one says it is true, and this seals her fate. She is accepted as mad because Rochester says she’s mad; he ‘believes’ she is mad because he tells himself so. The novel traces a repetitive, incestuous history with concise intensity, as if laying down a curse. <br />
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In Annette the reader sees immediately where Antoinette’s depth of feeling comes from. Annette is agonised when taunted by local people, feeling so wounded that her frown is as deep as if it was “cut with a knife.” Emotional wounds damage as deeply as physical wounds. Throughout this novel, Annette’s experiences and feelings are a terrible indication of what her daughter will go through, and the type of abuse (emotional and psychological, rather than physical), she will be subjected to and ultimately destroyed by. <br />
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<i>Wide Sargasso Sea</i> describes a heavily patriarchal society. Annette is subject to judgemental gossip by other white women, who somehow hold her responsible for her first husband Mr Cosway’s failings and abuses. Cosway is a drunk, his sugar estate has suffered because of the economic slump and the freeing of his slaves, described carelessly by the gossips as “Emancipation troubles”. The rape of slave women by their white male owners like Cosway and the women’s forced pregnancy and child-bearing are written off indulgently as “old customs” while judgement falls on “all those women” and “the bastards” they bore. Cosway attracts tacit excusal, his powerless female victims are pilloried and Annette is slandered because she “encouraged” him. In this unsubstantiated speculation by background characters we find many of the themes of the novel overall: the insidious power of slanderous gossip; men’s sexual exploitation of women; a community’s collusion in protecting perpetrators; a horror of racial mixing and an ever-present anxiety about race, colour, status and legitimacy. <br />
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Women’s beauty appears to rival men’s financial power and offer a way out of their oppression, but this is an illusion. As with the beauty of the island itself, surface allure conceals the brutal power plays of a numbingly repetitive society in which properties and wedding rings are swiftly exchanged, always to women’s detriment. Annette is her first husband Mr Cosway’s second wife; Mr Mason is her second husband; Mr Mason has another marriage which gives Antoinette her half-brother Richard Mason; later in the novel a man appears calling himself Daniel Cosway and claiming to be Antoinette’s illegitimate half-brother on her father’s side. Women’s names and identities – not to mention their fates – change with the men they are married by: Antoinette’s surname is “Mason, née Cosway” according to her mother’s marital status, as if she and her mother (who have the same first name too, Antoinette and Annette) are one and the same. Indeed, they are treated exactly the same by their respective husbands. The reader also knows what lies in the future: Antoinette is the legendary first Mrs Rochester, of two, in Jane Eyre; her husband also changes her first name.<br />
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Annette’s second husband Mr Mason is a cliché of pure English, Victorian, male arrogance and colonial greed, physically white like Annette and Antoinette but culturally alien, “so sure of himself, so without a doubt English.” He marries Annette for her property which is “going cheap”. By contrast, and in markedly similar language, Annette is “so without a doubt not English, but no white nigger either”. Despite looking like Mason, she is “without a doubt” nothing like him in outlook and culture. <br />
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Mr Mason and later Mr Rochester are exploiters wanting “to make money as they all do”, in the maid Christophine’s words. Mr Mason (and then Rochester) does not just take his wife’s money and land, he also aggressively imposes his own values, including the ludicrous convention of bringing English recipes to this tropical landscape, so as a child Antoinette has to eat “beef and mutton, pies and puddings” in the raging heat. Mr Mason also colonises the family’s attitudes, making Antoinette ashamed about her “coloured” (mixed race) relatives on Cosway’s side, illegitimate or otherwise. When she encounters the nice and attractive Sandi Cosway, she deliberately stops herself from referring to him as her cousin. Even as a child, Antoinette has learned to pull racial rank. Linguistically, the theme of mixing and miscegenation is compounded by phrases containing opposite or contrasting factors: a sky is “hot and blue” and simultaneously “has a very black look”; of people who could harm the estate, says Annette, the ones who laugh will be the worst. Early on, in this novel full of premonitions and portents, we are introduced to the idea that malicious people can arrive laughing or wearing a mask of civility; during Mr Mason’s first visit to Annette there is “loud laughter” from his male friends.<br />
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Annette is used by Mr Mason for her money and referred to as “a clever man’s gain”, a thing to be skilfully exploited to enrich men. In Mr Mason the outright violence and exploitation of Mr Cosway’s slave-using has mutated into a blind derision which is no less inhumane. For Mr Mason, black people are “like children” and yet also pathetically slothful, “too lazy to be dangerous.” Just like Cosway before him and Rochester after him, Mr Mason does not see black people as human beings of equal complexity and worth to himself; Rhys is giving us a tri-generational portrait of intractable, basic racism. Annette warns Mr Mason that the black people on the island are “dangerous and cruel for reasons you wouldn’t understand”, hinting that trauma and pain will always be expressed in some way. Mr Mason agrees that he doesn’t understand but makes no attempt to challenge his own ignorance and clings even more aggressively to his self-righteousness. <br />
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The story of Mr Mason and Annette gives a quick and nasty preview of what is about to happen with Rochester and Antoinette. From the earliest days of their marriage Mr Mason dismisses everything Annette says, including her correct assertion that Coulibri is not safe and that the family should leave. Exactly as she warned, ex slaves set fire to Coulibri, Annette’s son Pierre dies in the attack and Annette is traumatised by this and angered by the fact that her warnings were ignored. She shouts that Mason “sneered” at her like a “grinning hypocrite” when she warned him. Mason takes the opportunity to call her mad and have her locked away and treated “as though she were dead, though she is living”. As any reader of Jane Eyre knows, this is exactly what is done to her daughter too.<br />
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The fire that destroys Coulibri and kills Antoinette’s brother Pierre is itself a foreshadowing of the fire that destroys Rochester’s home at Thornfield Hall at the end of <i>Jane Eyre</i> – a fire started by Bertha/Antoinette, in which she herself dies. Both fires are expressions of the pain, anger, revenge and despair of the people who started them. <i>Wide Sargasso Sea</i> is chock full of fire images which give the reader an unpleasant frisson. In a heavily symbolic act which foreshadows what Rochester will do to Antoinette, Mr Mason clips Annette’s pet parrot’s wings and it dies in the fire at Coulibri, unable to fly away. When Annette carries Pierre’s body out of the blaze, she has “loose hair”, just as her daughter does when she holds a candle at the end of this novel and in the fatal fire towards the end of <i>Jane Eyre</i>. In the convent Antoinette embroiders her name in “fire red”; on the way home from an evening out the sky and sea are “on fire”, an image which repeats twice in the book, just as so many other experiences repeat or mirror each other. <br />
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When Coulibri burns down, Antoinette’s black friend Tia (whom she has already called a “nigger”) throws a stone at her and Antoinette says looking at her is “as if I saw myself. Like in a looking glass.” Symbolically and prophetically this is true: Antoinette will become the disenfranchised female outsider, racially abused and sexually used, powerless and invisible, feeling vengeful against the owner of a great house who is her ex master. Literally this is not the case: Annette is white, Tia is black, “blood on my face, tears on hers.” Yet like the verbal mockery by traumatised locals which leaves a knife-deep frown on her mother’s face, words and wounds, blood and tears are one and the same. Anger, sorrow, hatred, fear, desire and pain are mixed together and melted down to form the scalding ore of this novel. <br />
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The lives of the women in <i>Wide Sargasso Sea</i> are undone through men’s slander. Mr Mason’s misogyny is no different from Mr Rochester’s. Yet there is an additional racial and cultural element in which hypocritical English propriety (which is nothing but a sham) sets itself against what it sees as wanton, untrustworthily beautiful West Indian licentiousness and blunt expression. Annette’s sister Aunt Cora, the other straight-talking woman of good sense in the novel, is slandered by Mr Mason, who maliciously interrogates Antoinette about her. Aunt Cora’s English husband “hated the West Indies” just as Mr Mason and Rochester do (and all of them express their hatred by exploiting something rather than leaving it alone) and so won’t send any money to help her and Annette. When he dies, Aunt Cora returns to the West Indies because, as Antoinette bluntly points out, “She wasn’t rich.” Under English law, all the money was considered to be her husband’s. Yet Mr Mason doesn’t believe what she says. He doesn’t “approve” of Aunt Cora says Aunt Cora’s “story” is “nonsense”, a word repeatedly used by the male characters to invalidate what the women say, and that she is “a frivolous woman.” In short, she’s a liar and a bimbo. Early in the novel, the themes of English racism, gender inequality written into law and male slander of women are alive and dangerous.<br />
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There is an increasing tension as Antoinette comes of age. She senses, and the reader knows, that her life is going to take a permanent turn for the worse. When Mr Mason visits her at the convent and says “You can’t be hidden away all your life”, she thinks, “Why not?” and the reader feels terrible dread on her behalf. Just like her mother, Antoinette has accurate intimations of what is about to happen, experiencing an immediate “dismay, sadness, loss” which make her feel “choked”. Mr Mason says, deceitfully, that he wants her to be “happy…secure” and we know that Rochester will make her unhappy and insecure both financially and emotionally. Annette’s money and property have passed into male hands already and the next wave of selling-off of women has begun: Mr Mason is going to sell Antoinette to Mr Rochester.<br />
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Antoinette’s intuition is even more heightened than her mother’s, her premonitions conveying a depth of malice in Rochester which undercuts Charlotte Bronte’s presentation of him as a caring husband saddled with a crazy ex. As a child, Antoinette dreams repeatedly that “someone who hated me was with me”, who acts “slyly” and whose face is “black with hatred”. Jean Rhys strips away the trite excuses which are used to condone men’s abuse of women and white colonials’ exploitation of ‘natives’. Her presentation of the men’s motives is unambiguous and goes well beyond questions of politics, culture or greed; Mason and Rochester are propelled by sadism, misogynist and racist malice and a desire to exploit, control and destroy the women they use, then collude to excuse their own abusiveness. <br />
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As she grows older, Antoinette’s dreams begin directly to reference the events of <i>Jane Eyre</i>, as if Charlotte Bronte’s novel has already set down, like an immovable curse upon a living creature, what is to happen. Antoinette sees her own living death in Thornfield Hall where she is imprisoned “when I go up these steps. At the top.” She is “sick with fear but I make no effort to save myself; if anyone were to try to save me, I would refuse. This must happen.” She is propelled towards her conclusion, tormented by the repeating Freudian (and Dantean) dream images of leaving Coulibri and walking into a dark forest wearing a white dress which symbolises innocence and sacrifice yet also sounds an echoing note when we recall that Antoinette’s “mad” mother also liked to wear white. When she imagines being “cold and not belonging” in England, she has finally met her literary destiny: “I have slept there many times before, long ago”. This is one of many poignant references to Bronte’s novel, in which the monstrous Bertha was read about, feared and hated as an obstacle to Jane Eyre’s happiness, long before Rhys filled in the rest of the story a century later. <br />
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<i>Wide Sargasso Sea</i> is incredibly brave in refusing to console the reader. The novel psychologically vindicates Antoinette and Annette, demonstrating their intelligence, powerful emotions, seriousness and correct instincts. But these traits are not enough to save them. Antoinette describes one of her premonitive dreams to a nun at her convent as like being “in Hell” and this, like everything she and her mother say, is not an exaggeration but a correct prediction of emotional reality. The nun accepts it at face value; she is one of two women in the novel, the other being Christophine, who is not subject to the patriarchal marriage market and can look on it with cynicism and jaundiced humour. The nun remarks that she doesn’t know “why the devil must have his little day.” That is a warning of the kind of novelistic context we are in: one in which evil, not good, is triumphant and even a bride of Christ does not think that virtue, faith and justice will prevail. <br />
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In <i>Wide Sargasso Sea</i> the devil does indeed have his day. Rochester exploits Antoinette financially, uses her physically, manipulates her emotionally, betrays her sexually, tortures her psychologically and incarcerates her bodily until she commits violent suicide. Then he enjoys the sympathetic ministrations of his dear devoted servant-wife Jane Eyre for the rest of his life. <br />
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Rochester arrives as part of the latest wave of white exploiters. He is not a slave master but a prospector who regards the exploitation of slaves with flippant mockery and parodic faux respect as he pretends to watch his language: “not nigger, not even negro, black people I must say.” He is infected by a sense of sexual and cultural superiority, insular ignorance and visceral racism, revolting against his new surroundings as if against a food he isn’t familiar with and so doesn’t like. Indeed, he does literally find the local food “too highly seasoned”, that is, too intense. <br />
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While the newly married Antoinette proclaims happily, “This is my place and everything is on our side”, Rochester self-pityingly perceives the landscape as malevolent, although this is an expression of his own bigotry. He projects his own slyness onto nature: the sea moves “stealthily”, the rain increases his “discomfort and melancholy”, the place is “not only wild but menacing”, the green is not lush but “extreme”, birdsong is “a very lonely sound”, rain sounds “inexorable”, the smell of flowers is “overpoweringly strong” and the trees are a “green menace.” <br />
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Whatever Rochester doesn’t understand, he dismisses as meaningless or ridiculous. He has particular derision for older non-white women, whom he describes in horrific terms. A former servant is “a gaudy old creature” and her patois is a “debased” form of language. Christophine has a “savage appearance” and is an “elderly woman” who “seemed insignificant” and “looks so lazy” – the same insult Mr Mason used. Of the older women at his wedding, “Thin or fat they all looked alike.” He jokes nastily, “Do their eyes get smaller as they grow older? Smaller, beadier, more inquisitive?” When Antoinette says that she loves Christophine and the other servant women and finds their smell “so warm and comforting”, Rochester “does not like it.” If he cannot imagine himself sexually or financially exploiting a woman, he hates her with an intense physical loathing. <br />
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Yet it is the non-white characters who see through him. Christophine’s songs are cunning predictions about what is going to happen in the novel: they describe flowers that bloom for one day only, romantic desertion and family abandonment. She tells Rochester to his face, “you marry her for her money and you take it all. And then you want to break her up.” He dismisses this as “nonsense”, just as everything any woman in the novel says is dismissed as nonsense by the man they are talking to. <br />
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At no point in the novel is Rochester the alluring, mercurial man he is in <i>Jane Eyre</i>. Rhys’s Rochester is a baiting abuser who looks for every opportunity to justify his sadistic treatment of his wife. The tenderness and solicitude Antoinette shows are not mutual but actually increase his desire to hurt her: “Her pleasing expression annoys me.” Hatred of women, uncomprehending mistrust of the West Indies, miserable physical discomfort, racism, class paranoia, horror of miscegenation and an obsession with his status in the eyes of other men combine into a single sadistic personality which takes pleasure in torturing Antoinette. From the beginning he “watched her critically” and gives full reign to his racial bigotry, deciding that “Creole of pure English descent she may be, but [her eyes] are not English or European either” but “long, sad, dark, alien”. To underline how absolutely ‘other’ it all seems – and unwittingly revealing his own superiority complex and lack of empathy – “alien” is the word he repeatedly uses to describe the landscape as well as the people. <br />
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Despite Antoinette’s correct intuition about Rochester, she is bullied into marrying by him and Mr Mason’s son, her half-brother Richard Mason, who collude to pressure her with “arguments, threats…half-serious blandishments and promises.” She gives in “unwillingly” and Rochester gloats over her powerlessness: her “poor weapons” are only “silence and a blank face”. Rochester receives thirty thousand pounds for marrying Antoinette “without question or condition”, with no provision made for her, and she becomes wholly economically dependent on him. The joke is on women, and the sound of men’s mocking laughter at women arises again, like it did when Mr Mason married Annette; when Richard Mason steps in a generation later to pressure Antoinette, he and Rochester laugh together. <br />
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Despite being a perpetrator, Rochester sees himself as a cornered victim who is in danger of being humiliated like “a fool” as a “rejected suitor jilted by this Creole girl.” As Antoinette says, “he hates scandal”, even when his own behaviour constitutes the scandal, and his greatest fear is of being laughed at by the only people he respects: English men. In an unsent letter to his father he vows “never to be a disgrace to you or to my dear brother the son you love.” Just like Antoinette – could Rochester but see it – he is the less-favoured sibling yearning for a parent’s affections. He promises to behave nobly towards these men, with no “furtive shabby manoeuvres” against them, although this is how he treats Antoinette. He accuses his father, “You have no love at all for me. Nor had my brother. Your plan succeeded because I was young…foolish, trusting…you were able to do this to me.” Antoinette could write exactly the same letter to Rochester about what he and Richard Mason have done to her, with equal truthfulness. Yet despite suffering under the patriarchal cosh just like Antoinette, Rochester doesn’t feel any human commonality with her. Because of her racial and sexual difference from him, he can’t see her as being in the same position, having the same human feelings as him, feeling an equally harsh grievance or deserving the same rights. <br />
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Even though he is made rich by Antoinette he goads himself into malice against her, telling himself that she and the other islanders gloat at how she has “bought” him. This is a lie and Antoinette has no idea of his hostility. Sexual satisfaction has woken her from the loneliness and fear she grew up with, yet it also makes her vulnerable. Introduced to intimacy and physical abandon, she has let down her guard and is now open to being hurt. That is the risk we all take when we fall in love, but Antoinette has been tricked and Rochester is only pretending to be in love. She asks him, “Why did you make me want to live?” He revels in his power over her, replying, “Because I wished it.” In a loving couple, this would be playful pillow talk. In Rochester, it is a terrifying hint and a statement of intent.<br />
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Antoinette’s doubts about marrying Rochester, and his own attempts to persuade her, are represented by him with sing-song mockery, “advance and retreat… doubts and hesitations. Everything finished, for better or of worse.” With a sickening mixture of sadism and self-pity he relishes thinking about how he “bowed, smiled, kissed her hand, danced with her” and “played the part I was expected to play” to get her to agree to marry him. He congratulates himself on his “faultless performance” and yet sees himself, petulantly, as deserving sympathy because deceiving Antoinette was “an effort of will” which “no one noticed.”<br />
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Antoinette imagines England as a “cold dark dream” and, as always, she is correct. Her nightmares are true predictions of what will happen to her there. Rochester counters that her island is equally “unreal and like a dream” to him. He dismisses the island’s beauty as “nothing” and wants to violate it to uncover some secret which he thinks it’s cunningly concealing: “I want what it hides.” This is exactly what he attempts to do to Antoinette, too, and malicious men prey on his suspicions. Ultimately, what gets hidden is the truth of what Rochester, Mr Mason and Richard Mason have done to women. Rochester gloats that “those who know it cannot tell it”, the women are powerless to speak and be believed, and he will hold the secret, in the form of the traumatised Antoinette, “in a hidden place…hold it fast”. Rhys undercuts his confidence as the entire novel is a telling of the ugly truth. <br />
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Rochester gaslights and manipulates Antoinette, whose instincts are correctly warning her off him. He says tauntingly, “I’ll trust you if you’ll trust me” even though she is trustworthy and he is not. He guilts, baits and emotionally blackmails her, saying, “You will make me very unhappy if you send me away without telling me what I have done to displease you.” When she tries to explain her foreboding, however, he dismisses it. His desire to destroy her is made explicit when, lying next to her, he “wonder[s] if she ever guessed how near she came to dying.”<br />
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Throughout, women’s statements of reality are said by men to be the products of raving madness as the Cosway, Mason and Rochester men work together to exploit, abuse, destroy and dispose of Annette and Antoinette. Antoinette goes to Christophine for help and says correctly, “he does not love me, I think he hates me.” While characters like Aunt Cora and Christophine talk good sense, they cannot act against the men’s sadism because in this society men have power and women do not. <br />
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The men protect and defend each other’s abuse, swearing blind in one another’s favour. When Aunt Cora intercedes on behalf of Antoinette, Richard Mason describes Rochester to her as “an honourable gentleman, not a rascal” whom he “would trust …with my life” and whom Antoinette is “damn lucky to get”. Antoinette’s interests are not protected by any lawyer’s settlement, but the men’s interests are protected by a gentlemen’s agreement in their own favour. When Cora tries to answer back, Richard Mason resorts to ageist sexism, macho aggression and accusations of madness or stupidity, shouting, “for God’s sake shut up you old fool.” <br />
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The same thing happens when Christophine tries to talk to Rochester, suggesting that he let go of Antoinette so that she can marry someone else. “A pang of rage and jealousy” makes Rochester refuse, out of sadism. He laughs in Christophine’s face and calls her a “ridiculous old woman” who is “as mad as the other,” meaning Antoinette. Christophine is reputed to be an ‘obeah woman’: at worst a witch who can raise the dead and control the living; or alternatively a healer who can provide sagacity and solace. She has been jailed for her practices in the past and towards the end of the novel, local men revive their slander of her. Rochester threatens her with a specifically male violence, male authority and male allies who will cooperate to work against the women: “I’ll get the men to put you out…I will have the police up…. consult the Spanish Town doctors and her brother [Richard Mason].” <br />
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All the male characters in the novel use underhand methods to encourage each other to hurt women. A sly letter from a local mixed race man calling himself Daniel Cosway alleges to Rochester that not only was Antoinette’s mother mad, her husband Mr Cosway was also “raving”, Antoinette has inherited both doses and Daniel Cosway is himself one of Mr Cosway’s many illegitimate mixed-race children. Just as Mr Mason slanders Aunt Cora as frivolous, Daniel Cosway slanders Annette as “worthless and spoilt”. Just like Rochester, Daniel Cosway is angry at his father; yet it is only the women who are hurt with these heated allegations of race and class intermixing, illegitimacy, madness, female slatternliness and female deceitfulness.<br />
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Daniel Cosway plays on abusive men’s classic defence of their own sadism and sexual immorality, which is that they have been tricked by devious women: Rochester was “bewitch” by Antoinette the same way Mr Mason was “bewitch with her mother.” For Rochester, who is suspicious of the black islanders’ ‘obeah’ practices, this accusation of witchery has a fearful double impact. Daniel Cosway further inflates Rochester’s fears of racial and cultural otherness by hinting that madness is in “all these white Creoles” and not just confined to Antoinette’s family. He extends his slander to Christophine who is “a bad woman and she will lie to you worse than your wife” and presses on Rochester’s sensitivity about race and class with the suspicion that Antoinette is herself mixed race and simply another of Mr Cosway’s illegitimate slave-class children. At the same time, the men work together to uphold each other’s self image: Daniel Cosway tells Rochester his reputation is as a man with “a kind word for all, black, white, also coloured”, which is as far from the truth as could be possible. <br />
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Rhys looks closely at the bitter mélange of racism, sexism, classism and personal sadism which drives Rochester. Rochester says openly that although he may lust after Antoinette – he is “thirsty” for her, a telling image of casual consumption – “that is not love. I felt very little tenderness for her”. Because of her race and sex, he feels no connection to her as a human being: she is “a stranger” who “did not think or feel as I did”. For all its historical depth, the novel is at the same time a terrifying close portrait of intimate, day by day abusiveness. Rochester’s desire for Antoinette is “breathless and savage” but when he has “exhausted” himself upon her, “I turned away from her and slept…without a word or a caress”.<br />
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At the end of the novel Rochester tortures his wife by sexually using a young maid called Amélie on the other side of a thin partition from Antoinette’s room. Just as with Antoinette, Rochester wants Amélie sexually while loathing her race (“little half-caste”), her class (“servant”) and personality (“lovely little creature but sly, spiteful, malignant perhaps”). His sexual usage of her, as with his usage of Antoinette, is his revenge against imagined provocations: he thinks Amélie is sneering at him, “full of delighted malice, so intelligent, above all so intimate.” Yet this intimate, delighted malice is all his own. Just as with Antoinette, Rochester’s usage of Amélie only increases his racism; when he has finished with her “her skin was darker, her lips thicker than I had thought”. <br />
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<i>Wide Sargasso Sea</i> is a horror novel, one where the source of horror lies in common ‘domestic’ cruelty. Rochester mentally torments Antoinette, telling her “I am most distressed about you, I am distraught” when in truth, “I was calm”. Antoinette says she is happy to answer any questions about her family and he says, “Only if you promise to be reasonable.” In his psychopathic self-pity, everything he has deliberately done to Antoinette, he pretends to believe she has done to him: “You deceived me, betrayed me.” <br />
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Rochester’s malice makes him accept every lie he is told by men and dismiss every truth his is told by women. After finding out that Antoinette has the same name as her mother and conveniently believing that both women are mad and bad, he renames his wife just like a slave-owner, to assert his dominance, to distance himself from the taint of her (alleged) family madness and to distance her from herself. He has taken her money, her property, her sense of security, her emotional happiness, her sexual dignity and now, finally, her name. There is to be nothing left. Antoinette is not mad at all, in fact she is completely sane, and says “You are trying to make me into something else, calling me by another name” The more aggrieved she is, the colder he becomes, which understandably infuriates her. When she laughs disdainfully he calls it “a crazy laugh” which justifies, in his own delusion, his abuse of her. <br />
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Despite his renaming of her at the end of the book it is interesting to note how rarely he has referred to her by name at all. Instead he calls her “my wife” and then “the woman”, “the girl”, steadily diminishing her until she is “a child…an obstinate one.” The more Antoinette suffers with the human pain he has caused, the less human he sees her as, until she is like “a doll… a marionette”, a plaything and object to be manipulated. It seems like her destruction is complete, but Antoinette can be reduced still further. Rochester sketches an English house where he will incarcerate her, rendering her as “a child’s scribble, a dot of a head, a larger one for the body.” From Antoinette to wife to woman to girl to child to doll to drawing, Rochester has steadily destroyed her. Then he goes one further. At the very end of the novel he describes her, with skin-crawling patronage, as if he were not the perpetrator of her destruction, as “only a ghost…nothing left but hopelessness.” <br />
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In brief, jagged, sizzlingly frank and memorable flashes the novel shows nakedly and finally what Rochester really thinks of Antoinette, his cruelty, his twisted self-pity and his hysterical, self-serving lies: she is a “drunken lying lunatic – gone her mother’s way” who he is “tied to” for life unless he does something to her. The final third of the novel is breathtakingly disturbing. Everything Rochester has experienced of Antoinette, her love, kindness and sexuality, he uses against her: she is a slut who’ll “not care who she’s loving”; she behaves sexually “as no sane woman would – or could”; her joy, confidence and beauty are “so pleased, so satisfied.” Rochester gives himself permission to take “revenge” now that Antoinette has “played her games so often that the lowest shrug and jeer at her”. In reality, it is Rochester who has been game-playing and deceiving and the servants shrug and jeer at him, not her. At long last his true sadism is plainly revealed: “She said she loved this place. This is the last she’ll see of it.” And since, like all sadists, he enjoys torturing his victim, having pretended she is mad and done everything he can to mistreat her until she feels like she is indeed going mad, he makes sure she can never get away from him: “She’s mad but mine, mine…my lunatic. My mad girl.”<br />
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This brief, brooding and unforgettable novel is a damning indictment of slavery and colonialism, the centuries of trauma and inequality they create and the racism that underpins them; and also of the most intricate womanhating abuse, sexist slander and patriarchal laws which make women dependent. Any woman on the planet who has survived an abusive ‘relationship’ in the 21st Century, let alone in the 20th Century when the book was written, or the 19th Century when the book is set, will recognise the sociopathic two-facedness of Mr Mason, Richard Mason, Daniel Cosway and Rochester and the way that their male cronies and even male strangers like lawyers and doctors collude to support their financial, sexual and emotional abuse of women. <br />
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It is also an eerie ghost story in which the main character is haunted by her mother, her mother is haunted by the memory of what she has lost and the locality is haunted by the violence of slavery. Yet Antoinette is afraid of ghost stories herself, stopping Christophine, again with accurate foreboding, when she sings about something coming “tap tap tapping” at night. Antoinette feels an instinctive aversion to the image of an unseen thing making minute noises, which is exactly what she will become. Later, Rochester patronises her by rocking her “like a child” and singing a song in which she is “queen of the silent night” who “shine[s] bright…as [she] die[s].” This is exactly what happens at the end of Jane Eyre. Incarcerated in Thornfield Hall, Antoinette, now Bertha, hears rumours that the house is haunted. She is afraid of the ghost, yet of course she herself is the ghost of Thornfield Hall.<br />
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That is where <i>Wide Sargasso Sea</i> ends. For a reader of this blistering masterpiece, it is devastating to know that with all this, the worst is still to come.<br />
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<i>This is a much extended version of a piece commissioned for the British Library's Discovering Literature archive of works on 20th Century literature in English. <a href="https://www.bl.uk/20th-century-literature/articles/an-introduction-to-wide-sargasso-sea" target="_blank">View the original here.</a></i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-83465617746620181162016-10-28T11:46:00.003+01:002016-11-05T16:25:41.014+00:00The wolf tales in Angela Carter's short story collection The Bloody Chamber<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>This essay examines the stories The Werewolf, The Company of Wolves and Wolf-Alice in Carter's short story collection The Bloody Chamber. A shorter version was commissioned by the British Library for its Discovering Literature archive or critical essays. If you like this you may also like my essay on Susannah Clapp's biographical account,<a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2012/01/death-of-magical-democracy-and-rise-of.html" target="_blank"> A Card From Angela Carter</a>.</i><br />
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Angela Carter’s 1979 collection of original fairytales, The Bloody Chamber, is rightly celebrated as a masterpiece of 20th Century fiction. Dazzlingly varied in tone and register, this masterful collection is cavalier, lushly romantic, chilling and ferociously entertaining. It combines postmodern self-awareness with the otherworldly glamour and unashamed intensity of classic horror and fantasy fiction. </div>
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The individual stories glance bullet-like off stock fairytales from Bluebeard (in the title story), Beauty and the Beast (in the stories The Courtship of Mr Lyon and The Tiger’s Bride) and Little Red Riding Hood (in The Werewolf and The Company of Wolves) and shoot away in completely new directions which are highly inventive and intensely unnerving. Others, like The Lady of the House of Love and the last story, Wolf-Alice, explore vampire, zombie and other occult mythology. All hungrily circle and re-circle certain core themes including death, sexual attraction, survival in hard surroundings, romantic love, human sadism, human hypocrisy and the animal world, particularly animals’ innocent expression of physical hunger, threat, fear and tenderness. Throughout, the characters and their fates resist generalisation and retain their sharp otherness; they do not always comply with a sentimental reader’s desire for natural justice.</div>
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In The Bloody Chamber, Carter replaces the simplistic morality of karmic balance, in which good and evil are easy to spot and rewarded or punished accordingly, with an alluring and unsettling complexity and a stewed atmosphere of amoral seediness like a rankly sexy perfume you can’t stop smelling. She understands the value of a good cheap thrill and deploys to brilliant effect the black PVC glamour and histrionic atmosphere of Hammer Horror films, the nocturnal shocks of rural Gothic melodrama and the sordid vampiric mingling of desire and decay. Yet at the same time there is an interesting human disdain to The Bloody Chamber. The stories create an environment in which all transformations and supernatural permutations are possible; yet always the very worst motivations, actions, self-justifications, cruelty and hypocrisy come from the plain humans, not the witches and not the wolves. </div>
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In this essay I look at the last three stories in The Bloody Chamber: The Werewolf, The Company of Wolves and Wolf-Alice. All three examine with infinitesimal subtlety and distinction the psychological, physical, sociological and moral differences between humans, wolves and werewolves, the natural world and human societies, natural cycles and human pathology. </div>
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The first story, The Werewolf, is told with abrupt, brittle relish. A short tale of not even three pages, it sketches a familiar Gothic pastoral scene in frighteningly flippant shorthand: we are in a “Northern country” of “cold weather”, “dark and smoky” interiors, “cold hearts” and “wild beasts in the forest”. Life is “harsh, brief, poor” and flowers don’t grow. The ghastly supernatural intermingles with the bleak natural: vampires are warded off with garlic, children are born with second sight. Interaction with the uncanny offers no thrill of contact but instead compounds local paranoia and misery. Human society is punitive, suspicious and credulous, its puritanical patriarchy shot through with a hypocritical sexualisation: women suspected of being witches are stripped before being stoned to death. The supernaturals seem to be having a far better time: the devil hosts witches’ bacchanals in the cemetery, which is a “bleak and touching township” where they exhume and consume corpses (a practice which comes up again in the final story, Wolf-Alice, where the perpetrator acts not with exultation but with misery). </div>
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The linking of death and consumption, corpses and food, is made explicit when we learn that mourners leave small loaves, not bouquets, at graves. Survival, if not peace, is maintained through mutual preying and consumption: the ‘little red riding hood’ character of the young girl protagonist who walks through the forest to visit her grandmother is the daughter of a hunter. Like him, she knows how to use a knife and, like all the town’s inhabitants, she is on guard both against animal predators like wolves and against naked men who are feared not because they might be sexual attackers but because they are werewolves. Teasingly, the child is dressed as wolf-prey, in victim drag: a “scabby coat of sheepskin”. </div>
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When a wolf does indeed attack the girl it has red eyes like the devil. However, in keeping with the sympathetic way wolves are described throughout these stories, Carter reminds us that the animals are “less brave than they seem”. It flees when the girl cuts off its paw and gives a “gulp, almost a sob”; it is “disconsolate” and “lollops off” like a cartoon character. </div>
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Halfway through the story snow falls, obscuring the past and wiping away the first part of the narrative like a white interval curtain. The little girl arrives at her grandmother’s home and the grandmother is “like a thing possessed” - indeed, it seems she is a werewolf, the same one who attacked the girl. In an unpleasant yet aptly misanthropic twist, the neighbours come in, see a wart on the grandmother’s severed hand, have her for a witch and stone her to death. The moral: being a werewolf won’t save you from sexism.</div>
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The Werewolf is not a story about werewolves but about human meanness of spirit and the uniquely human appetite for judging others and then collectively enjoying seeing their punishment through to the death. The werewolf, meanwhile, flees when it encounters an opponent who can best it. This is not a world in which natural justice prevails but one in which whoever is left standing is the winner. The grandmother’s crime is not being a man-wolf but being a female witch and she is murdered not out of self-preservation but superstition. The social context allows no place for debating moral rights and wrongs and the story satisfies its characters while leaving the reader morally unmoored. It ends with a grim if (to us) unjust settling of the situation: the girl, apparently content with the cancelling out of both witch and werewolf threats, happily replaces her murdered grandmother, moves in and “prospered” in her house. </div>
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The next story, The Company of Wolves, is a macabre, luxuriantly disturbing horror. It is recounted in a wordy, cheesy B-movie voiceover where every blood-curdling, spine-chilling adjective progressively makes the audience less afraid of the “carnivore incarnate”, “as cunning as he is ferocious”, who is shortly to stalk the pages like a vaudeville pirate. The story’s shifts in tone are abrupt, like a badly cut film, and the description is one of cheap magicians’ tricks which give the scenes a dazzling effect – a “diabolic phosphorescence.” As in cardboard make-do stage sets, the pine trees at the edge of the forest are a “portal” to another world. The story is soaked in panstick, limelight, fake ice and plastic sequins and told as if accompanied by a church organ playing a tune of hysterical extremity. </div>
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Wolves are described with seductive, mesmerisingly shifting descriptions borrowing from theatre and amateur dramatics: their eyes are yellowish, reddish, unnatural green, likened to “candle flames” and “sequins”. Their howl is, again taking from stage and performance, an “aria of fear”, entertaining and beautiful even when expressing dread. Like film stars whose charisma is powerful yet hard to pin down, wolves are compared to elusive things, “shadows” and “wraiths”. In winter they are rendered “lean and famished” with “slavering jaws” and a “lolling tongue.” Carter always represents wolves sympathetically, either as great mythologised figures, as vulnerable creatures or as ordinary animals bearing the weight of humans’ projections and fears. </div>
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By contrast the humans in this story are denuded of charm and glamour. We are lumbering, immutable, noticeable by our “smell of meat”. Humans have none of the allure of the supernatural world; they are poor, tired, hungry and threatened, the local children are “grave-eyed” – that is, both somewhat serious and somewhat dead – and live on “acrid” milk and “rank, maggoty” cheese, food which is decaying like the dead. Just like the girl in the previous story, the children carry knives for self-defence. </div>
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Winter strikes and, like a long Halloween night, produces a bubbling-over of all the delicious horrors of the folkloric population: “all the teeming perils of the night…ghosts, hobgoblins, ogres…witches [like the one in Hansel and Gretel] that fatten their captives in cages.” This village, in which common fairytale characters and magical abilities manifest, is not a place of creativity and delight but one of isolation and vengeance. It is a place of loners like the “mad old man” religious maniac who lives in a hut and the jilted bride who, like the bad fairy in Sleeping Beauty, curses the rest of her wedding. The narrator projects tragic self-awareness onto wolves, who howl to express their “misery”. The wolves are represented as romantic souls, howling “as if their hearts would break” with “inherent sadness”, “vast melancholy”, “despair” and “ghastly sadness” “as if demented or deranged”, a revenant product of “the longest night.” All of these are of course human delusions, the sickest of which is the perversity of asserting that a wolf is so disgusted by itself that it wants to be killed and “half welcomes” it due to “his” own “irremediable appetites”. This reasoning is a hint of what is to come and indeed what features frequently in all the stories in this collection: sadistic humans’ justification for their own violence, the projection of their own sadism onto innocent others and the themes of masochism, shaming, judgement and punishment meted out to undeserving targets. </div>
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Apparently, the plain wolf is the “worst” of all the diabolical characters in the village, the narrator tells us – worse even than a human who tricks, kidnaps and murders children. The narrator in the story is not neutral or the voice of reason, but instead employs illogical exaggeration to reflect “our village” and its hysteria about wolves. Human motives are imputed to wolves in the description of the animals as cunning and “unkind”, when unkindness is a jarringly human trait. The hunter who traps a wolf does to it what no wolf would ever do to an animal it killed: he cuts off its head and paws “as a trophy”, to exult in his act, only to see it turn into a man. </div>
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As ever, the worst beasts a girl could encounter in the forest are men. The Company of Wolves features an anecdote thrown in early, almost as an aside, in which a woman marries a young man who flees to the forest and turns into a wolf. The woman remarries and has a son. The first husband returns, sees that his wife has slept with another man, calls her a “whore” and attacks her son. He turns back into a wolf, is murdered by the second husband and turns back into a man. When the woman sees his corpse and cries over it, the second husband beats her. Wolf man or full man, these husbands are exactly the same in their abuse of women, attacking their wife or her son to punish and hurt her. Just as in The Werewolf, in an environment in which all things are apparently possible, a woman still cannot escape patriarchal judgement and male violence. </div>
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As in The Werewolf a seasonal change – there a snowfall, here the winter solstice – ushers in the next act in the story. As the narrator says, with lugubrious self-awareness, the solstice is a “hinge” which lets in new narrative possibilities and thins the line between the mortal world and the supernatural world, enabling a time when “things do not fit together as well as they should.” The winter solstice is the night on which to practice dark magic, a portal to the occult. Later on in this creepy story the same image is used again, but even more ominously dishevelled: “the malign door of the solstice still swings upon its hinges” like a gate to the underworld. </div>
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The second part of the story looks at the set-up of the story of Little Red Riding Hood again, just as the tale of Beauty and the Beast is examined twice in the collection. Once again a “strong-minded child” sets off to visit her grandmother. Unlike the hard and wary girl in the previous story, this one is blithe and confident, “quite sure the wild beasts cannot harm her”. Whereas in the previous story, the child’s strength is a product of a tough life in which survival skills have been learnt by necessity, the child in this story has very different roots. Her strength comes from the sense of inner protection provided by happiness and emotional security: “she has been too much loved ever to feel scared.” Her innocence is her arrogance is her shield. Her virginity, she thinks, conveys a psychic protection like a spell, an “invisible pentacle”, “a magic space” which makes her “afraid of nothing.” The forest is “like a pair of jaws” yet such is her sense of being cared for by a benign world that these jaws do not eat her up but hold her protectively like Jonah inside the whale. </div>
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The previous little girl wore an ironic sheepskin even though she was the perpetrator, not the victim. The girl in this story is a victim who thinks she’s a protagonist, an object who thinks she’s an agent. Her delusion is obvious in her red shawl, a brazenly confident colour which is (just to state the subtext clearly) “ominous but brilliant” and likened to blood on snow – an allusion to another story in the collection, The Snow Child, which focuses on a father’s apparent “love” for his daughter, which is expressed through sleazy objectification and rape. A theme throughout the collection is the sick narrative that perpetrators tell themselves (and their victims) to erase their abuse through the perverse blurring of right and wrong, decency and abuse, love and hate, erotics and violation, coercion and choice.</div>
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In many ways The Company of Wolves is a classic portrait of a sociopathic abuser. The girl who is on her way to visit her grandmother meets a man in the woods. He is not a wolf, nor is he a naked man-wolf. He is, instead, ordinarily human, clothed, charming and jovial. He does not look like a monster and his manner is “comic yet flattering.” The girl falls for it immediately and unquestioningly, giving him her basket with its weapon inside it. She also falls for his trick – a wager that he can get to her grandmother’s house first, and if she loses she has to kiss him – because she wants to lose to him and have a kiss. She overlooks the signs of his violence: his rifle, his flashing wet teeth, the dead birds he’s carrying.</div>
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Like all abusive men who get away with it, the man’s first skill is one of impersonation: he is adept at pretending to be good. He tricks his way into the grandmother’s house by pretending to be the granddaughter. He murders her, then tricks the girl into coming in by pretending to be the grandmother. He is not a werewolf at all but simply a man who, he says, “loves the company of wolves”. Like everyone else in the stories, he projects his own foibles onto them and then ‘identifies’ with this delusion to justify himself. Wolves, after all, do not deceive, manipulate, trick, torture or violate for fun. </div>
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There is a horrible murder scene that is redolent or triggering of rape. The man strips naked to attack the elderly woman on the bed. The blatantly sexualised attack is only completed “when he had finished with her” and she is obliterated, utterly objectified and stripped of every human identifier. She not even referred to as “she” – only “the inedible hair” and “the bones”. Like the other human hunters in the collection he keeps a trophy to exult over his kill – the grandmother’s nightcap – and sits “patiently, deceitfully” for his next victim, concealing the “tell-tale stained” sheets, again a grotesque image of a sexual attack. </div>
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As in all patriarchal societies a young woman is considered more attractive than an older woman and while the man can murder and consume an old woman if he chooses to, only “immaculate flesh [really] appeases him”. In a sharply sick twist – so common in this collection and part of its unnerving genius – the young girl on her way is a willing martyr to his abuse. She is that classic of the horror genre, the white-clad virgin sacrifice. Her innocence is no protection, it turns out; her feeling of being within a near-magical psychic shield was pure naivety, evidently. Her emotional wholeness now looks like the arrogance of ignorance. Yet luckily for them both, she is a masochist, infected by the classic women’s fantasy of subduing and changing an abusive man. </div>
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Or is she? Angela Carter skilfully and devastatingly presses hard on the disturbing line between fear and submission, choice and force, humiliation and annihilation, self-sacrifice and self-preservation. There is a full-blown true horror moment when the young woman sees a “tuft of white hair” belonging to her murdered grandmother and realises clearly that “she was in danger of death.” She then gives herself to him apparently “freely” “to save her own life” because she “knows she was nobody’s meat” – overlooking the obvious riposte that if one offers oneself to save one’s own life, it is hardly a free choice. Unlike the wolf-stabbing girl-assassin of the previous story, she knows “the blood she must spill” is her own or she won’t survive. At the heart of this story is the hideous coercion that needs no violence, as the girl already knows what the “tender wolf” is capable of. Like many perpetrators the man himself gloats in his abuse and its horrific parody of lovers’ intimacy, crooning skin-crawlingly, “dear one”, “my pet” and “my darling”.</div>
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The story presents a young woman who rewrites her entrapment and sexual assault as a glorious rite in which she “never flinched”. The now-phlegmatic narrator describes her with pity and irony as a “wise child” who sleeps “sweet and sound” between a wolf’s paws. Her fantasy is to “pick out the lice from his pelt” and eat them “as he will bid her.” Being locked in a room with her grandmother’s murderer becomes an opportunity for sexual self-realisation, apparently, in which victim and perpetrator share the same misogyny and sexist ageism and get off on it – “the old bones under the bed set up a terrible clattering but she did not pay them any heed.” Incidentally, there is an unpleasant misogynist ageism that runs through all of the stories: the stock character of the “old woman” as comically disposable collateral damage, murdered by man, beast or man-beast and then replaced by satisfied young women. The stories are fixated on young, in some cases barely pubescent, women’s self-fulfilment and self-realisation. </div>
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The Company of Wolves is a horror tale about a trapped, abused girl who goes to her fate with a resignation she rewrites as acceptance. “Since her fear did her no good, she ceased to be afraid”; she behaves with the nihilistic bravado of the damned. It is a lingeringly disturbing depiction of female hopelessness in which a victim who serves herself up to an abusive man is somehow brave and her complete abandonment to debasement is a kind of greatness of spirit. </div>
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There is a return to the full-blown theatricality of the opening of the story as the girl’s ‘submission’ plays out, a terrible climaxing high pitch of tragic choral sound and midnight mass-like light. Wolves howl outside the door like a choir in lament and their eyes “shone like a hundred candles” just like, in the other stories, candles surround the biers, coffins and catafalques of dead or undead women. Sex, murder, sacrifice, submission and rape melt into each other in horror with an appropriately hammy soundtrack of howling, creaking hinges and fierce strings; the wolves’ noise is expressed in a rococo laying-on of descriptions as a threnody, a Liebestod (a death-lament), a clamour and a prothalamion. In a brilliant, haunting phrase the winter solstice permits the mingling of all things. Man, beast, predator, rapist, sadist, masochist, murderer, victim, virgin, sacrifice, martyr, consecration, corpse, seduction, violation, abuse, desire are all conflated sordidly together in an ambiguous and disturbing ooze as “the door of the solstice stands wide open; let them all sink through.”</div>
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The final work, Wolf-Alice, is a sorrowful and sweet story about a young woman who has genuinely grown up with wolves, rather than incorrectly claiming some affinity with them as a way to justify personal abusiveness, as the murderer in The Company of Wolves does. Wolf Alice is a young girl who has been raised tenderly by wolves after being abandoned by her mother. Just like the girl in the previous story, her confidence and certainty are the result of having been loved when she was growing up. Her encounter with the world of human values and practices is a lowering one. </div>
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Wolf-Alice celebrates nature’s innocence, earthiness and tenderness. Its central character is simple but not stupid and the story’s narrative tone is one of terrible bathos and sympathy for this human foundling who, not being a wolf herself and not having been socialised around humans, is mute, with no human language of her own. She is described as a “pup”, “lonely” and adorable, making a “bubbling, delicious” sound. Wolves are not enemies to be feared but her “foster kindred” – an adoptive family related to her through love, not blood. Their significance for her is not predatory but maternal and protective, nourishing – they have “suckled” her and when she is apart from them they howl across “an irreparable gulf of absence”, the world “irreparable” hinting at a wholeness that has been permanently broken. </div>
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Wolf-Alice presents a new and liberated female physical standard which is very different from the delicate human martyr-beauties in all the other stories. Wolf Alice’s skin is callused because of her enhanced speed which is “not our pace”, she “trots or gallops” on “long, lean and muscular limbs”, her nose is long and sensitive – a “useful tool” which makes her enviably competent. An embrace of the animal self requires a radical change in psychology and a rejection of the human valuing of sight, female beauty and female appearance; in the animal world it is better to smell interesting than to look pretty. </div>
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Alice’s wolf upbringing enables her to flout the rules of human femininity and the warnings given to women, in particular the standard fairytale admonition that young girls should not venture into the forest alone. In fact the forest is Alice’s domain, the safe space in which to “wander when she can”, where nothing is off limits. She is “wild, impatient of restraint, capricious” – all the things a nice young lady is not supposed to be. She does not exist to react to events but “lengthily investigates” whatever intrigues her senses in the moment. </div>
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Carter reminds us in this closing story, as she has hinted throughout, that it is dangerous to anthropomorphise animals, that they do not mythologise us in turn and that humans and animals are distinct from each other: “her pace is not our pace”, “her nose is sharper…than our eyes”, “she spend her first days amongst us”. Yet Carter also makes a seemingly contradictory case for socialisation and nurture rather than nature: Alice is ‘really’ an animal although she is technically a human. She is not pushed and pulled by masochistic or sadistic human desires but lives in a perpetual present, “without hope” and also without desire. In an inversion of The Tiger’s Bride, in which a tiger husband licks off his bride’s skin to reveal a beautiful animal pelt, Alice’s tragedy is that although she is ‘really’ an animal, to the outside world she is a young woman and will be treated as such. “It is as if the fur she thought she wore had melted into her skin” – a warning that she is about to be disabused through her contact with the human world. </div>
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Humans bring pain, persecution and misery. It was “peasants’ shotguns” that killed her adoptive wolf-mother and humans who “tied her [Alice] up by force”. She is taken in by nuns who poke her with sticks “to rouse her”. It is at the hands of the nuns that she learns bodily shame, hygiene and embarrassment. Her stay is a “mutilation” of her real nature - that is, an unnatural wounding of it. While in the natural world her howls are “a language as authentic as any language of nature”, in the human world her voice is only “a rustle of sound”, a “whisper” that is “obscure”. Literally and socially, Alice has no voice; she is a nobody. In the non-individualistic animal world this would be good and normal. In the human world it makes her subject to the power of others, it ensures her captivity and exploitation. The wolves looked after her because they thought she was an “imperfect wolf”; humans mistreat her because she is an imperfect woman – they are motivated not by protectiveness but “fear”, denial and self-hate because she represents “what we might have been.” Instead of being inspired and changed by the possibilities Alice presents, human society tries to change her to fits its template and, when that fails, pushes her out of sight. </div>
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As in many of the other stories in this collection – The Bloody Chamber, The Courtship of Mr Lyon, the Erl King, Puss in Boots and The Tiger’s Bride – an innocent young woman finds herself isolated in a rich man’s home. Yet unlike the ‘ladies’ in the other stories, who do not realise until it’s too late, Alice knows that “beds [particularly marital beds] are traps”.</div>
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Alice is parcelled off to a Duke’s castle, where she is used as a servant. The castle is a place of exile, an alien territory in which anything can happen, yet in this last tale Carter eschews the sexual chemistry and predictably genre-faithful sado-masochistic emotional pull of previous stories. The Duke is not a love interest, a tormentor, a counterpart or a nemesis. He is strange, and Alice is strange, but they’re strange in different ways which do not impinge upon each other. Alice does not become the lady of the house but instead behaves with a highly refreshing lack of human narcissism and taught femininity, like a stray dog, sleeping in the hearth and using ball gowns as sheets to roll about on. Unlike ladies taught to narcissistically watch themselves in the mirror at all times, she does not recognise her own reflection. Indeed the mirror is, as it is for all women in the human world, an “invisible cage”. </div>
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Meanwhile, just like the horrible supernatural creatures in The Werewolf, the Duke is cast as an ancient Nosferatu figure, undead but alive, jaded, “damned”, arrogant, shrivelled, “meagre” and unhappy. He haunts graveyards like a zombie, goes about only at night like a vampire, casts no reflection like a vampire and eats corpses like a cannibal. Like an animal, his skin is described as a “pelt” and like a werewolf he responds to the full moon as if it compels him – a ray of moonlight is like “an imperative finger” from a “governess”. Like a ghost he makes animals nervous and like any predator humans’ doors are “barred [to him] for miles”.</div>
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Wolf-Alice charts women’s evolution writ small. Left to her own devices in the castle, Alice learns about time through matching her menstrual cycle to the moon’s cycle; from the mirror she becomes self-conscious, individualistic; she becomes the centre of her own narrative and sees herself standing out from nature rather than merging with it. Her expression becomes one of “sombre clarity”, it is “veiled, introspective”. She discovers vanity when she puts on the white dress of a young bride the Duke has devoured and notices that she “shines” in it. To book readers and film watchers she resembles the classic young female martyr of horror films in this dress. Out in the graveyard one night she also resembles a figure from supernatural mythology to the townspeople within the story: they think she is the ghost of the dead bride fulfilling another generic narrative – that of posthumous revenge – against the vampire-zombie-cannibal-werewolf Duke. </div>
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Wolf-Alice turns into a non-carnal, non-romantic story of animal comfort, in which the wolverine tenderness Alice has known enables her to ‘save’ the Duke, who is lying injured in his bed. In an echo of the ending of The Tiger’s Bride, Alice licks the Duke’s face like a dog consoling its master. As she does so, the Duke’s reflection slowly appears in the mirror. After so much high drama, horror and thrills both cheap and chilling, Carter’s masterpiece of fiction closes with a celebration of sensuality, tenderness and warmth which comes from the innocent natural world, far from the perverse eroticism, flashing glamour, gender politics and scheming sexual power-plays of humans. <br />
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<i>If you like this you may also like my essay on Susannah Clapp's biographical account,<a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2012/01/death-of-magical-democracy-and-rise-of.html" target="_blank"> A Card From Angela Carter</a>.</i><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-21207747003771184572016-10-28T11:46:00.002+01:002016-10-28T11:46:31.414+01:00An Untamed State by Roxane Gay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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An Untamed State (2014) seems like a simple novel. The scenes are short, the language neat and supple, the cast and settings leanly described. It tells the story of Mireille Jameson, an American immigration lawyer of Haitian descent, who visits her parents’ Port au Prince mansion for a holiday. She is snatched from her car, kidnapped by a gang and held for nearly a fortnight while her father refuses to pay the ransom. During that fortnight she is gang raped, tortured, starved and tormented in countless ways both physical and psychological. When she is finally released, she must rejoin her family is what is now “the after”, the world of “the living”.<br />
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The descriptions of what Mireille is subjected to are unsparing and steady. While the perpetrators exult in the pain and horror of their own actions, the author does not. The true violence of the novel, a violence matched by its artistic sophistication and psychological depth, collects slowly and holistically around the details <a href="http://www.roxanegay.com/">Roxane Gay</a> gives of Mireille’s life before and afterwards. </div>
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At the beginning of An Untamed State Mireille Jameson is, as she freely says, living out a “fairytale” of triumphantly conventional sexuality, race and class. Married to a handsome, sexy white man, she has taken his surname as her own, is bringing up their son and has nursed his ageing mother through cancer. Mireille’s own mother is a submissive whose chief pleasure and only role is supporting her husband. One generation on, despite her own career Mireille is also a female submissive, a Mrs Mansname devoted to her male partner and male child, unquestioningly caring for her own mother-in-law because that is what a good girl does to help her husband’s family. Mireille worships her father.</div>
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In terms of race Mireille is a black American success story with an adorably on-trend mixed race son. She is the well-educated, high-achieving daughter of immigrants from large families, who both survived painfully hardscrabble existences on the edges of the American working world, marginalised, underestimated and discriminated against. Mireille’s father’s great pride is that he has returned to Haiti to establish a lucrative building firm which makes him a wealthy and powerful man. As an immigration lawyer, Mireille does not serve individual men but goes one further and supports The Man – the capitalist American Dream in all its glory, assisting people of all colours and nations, who “build all their hopes on the promise of living in this country.”</div>
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Mireille and her husband Michael live a charmed existence “drunk on the happiness of too much money” in Miami. Gay has fun describing their painfully self-conscious dinner parties with friends, “some of whom we like and many of whom we hated”, eating food from recipes in Gourmet and Bon Appétit magazines and enjoying “pretentious but interesting conversation.” But even in these early scenes of the novel, the paradise-like “before” bathed in the glow of a Miami sunset, Gay hints at the loneliness of being second-generation in a society where classic, crass American ignorance and American arrogance combine to make Mireille unplaceable, “not from the slums or the countryside”. The Haiti known to America is a place of natural disasters, male violence, political corruption and tragic inequality. Mireille rails against this stereotype, until she is kidnapped by it. </div>
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An Untamed State is excellent on place and on the precarious safety of home. A stable and secure sense of home is perilously achieved and cautiously maintained for Americans and Haitians alike. Mireille and Michael have taken their dual income lifestyle and carefully carved a winners’ tale out of the vastness, variety and rabid competitiveness of contemporary America. They live insulated behind high walls, their yards perpetually watered by sprinklers, their only child cared for by a Latina nanny. Their America is a far cry from that of Michael’s parents’ complacent white rural existence or Mireille’s parents’ early urban struggle. Equally, the family’s trips to Haiti do not constitute the easiest of homecomings. Mireille’s father has attained wealth, not been born to it, and he guards it zealously, with pride and arrogance as well as skill and self-control. On the other side of his own high walls, security gates and long driveway is staggering poverty; Mireille’s pleasure in her parents’ country is a source of disgust to Michael, who cannot forget its inequalities. Michael, for his part, behaves boorishly with his in-laws and patronisingly with poor locals, uncomprehending, unworldly and out of his depth in both scenarios. Michael’s unease at the inequality he sees, which Mireille and her family are in denial about, is vindicated by Mireille’s kidnapping and by the wound-up, wounded fury of the men who abuse her. Despite the men’s own extortion and profligacy and their abusive domination of the impoverished streets and people around them, they are obsessed and chagrined by the visible, exceptional wealth of men like Mireille’s father. </div>
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The novel demonstrates that a person’s idea of home is never wholly safe, being dictated by emotional rather than physical factors. After the kidnapping, Mireille loses her sense of Haiti as being home, not because of the perpetrators’ actions but because of her own father’s callousness. With the death of her love for him comes the death of her love for his house, his city, his country. The culmination of Mireille’s experiences and reactions is externalised and expressed in a powerful compound image: that of an earthquake in Haiti. The body of the land has been “split open” just as Mireille has been and the general populace is “hungry, hungering”, just as Mireille is described as being in the aftermath of the kidnapping. Mireille’s psychological and physical collapse, her family’s emotional collapse and her country’s literal collapse are all conflated into one definitive and catastrophic end of an era and identity, until “I saw no part of myself in the country I once called home.”</div>
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An Untamed State offers reality, not retribution, not natural justice, not a final balancing-out of karma. Survival, recovery and the inane language of ‘moving on’ and ‘making peace’ are exchanged for emotional honesty and graphic psychological, not physical, detail. The second half of the novel tolls with Mireille’s assertions of being dead, chained, leashed or caged, of being imprisoned in an underworld. It examines the time ‘afterwards’ without the irritations of romanticism and with its own dark ironies. It might take exceptional strength to survive what Mireille has, but survival doesn’t feel like any kind of triumph in comparison with what has been taken from her. Despite everything that has happened to her, she still lives in a conventional patriarchy in which she is required to be “calm” and “rational”, not “garish” in her anger; she is still required to behave like a good girl who has family duties and must perform as a wife and mother. Despite everything that has happened to her, in the immediate aftermath Michael’s ‘really nice egalitarian kind of guy’ act takes about three days to crumble and reveal a self-absorbed, self-pitying man who resents having to be selflessly considerate to his raped wife and thinks that he himself is the real victim, to whom something bad has been done.</div>
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I am not a survivor of kidnapping, torture or gang rape – <a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.com/2012/12/emotional-violence-and-social-power.html">this is what I did survive</a> and it was subtler and more perverse than the ordeal Gay describes – but some of the trauma effects that Mireille undergoes are recognisable. There is the physical nausea, the crawling skin, <a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2013/07/from-despair-to-hair-hidden-link.html">the changed appearance</a>, <a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2014/05/patriarchy-we-need-to-talk-about-vulval.html">the feeling of being dirty</a>, the sensation of life splitting into Before and After. There is the sizzling, implacable rage and impotence and confusion. There is the craven fear that dogs you night and day. There is the total and utter soul-scraping horror and humiliation and soul-theft that makes a joke of everything you achieve afterwards. An Untamed State shows how literal descriptions of sexual violation and mental and physical torture cannot get close to demonstrating what it does deep inside, how this kind of abuse destroys something which is so fundamental, so privately held and so necessary to the wholeness and dignity of the soul that its loss is a type of murder. There is an astounding scene just a few pages from the end of An Untamed State which reveals the falseness of recovery and self-reclamation, when a victim is <a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/triggered-on-trauma-survival-and.html">so powerfully triggered</a> that the years of the aftermath are instantly undone: “I remembered everything he did to me. The memories filled my body at once, threatened to spread through me like a malignancy, destroying everything I had done to become closer to alive again.” </div>
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An Untamed State is brilliant at revealing the many layers of patriarchy which oppress women (sometimes subtly, sometimes openly and traumatically) by infiltrating every layer of society. Michael’s early courtship of Mireille involves him intruding frattishly on her personal space, cocky and full of sexual entitlement. Their first sexual encounter is crude, a laddish Hollywood director’s idea of an exciting scene. In his assumption of Mireille’s accessibility to him, Michael is not very different from her kidnappers. Then there is the shocking ease with which Mireille’s father allows her to be kept and tortured for days while he upholds some principle about refusing to capitulate to the kidnappers; his idea of himself is more important to him than the real existence of his daughter as a human being. There is the bullying of doctors who want to force Mireille to be examined after her kidnapping. </div>
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The cocky dude who always gets what he wants, the withholding father whose ego and pride are worth more than his daughter’s safety, the sadistic torturer with a knife, the arrogant doctor with no human empathy, the self-pitying rapist who sees himself as a seducer: they all abuse, control, betray or exploit women. Mireille herself is not exempt from the misogyny of the society in which she has been brought up. In the half-light of the novel’s happyish ending she reveals that she and Michael have used a surrogate to have another child; the casual rental and targeted use of another woman’s body is presented without irony as a good solution for an upwardly mobile couple absorbed in their own suffering.</div>
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An Untamed State is a novel about Haiti which is a novel about everywhere; a novel about inequality and poverty in one place which is about angry men’s violence in all places; a novel about one family which is a novel about every patriarch who ever lived, from the 1st century to the 21st; a novel about one fortnight of male sexual violence which is about every instance of that endemic abuse which happens all day, every day, everywhere in the world, regardless of the wealth or language or religion or colour or class of the perpetrators. It is for this reason that the book is so powerful in its dedication to “women, the world over.”<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-64825995221234612242016-10-28T11:46:00.001+01:002016-10-28T11:46:15.805+01:00Jamaica Inn by Daphne du Maurier<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>Jamaica Inn</i> was written in 1935 but set in the very early 19th century in Cornwall, between Bodmin and Launceston. The novel is at once a tribute to the impressive local landscape and an atavistic psychodrama steeped in murder, paranoia and sexual threat. The most intense action occurs between the closing year’s shortest day – or, more pertinently, its longest night – and the New Year, with the majority of scenes happening in darkness.<br />
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<i>Jamaica Inn</i>’s protagonist Mary Yellan has left her lifelong home, a farm in Helford, following the death of her mother. The landscape of her childhood, where she capably did “the work of a man” after the death of her father when she was six, is presented in softened, heightened terms as a Paradise of “shining waters”, “green hills” and “gentle rain.” Mary feels as though she’s been cast out of Eden and there is a sense of irrevocability and mutual rejection in her departure: “her back turned for ever.” </div>
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It is clear to the reader, although not to the grief-stricken Mary, that the idealisation of Helford is misplaced; she let go of the farm not because of a fated decline that “there was no name for” but because of rising prices, falling stock and sickness among the animals. Nonetheless, she has lost everything: her mother (to whom she was a proxy husband for seventeen years), her home, her work and livelihood, her independence and her social position. </div>
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Despite the bereavement which has brought her to Jamaica Inn, Mary’s inner nature is fundamentally heroic and unafraid. She enjoys a physical prowess which renders her “ alive in every nerve” and is described as “gallant” not just by the author but even her enemies within the novel. Mary carries with her an almost patriarchal pride in her family’s achievements: “the name of Yellan was known and respected in the town.” She says blithely, early on, “I’ve never known anything but this life by the river, and I don’t want to.” Her arrival at the isolated Jamaica Inn, which lies “murky dim in the darkness” and is owned by her Aunt Patience and Patience’s husband Joss Merlyn, is the next stage in her journey from heaven to hell, childhood to adulthood, happy ignorance to tortured knowledge. </div>
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Du Maurier excels at stewing an atmosphere of pagan ritualism, fated Classical tragedy, fairytale-like mystery, mythic inevitability and Hollywood horror. The inn is described with Gothic relish as being steeped in suffering and death. Zombie-like, it is “like a live thing” but has a “cold, dead atmosphere”, it is “a house of the dead” where even the clock ticks “like a dying man who cannot catch his breath”. The house “reeked of evil” and is “rotten, rotten” “like a tomb” where “the very walls…smelt of guilt and deceit”. Outside, the wind shudders “like a man in pain”, the wooden sign looks like a hanging man and creaks “like an animal in pain”. The deathly atmosphere is so strong that it affects even newcomers: Mary sleeps “like a dead thing” on her first night at Jamaica Inn.</div>
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These intimations of pain and death – which are also concrete clues as to what the denizens of the inn have been doing – extend to and are fed by the surrounding moors. While Helford represented physical and emotional comfort, Mary has arrived at a “county of stones…and stunted broom”, “marshland and granite”, where the wind sounds like “a sob and a cry” and arises “from the stones themselves”, as though the very land is tormented and weeping. The landscape works against its inhabitants, with its perilous marshes, blinding fogs and rain that is “lashing, pitiless” rather than gentle, as in Helford. This is “alien” territory for Mary emotionally, morally and sociologically. The wind is described as “a chorus from the dead” and this is both metaphorically and literally true: there are murdered bodies buried on the moor and secrets buried in the locals’ souls, always pushing to come to light. </div>
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It is at Jamaica Inn that Mary learns fear for the first time. Having never thought about how her sex makes her vulnerable, she is warned that it’s “no place for a girl”. Penniless and dependent, she goes from being a respected member of a village community to being an isolated, powerless outcast subject to constant terrorisation by local men. The strongest principle keeping her at the inn is a feeling of protectiveness over her aunt, once she has witnessed Uncle Joss’s brutish behaviour: “Mary would rather lie herself into hell than let her aunt suffer”. </div>
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Mary’s dealings with Uncle Joss are charged with his violence and her fear and loathing, yet edged with a half-acknowledged mutual desire. This ambivalence is expressed through du Maurier’s dazzled description of him. Like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood, who consumes grown women and tempts young girls, he is powerful yet cunning, “lean and hungry”, “a beast that walked by night”. A wolf’s smile and his are said to be “one and the same”. </div>
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Uncle Joss’s volatility is tied to the secrets he is repressing. He is the kingpin of a network of “wreckers” who lure ships off-course using a “false light”, cause them to be smashed against the coastal rocks, murder any survivors and steal the cargo. Joss is clever enough to organise the network and cold-blooded enough to murder with his bare hands, store the bodies and loot at the inn and hold his nerve despite the suspicion of the local squire. After murdering a crony who threatens to expose him, the next day he “behaved like a perfectly sober normal man”. </div>
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The abuses which Mary witnesses do not seem credible “in the cold light of day” and she is cowed by the (correct) certainty that she will not be believed. She learns that if you are a woman without any power, there is no particular link between being virtuous, knowing the truth, bringing it to light, being believed and gaining justice, a realisation which leads to an overwhelming loss of faith in “humanity… God… myself”. She fantasises about the physical freedom she would have as a man, when she would be able to challenge and fight her uncle in open combat, “and then away on a horse….with Aunt Patience riding pillion.” Instead, as a woman, she has “no weapons” and is nothing more than “a petticoat and a shawl.” Jamaica Inn rots away at her, just as it has done to Aunt Patience, and the two women now “shared a secret that must never be spoken.” </div>
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Mary’s loss of religious faith has, in fact, been a while coming. As her mother was dying, Mary prayed for her health, noting bitterly that “for answer came sickness, and poverty, and death”. As a result, she thinks bleakly, “she would offer no prayer to God this Christmas.” The bitterness is compounded by Mary finding herself in an environment which du Maurier repeatedly describes as being abandoned by God, absent of God or ruled either by an archaic force or by the Devil himself. Her final collapse of faith occurs after a shipwreck she witnesses on Christmas Eve, when decent people are indoors celebrating Christ’s birth. The events of that night are not just immoral and illegal but because of their timing have an occult sacrilegious dimension, of mocking and profaning God. </div>
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The repressed truth about Joss and his friends’ activities is tormentingly present yet strenuously denied. “I can’t even admit them to myself,” says Aunt Patience. Mary is warned that her hair “would go grey” if she knew the details. And yet it’s the only thing the locals can talk about. The carriage driver who takes Mary to the inn on the first night says “queer tales” give the Inn a “bad name” and nobody speaks up because “they’re afraid.” The inn reeks of death because it is literally used to store dead bodies, and also because it has soaked up the existential pain of the murderers who frequent it. There’s a locked and barred room downstairs, used for bodies and contraband: the perfect both-literal-and-symbolic du Maurier image of a secret which exists openly. </div>
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Uncle Joss’s crimes cast a shadow on his own soul and he himself casts a shadow on others; his shadow is described as being suffocatingly huge, reaching up to the ceiling or across the floor. Later, du Maurier expands the imagery of shadows to include not just the idea of repressed secrets looming large but also the constant possibility of sexual assault: both the shadows on the inn wall and those on the surrounding moors are described as resembling stretching fingers. Joss is haunted by his crimes and in a drunken bout of self-pity describes the men and women he has killed appearing to him “like live things in the darkness” – once again, like zombies. </div>
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Joss Merlyn is tellingly named, after the mythical Arthurian wizard, yet the spell he casts is of black rather than benign magic. When Mary first encounters him, he pulls her “roughly” inside, jeering at her, running his fingers over her face and threatening her implicitly and explicitly with rape and beating, as he does throughout the novel. Mary is repulsed yet can’t help noticing his “exquisite” hands and the “long dark lashes [that] swept his cheek”. Like all the men in the novel except the local squire, Joss manhandles Mary, twisting her arm behind her back “until she cried out in pain” and warning, “that’s like a foretaste of punishment, and you know what to expect.” She is forced into loathing silence and avoidance through the fear of male violence and the absence of escape, painfully aware that for the first time in her life, she is isolated and unprotected and all it will take for him to kill her is to press her neck “lightly with finger and thumb.” </div>
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Uncle Joss’s abusiveness, and that of his friends, has reduced Mary’s once-vivacious Aunt Patience to a wreck. Joss’s domination is so extreme that there is no space to breathe, move or think when he is present. Aunt Patience and Mary are diminished and caught “like mice in a trap”, “like a bird in a net”. Du Maurier writes expertly about the subtle, long-term effects of domestic abuse. In Aunt Patience we see someone whose inner will and powers of concentration have been destroyed because of fear. She is “like whimpering dog trained into obedience” and later “like a shivering dog tethered to its master”. Patience is so afraid of Joss that she lives in “perpetual high anxiety and alert”, “trained by constant cruelty to implicit obedience”. The novel expertly describes the mental and physical consequences of years of intimidation: the victim is left “trailing like a ghost”, “haggard, desperate”, “nervy, shattered”, “strained, haunted”.</div>
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Male violence against women is not confined to the four walls of the inn but is normalised amongst Uncle Joss’s cronies. Joss tells Mary that she should be grateful he did not rape her the night she arrived or encourage his friends to gang rape her, and that the only reason they haven’t is out of deference to him, because they believe he has brought her to the inn to abuse for himself. When one of his accomplices does in fact attempt to rape Mary during the pivotal event of the novel – the shipwreck on the night between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, which Mary is forced to witness – du Maurier writes brilliantly about the aftermath of a sexual attack. She describes trauma, inner psychological destruction, defilement and dissociation: Mary feels that “the body lying on the bed did not belong to her” and “she had no wish to live.” She is triggered by flashbacks, shrinking back when Aunt Patience leans over her. When she sees the rapist again she cannot bear to look at him, feeling “nausea and disgust”. Later still, she can’t bring herself to describe what he has done, except to say he “attacked” her.</div>
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Uncle Joss and his cronies are described in the language of uncanny transformation and the supernatural. The “people of the moors” are “furtive” and “no more than shadows” as if they have bled out of the darkness itself and are not part of the human race but a separate category of sub-creature: “tramps, vagrants, poachers, thieves”, “shapeless and distorted”, slithering like “dregs” from “every hole and corner”, insubstantial and yet hellishly malign. They shift smuggled goods in the yard in “some weird pattern in a nightmare fantasy” as if hypnotised, moving “in a strange funeral procession” an image which is formed realistically by the deaths the men have brought about. When they torment a simple-minded local man, their “ugly, screaming laughter” resounds like “a tortured thing”. Even the men’s joy is a kind of pain; even when they are mirthful their sin makes itself known. </div>
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Although the action within the novel is intensely compressed, spanning barely a month, it carries behind it the inexorable build-up, not of years, but of epochs. The moors are represented as untouched by Christian morality, which is relatively recent: they are “no godly place”. Rather, they are ruled by a much more ancient principle: “the old gods slept undisturbed” on them. While the activities of the men at the inn infect the land, the land’s “old magic” could be said to have influenced them in the first place. The events in the book are “only a repetition of what had been before, long ago in time”, things which are “best buried deep” and have their origin “in far-off buried and forgotten things.” In the absence of a Christian god, the moors are governed either by an arcane pantheon of ancient deities or, as many of the locals claim, by the Devil himself. The stones ridging the moors resemble pagan altars, while one landmark is described as bursting out of the earth like a devil’s hand. It is as though the malevolent landscape induces men to violence, absorbs the trauma of that violence (and subsequently contains buried “things of evil, rotting”) and then exudes it again, to induce a new generation to commit yet more violence. </div>
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This epic context is in stark contrast to the brightly coloured, modestly-scaled living memory of Helford which Mary has left behind, where the doctor who treated her mother was the same man who delivered her of Mary twenty-three years before. The darkness described repeatedly in the novel is at once literal, moral (describing murder, corruption and death) and emotional (alluding to grief, guilt and depression). The trees, sky, heather, shrubs, hills, water and sky are all separately described as black at various times. </div>
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The novel’s most impressive feat is to take the atmosphere of the uncanny, of midnight terrors and strangely transformed creatures, and concentrate them into a single character who is apparently integrated into the normal day-to-day social fabric of the locality. Francis Davey is the vicar at nearby Altarnun, a “freak of nature” albino with white skin, eyes and hair, who befriends Mary. As with the werewolf Uncle Joss, the shadowy night-creatures who are his cronies and the zombie-like figures of the murdered sailors who haunt them, du Maurier’s descriptions of Francis Davey evoke vampires, spectres and angels; strange pale visitors to whom normal rules of behaviour and appearance do not apply. Davey appears and disappears from the text, nothing more than “two white eyes and a voice in the darkness”, manifesting usually at night and usually on the road, a saviour materialising just when Mary needs him. His “transparent gaze” comes from eyes like “glass”, as if he is a transfigured character in a Hans Christian Andersen story. Like a fairytale trickster he admits multiple times that he “speaks in riddles”. Mary begins to see Davey’s home, which is “like something in an old tale”, in idealised terms. The vicar’s house comes to represent everything she left behind and longs for: “peace and shelter”, “logic and wisdom”. The house is “strangely peaceful”, “peaceful and still”, offering “security and a forgetting of trouble.”</div>
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Contrasting strongly with the earthy, talkative, highly physical characterisation of all the other figures in the novel, Davey seems immaterial. He is described as having been overseas, but his past is not fleshed out. His black coat and hat do not indicate anything about him, his speech is unnatural and he is the one character whom it is difficult for the reader to imagine. His presence leaves no trace on the vicarage house he inhabits – there are no religious pictures on the walls and no papers on the desk. Despite being a vicar, he never mentions God. He repeats “I am the vicar at Altarnun” and talks about himself in the third person, as if to convince himself of the truthfulness of the statement, but also to exult in his power and trust within the community. An altar nun is simply a nun who serves at the altar in a church service; but when linked to Davey it contains connotations of sacrifice and connects him not to the altar of the church but to the altar-like black stones on the moors.</div>
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Francis Davey is literally and symbolically the “false light” of the novel, leading Mary towards destruction. This duplicity is hinted at strongly: du Maurier describes his face as being “a white mask” four times. Even his smile brings images of pain rather than relief and joy, cutting into his face “like a wound”. Mary finds a caricature he has done, of himself preaching at the pulpit as a wolf – both a fairytale character and a predator, just like her uncle – with his parishioners drawn as sheep, obedient and easily deceived. Mary feels the picture to be not just cruel, arrogant and hypocritical but “blasphemous”, against God, in keeping with all the covert activities in the novel. It is then that she realises that Davey is one of ‘them’, the “people of the moors”, and not any kind of friend.</div>
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One of the ironies of the novel, and part of its critique of male abuse, is that despite his intellectual pretensions, Francis Davey is no less a violent, sexually harassing, abusive man than Joss Merlyn and the wreckers. He repeatedly touches Mary, putting his hand on her knee and his arm around her shoulders, urging her to change out of her wet clothes and sit naked under a blanket. His ‘friendliness’ is sexualised and patronising; he reminds Mary that he has heard confession many times and knows the “dreams of women” better than she does. Indeed, his abuse is all the more chilling because it is comes with an overlay of whispering intimacy and superiority, leaving her feeling “like a fool” and “just another woman who [has] cheapened herself.” He violently abducts Mary, gagging and tying her exactly as Joss’s wreckers did. Like a true sadist, he tells her that “your revolt and your disgust please me” and he is “pleased to have touched you on the raw”. Just like the wreckers, Davey threatens to “spoil” her “youth and beauty” and murder her, leaving her “face down.” That is not an empty threat, and Davey’s violence comes with its own traitorous, slinking sadism: he murders alone, by creeping up on people and stabbing them in the back. </div>
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Du Maurier is highly skilled at blurring the line between realism and the ghastly fantastic and leaving open the possibility that Davey is indeed some creature who has existed since prehistory and embodies an ancient dynamic of sadism and sacrifice. He claims, like a vampire or a ghost, to “live in the past…in the beginning of time [when] old gods walked the hills”, describing himself as “a freak in time”. He says he has “looked into the past” and “understand[s] something of the night” as though he has lived for a hundred years and either doesn’t sleep or sleeps during the day and walks at night. He describes himself as “an outcast” who is excluded by, exempt from and indeed superior to everyday morality and religious “dogma”. In dismissing Jesus as “a mere puppet thing” he demonstrates his own sense of being both above God and older than the Common Era. He wishes to express a “grudge against the age” by returning to “an old pagan barbarism” so, spouting nonsense about the Druids, he abducts Mary and makes for the moors, where the harsh conditions quickly make his fantasies look ridiculous. His death – arms outflung on one of the altar-stones – exposes his delusion. In his mind, he has been martyred; in reality he is being shot for murder and abduction.</div>
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A final theme running through<i> Jamaica Inn</i> is one of love and sexual desire, which provoke feelings in Mary which are strong and unashamed, yet conflicted. She is painfully aware of the close similarities between Jem Merlyn, the horse-thief she desires, and his brother, her Uncle Joss, the man she hates, and she rues “the weakness of her flesh”. Jem is a thinner, younger, stronger, healthier version of Joss; both are demonstrative, earthy, blunt and talkative. Mary’s desire for and aversion against both men occasionally blur: when she first meets Jem he reminds her of Uncle Joss “throughout the conversation”; when she looks at her uncle the curve of his mouth is “painfully familiar”. Du Maurier is brilliant on the humiliating irrationality of physical desire, where incriminating impulses are “never acknowledged to the sturdy day.”</div>
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For Mary, love is more complicated than sexual desire and comes with greater risks. It renders women “fallen and degraded”, “weakened in mind and body”. It upsets her equilibrium, “devastates reason” and turns a woman into a “babbling child” whose “privacy of mind” is undermined. Mary fears the loss of self-mastery that comes with love. Being in love is not described in joyful terms but those of “pain”, “anguish”, “sickness”, of threat to her strong sense of self. She is perturbed by liking Joss Merlyn by instinct, despite her opinion of him: “He stood for everything she feared and hated and despised; but she knew she could love him.” She judges herself harshly, describing herself in the same terms that she has derisively used to describe Aunt Patience’s submissiveness with Joss: “She ranged herself on his side, she defended him…without reason and against her sane judgement.” </div>
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A psychoanalytic reading of the novel might conclude that Mary has linked female love with women’s destruction after witnessing her own mother’s death. Her mother “belonged in body and mind” to her father and had no second husband in the 17 years after his death. Mary’s dying mother links her own demise explicitly to her husband’s death, saying that the doctor is being called “seventeen years too late.” Mary carries from this experience the belief that love is so strong it commits the women in her family for life, but leads to their actual or psychological death; she sees this too in the case of her mother’s sister, Aunt Patience. She vows that “I don’t want to love like a woman or feel like a woman” because women’s loving intensity and good faith lead to “pain…suffering…misery.” </div>
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Throughout the novel, Mary rages at the way women are patronised, exploited, objectified and abused by men. But she also has an aversion to womanhood itself, describing women as “frail things made of straw”. Love is a rigged game in which masochistic women demean themselves to serve abusive men. Mary loathes what Uncle Joss has done to Aunt Patience, but there is also a great deal of distaste in the way Aunt Patience is viewed by Mary. Patience is “useless” in a crisis, acting like a “dummy”, compared repeatedly either with dogs or children and described as ineffective, repetitive, clingy and pathetic. Even though the perpetrators of all the abuse in the book are men, not women, Mary still manages to blame the victim, wondering, “Why were women such fools, so short-sighted and unwise?” </div>
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Even the squire’s wife, a minor character who aids Mary with the gallant words, “I am willing to help you in any way you think best”, has her talk described as “prattle” three times. In her one other appearance in the novel the woman is the butt of a man’s joke, being duped by Jem into re-buying a horse he has stolen from her, her confidence made to look foolish by the trick he plays on her.</div>
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A helpful woman character is mocked, while a man’s open misogyny is not just excused but rewarded. Sexy Jem Merlyn says that women “make for trouble and confusion”, that “senseless or conscious, women are pretty much the same” and “there’s two things women ought to do by instinct, and cooking’s one of ‘em.” He is surprised, because he’s never thought about it, when Mary asks him to consider how much his mother must have suffered as the daughter, wife and mother of abusive men. Jem is playful, beautiful and wild and so, like all women who make excuses for men’s hatred of them, Mary “had not the heart to be angry with him.” When she visits his hovel for the first time, she immediately puts on an apron, scrubs the place, finds a tablecloth, makes lunch and serves it to him. </div>
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Once the dramatic events of the book are exhausted, Mary Yellan is still trapped within a patriarchal society. The (male) authorities hustle her away with nice-talking, paternalistic kindness, as if she is “a nuisance and a delay, like every woman and every child after a tragedy.” If she were man, even if penniless she would be free to “go on a ship somewhere” or walk off to find her fortune, with a “heart and soul at liberty.” As a woman, she is once again in need of protection.</div>
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In the final lines of the novel Mary grapples with a dilemma: to return to Helford or go off with Jem. In keeping with the post-lapsarian theme of the book, a return to the innocence and security of the past is impossible. Yet so is going with Jem as an equal. “If you were a man I’d ask you to come with me,” he says in his typically direct way. But she is “only a woman” – and his teasing of Mary is ‘only’ a ‘playful’ version of Joss’s tormenting of Aunt Patience. </div>
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Mary joins Jem, in a last-minute happy ending, with a fatalistic and martyr-like pledging of her entire self which reminds the reader chillingly of Aunt Patience’s complete possession by Uncle Joss: “I want to …I must; because now and for ever more this is where I belong to be.” They ride off together, turning their backs against the violence of Jaimaica Inn and Jem’s childhood. One wonders if they have been liberated from the past or if the locals’ repeated assertion that “there’s never been a Merlyn yet that came to any good” will be vindicated and the family’s and region’s dark history will repeat itself yet again. <br />
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<i>This is a much extended version of my essay for the British Library's Discovering Literature: 20th Century archive. <a href="https://www.bl.uk/20th-century-literature/articles/an-introduction-to-jamaica-inn" target="_blank">View the original here.</a></i><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-6854306371751470072016-10-28T11:46:00.000+01:002016-10-28T11:45:59.975+01:00Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>Commissioned by the British Library for their Discovering Literature archive of commentaries on 20th Century literature in English. <a href="https://www.bl.uk/20th-century-literature/articles/an-introduction-to-midnights-children" target="_blank">View the original here.</a></i></div>
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Midnight’s Children </i>(1981) is a faux autobiography in which personal farce and political realism fuse, only to disintegrate into contingency and absurdity. Its narrator, Saleem Sinai, elides the story of his own childhood with that of India itself, having been born at midnight on the day of India’s independence from British colonisation. Saleem asserts, “To understand just one life, you have to swallow the world”, and this elastic novel twangs enjoyably in all directions to encompass its narrator and his relatives as well as the nation and its inhabitants. The rococo approach to narrative is mimicked in the physical form of the narrator himself. There is no grotesquery with which Rushdie doesn’t endow Saleem: he has bulbous temples, a bald spot, an enormous nose and a bit of his finger is missing. His self-mythologisation, as he admits, can easily be read as the revenge fantasy of a nobody, particularly when Saleem describes being at a school dance where all the popular boys, including one with the surname Rushdie, get the best dance partners.<br />
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The novel makes great sport with the Orientalist conception of India as being a “dream”, a “myth”, a “mass fantasy” in which Indians’ experiences are nothing more than exotic diversions like those cooked up by Scheherazade. Rushdie refers to <i>The Arabian Nights</i> throughout the novel; despite its Western cultural status as a go-to for stereotypes about the Middle East, he reminds us at the same time that telling stories is a way of ensuring our own survival.</div>
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Rushdie’s notion of India as a “collective fiction” of “myths fantasies nightmares” has political as well as artistic meaning. In the novel, Independence and Partition push a vast and varied human and geographical territory into new identities and self-definitions. “Beyond the door, history calls,” Saleem reminds himself, although his (and everyone’s) version of history is skewed by emotion and subjectivity. Saleem frequently breaks off to rebuke himself for an error in his own chronology, lamenting, “although I have racked my brains, my memory refuses, stubbornly, to alter the sequence of events.” Thus the linear structure of <i>Midnight’s Children</i> suffers amusing hitches and hiccups as the narrator encounters the impossibility of creating a definitive version of the past. </div>
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Despite his deficiencies as a historian, Saleem is proudly a narrator from the TV and cinema age, offering soap opera style hints of what’s to come. He has mastered the most sensational and satisfactory storytelling arts: the “generalised macrocosmic” mode incorporating “matter of fact descriptions of the outré and bizarre, and their reverse, namely heightened, stylized versions of the everyday.” His family’s fortunes are described using the set pieces, broad slapstick, swift action and overblown emotions of the mainstream Indian cinema hit. Rushdie makes this approach explicit, likening a novelist’s take on history to the experience of sitting far enough back at the cinema for the image onscreen to be clearest: “the further you get from the past, the more concrete and plausible it seems.” In one of the novel’s countless and obvious ironies, Saleem’s own uncle is a screenwriter determined to restore emotional subtlety and socialist realism to the Indian screen.</div>
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At its most serious, <i>Midnight’s Children</i> is a study of the aftermath of colonialism as Saleem’s family move from the pre-Partition Kashmiri valley to Amritsar, Agra, Delhi, Bombay, Pakistan and back. The violence and callousness of colonial exploitation is made clear in a description of 1947 as being the year a “soldier’s knife…cut a subcontinent in three.” The suffering which remains is reflected in the repeated image of a desperately reaching hand. The hand appears in the bloodlike betel juice spat out by men on the street, the charred detritus of an arson attack by a mafia-style local political group and in “the handlike peninsula” of India’s pre-colonial geography. Meanwhile, subtler effects like the internalisation of colonial racism are reflected in the Indian characters’ dislike of darker skin, the symbolic increase in vitiligo (the skin disease which leaches pigment from the skin and turns it white) after Independence and the requirement that new Indian occupants of a former coloniser’s estate must live surrounded by the interloper’s old possessions. </div>
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At the same time – and I wonder if this is a deliberate or an unconscious reflection of internalised colonisation – the rambunctious tone and picaresque structure of Midnight’s Children strongly recall the English canonical novelists Sterne and Richardson. There is also a classic Victorian Gothic twist in Rushdie’s tale: Saleem is not really telling the story of his own family. He and another baby, born at the same time in the same hospital, were switched at birth. The real son of Saleem’s parents is condemned to a life of destitution and desperation. Named after a destructive Hindu god, this other son, the real one, is an outcast. Saleem’s shadow self – conscienceless, desperate and callous – is the blunt opposing principle to the narrator’s sensitivity and circumlocutions and the thing he fears most. Despite their Dickensian birth accident (or birth experiment), both boys represent true, common versions of India. They also highlight a further anxiety within the novel: the Freudian patriarchal terror that a boy presented to a man as his son is not really his own.</div>
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<i>Midnight’s Children</i> blends its European, Middle Eastern and South Asian roots, its cinematic and literary inspirations, into a potent chutney – to use another of the novel’s ongoing images. As in the best of chutneys, you can’t tell what exactly you’re putting in your mouth. Eliding Eastern conjuring and storytelling traditions with the Victorian fascination for occult communication with the spirit world, Saleem makes an outrageous suggestion halfway through the novel. He claims that all the Indian children who were born at midnight on the day of Independence were imbued with magical gifts. In an obvious (and acknowledged) nod to the novelist’s own art, Saleem’s gift is to get into other people’s minds and see the world through their eyes. </div>
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The other children’s gifts are familiar to any reader of folk tales the world over: children who can enter a mirror and emerge through a mirror in any other place; who have the power of healing, prophecy or time travel; who can change appearance at will, and so on. </div>
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These magical traits have been described universally in fairytales across the globe, but there is a hard social realism underneath Saleem’s delusion. The “children of midnight” come from all corners of India and many are likely to slip down between the cracks in society unless they can, as if magically, use their gifts to transform their fortunes. The children encapsulate both the modern potential of the country and its timeless imaginative possibilities. Indeed, well away from the plotline of the magical children, many characters meet their deaths in ludicrous ways which seem fantastical but are presented as straight, though ignoble, fact. Assassins are mauled by stray dogs; murder victims use their whistling skills to disconcert their assailants; men are bitten in the neck by camels or in the foot by snakes; they choke on the pips of an orange, get run over on their way to a political protest or fall into the sea clutching a giant concrete tetrapod. Personal egotism meets hubris while political intensity is defused by the ridiculous. Using the recurring image of a game of Snakes and Ladders, people rise and fall, often randomly.</div>
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Despite all this alacrity, brilliance and sweeping momentum, the novel’s attitude to its women characters is depressingly standard. The women are virtually all cheats or prudes (or, somehow, both), gossips, shrews, nags, temptresses, superstitious, fanatics, stubborn, irrational and petty. There’s stupidly giggling, flirty cousin Zohra, Vanita the cheating wife of a street entertainer, Mary the nanny who is a “little woman…tiny…tearful… plump.” Saleem’s three female neighbours are “tiny flustery hapless”, “a cipher” and “promiscuous”. A family friend’s female relatives are “giant… outsize… their behinds overflowing”, while, in passing, the narrator spots a “fat Englishwoman” and “a fisherwoman whose sari was as tight as her morals were loose.” Women’s immorality – defined narrowly as whether they are faithful or not – is unambiguously punished, without any of the scepticism and understanding which feature everywhere else in the novel. Yet the narrator’s father, in this partly autobiographical novel, sexually harasses his secretaries for decades and is still depicted by the novelist with fullness, pathos and humanity. His victims flee by “flouncing down our drive” as if they are ridiculous. The one female character who is written about with warmth, although she is still nothing more than a stereotype, is Padma, the bossy housekeeper whom the narrator is reading his pages to as he writes them. Padma is the narrator’s devoted servant and as her master, Saleem makes full use of her cooking, housekeeping and sexual labour: “I recount, she is recounted to; she ministers and I accept her ministrations.”</div>
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<i>Midnight’s Children</i>’s exhaustive and exhausting agglomeration of recollections large and small, its post-modern self-awareness and thinly veiled ironies scream untrustworthiness. The apparent congruence between narrator and nation, history and the representation of history, is not to be taken at face value: “As a people, we are obsessed with correspondences. Similarities between this and that, between apparently unconnected things, make us clap our hands delightedly when we find them out. It is a sort of national longing for form – or perhaps simply an expression of our deep belief that forms lie hidden within reality…” </div>
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Thus warned, the reader opens <i>Midnight’s Children</i> to embark upon an all-enveloping joyride through the story of a country, the fortunes of a family and the ego of an infuriating but always entertaining narrator.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-50877054338027828622016-10-27T16:14:00.000+01:002016-11-05T16:14:51.964+00:00Shouting down the facts and militarising against refugees<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>The following essay was published in two parts by Wasafiri Journal of International Literature this year. </i><br />
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I began doing outreach work with refugees and asylum
seekers three and a half years ago, before what we now refer to as the refugee
crisis, the greatest humanitarian emergency of the current era. Then, the women
and men I worked with were from Uganda, Cameroon, the Congo, Rwanda, Malawi and
many other central and southern African countries, as well as a significant
minority who came from Iran, Iraq and Libya. We worked together in the unheated
training room of an extremely effective but woefully underfunded major charity
whose last two annual reports had warned of a bleak future despite the
organisation’s necessary and specialised work.</div>
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The government, then the Tory-Lib Dem coalition, had
begun implementing severe economic cuts which seemed to punish those who were
already in need. They slashed – and continue to slash – funding to vital
services which helped those requiring housing, early years family support,
legal representation, rape crisis provision, disability assistance, protection
from domestic violence, trauma counselling, support after being trafficked and
prostituted, access to training, education and employment. It constituted a
wholesale attack on the third sector, encompassing social services and
innumerable charities, including many which were a vital lifeline for asylum
seekers and a flimsy barrier against outright destitution. Those protections
are no longer there and everyone in need, not just asylum seekers, is feeling
the effects. Since the Conservatives’ victory in the 2015 elections, both the
policies and the rhetoric have become even more inhumane and aggressive.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The charity I worked with, and others I’ve visited
since, had a unique atmosphere of acceptance and industry. They were places
where asylum seekers were believed and helped with a practical and
unquestioning immediacy. It’s a very different experience from the brutal Home
Office asylum system of denial, detention, disbelief and obfuscation, one which
combines physical incarceration and control with the psychological
terrorisation: asylum seekers have regular scheduled meetings with the Home
Office. The system is designed to wear people down so that they give up. I have
met asylum seekers who had been highly regarded political activists (or came
from politically active families) who bore the marks of torture on their
bodies, who were told they were lying. I have met asylum seekers fleeing
utterly endemic male sexual violence, with perpetrators being from the
government, rebels, militias and peacekeeping forces alike, who were told they
were lying. I have met asylum seekers who were forced to strip to be searched or
use the toilet with two guards standing on either side of them. I met a
traumatised woman from Eritrea who was told by a detention centre nurse, ‘If
you don’t stop crying and carrying on, I’m going to tell them you’re mental,
and we’re going to lock you up in a mental hospital.’ The sexual and other
abuse of women detained at Yarls Wood is now notorious. Cases like these
demonstrate the sick cruelty of those in authority who will, for their own
sadistic pleasure, abuse those who are clearly in extreme distress. Sadly,
these cases and this behaviour are the norm, not the exception. They are
actively supported by many governments’ funding, policies and rhetoric.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Recently, there has been an international increase in
state-sponsored sadism towards those with nothing, who are fleeing everything
and willing to risk everything for survival. The collateral damage is these millions
of refugees who have witnessed the destruction of stable civil society,
political accountability, urban and rural infrastructure including electricity
and water lines, access to quality education, healthcare and employment. They
have lived with surveillance, detention, torture, sexual violence. They have
recognised that there is no future for themselves or their children, and so
they have packed one bag and left. Instead of culpability, humanity and welcome
they are encountering hostility, militarisation, suspicion and punishment. While
some states, like Germany, have taken in asylum seekers with no fuss, others (especially
England) have made their anti-asylum rhetoric ever louder and more xenophobic,
inflaming panic about ‘marauders’ and ‘hordes’ of incomers, talking about
putting up security walls and conflating asylum issues with other prejudices
against migrants, foreign students, Islam and, ultimately, against the whole
idea of multiculturalism. States including Greece and Cyprus have militarised
against refugees, using army personnel, tear gas, incarceration in sports
stadiums in the burning sun and other inhumane and abusive tactics. Hungary has
acted shamelessly, like a racist nightclub bouncer protecting the rest of
Europe, closing down its main rail stations and forcibly diverting trains to
refugee camps. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standarddocument">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standarddocument">
To seek asylum is to ask for sanctuary, a haven, a
safe place. It’s only the very first stage in regularising one’s existence and
creating a new life in a different place. A refrain which I keep hearing
amongst the asylum seekers I work with is, ‘I came to you for help and you
treat me like a criminal.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
In the last two years, as the humanitarian refugee
crisis has grown, I have been struck by the perversity of the ‘debate’ on
asylum seekers. Rationality has lost out to fear of difference and fear of
change. Mainstream political and media messages are out of step with both the
facts about asylum and refuge and with asylum seekers’ lived reality.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Seeking asylum is a human right enshrined in
international law, and the reasons for doing so include war, the breakdown of
society, political persecution and torture. Currently, extreme poverty is not a
grounds for seeking asylum, although I think it should be made one. Many people
in the global south are also fleeing the effects of climate change, whose
catastrophic and wide-ranging effects have decimated animal ecosystems, crop
growth, waterways and harvests and made rearing animals or planting enough
crops to generate a liveable income or ensure a stable existence impossible. The
land is now simply too hot or dry, too wet or too flooded, or too unpredictable,
for anyone to survive. That too is not yet classed as a good reason to become a
refugee. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standarddocument">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standarddocument">
Sometimes I think the accepted reasons for asylum are
only those which an elite westerner can imagine happening to themselves –
military action, civil war, political persecution. If climate change is
happening to ‘foreign’, different or other people, of another colour, speaking
another language, possibly of another religion, in another country, it’s as
though it is not real, not serious and not imaginable. The same goes for
extreme poverty. Westerners can’t imagine what it’s like not to be able to feed
your children, have water or electricity or provide your family with a roof
that doesn’t leak or a school room that has blackboards, books and chairs. They
negatively class people fleeing such conditions as ‘economic migrants’ as if
these people are being greedy, when of course the reality is that nobody takes
their children, their savings and one bag and risks death, drowning and
detention unless they’re desperate. In a cruel underlying irony, many of the
conflicts that asylum seekers are fleeing in southern Africa and the Middle
East are due to instability, illegitimate governments, corruption, poverty and
dictatorships which were a direct result of colonial (especially English and
French) exploitation and meddling a century ago in the wake of the fall of the
Ottoman empire. The chickens are coming home to roost and geopolitical karma is
having its way; refugees are the collateral damage. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standarddocument">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standarddocument">
The daily existence of the asylum seekers I do
outreach work with is a thousand miles away – a telling phrase – from the
narratives so commonly peddled in the more conservative quarters of the media.
While some had certainly fled war zones, many had abandoned their home
countries decades after conflict. They had experienced the long aftermath of
war and witnessed the emergence of fragile states ruled either by dictators
propped up by corrupt bureaucracies and untrustworthy police and army
hierarchies, or by armed militia, vigilante gangs, local thugs who have assumed
power in the wake of a total breakdown of law and order. They had been
tortured, raped (and I consider rape to be a kind of torture, including in
peacetime) and threatened, and had witnessed such things being done to their
own relatives.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standarddocument">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standarddocument">
In seeking asylum, legally they sought only to be
recognised as refugees. At a human level, however, they sought protection,
safety and the basic tools to restart life with dignity. That’s all. Asylum is,
moreover, a completely distinct issue from migration, where people move –
rightly and understandably – for work, for education, to strengthen family ties
and to improve their lives. White Westerners do this too, all the time, but
when they do so they call it being an expat or an international. A little over
a century ago, they did it all over the world, shamelessly, proudly, exploitatively,
arrogantly, with a view to taking whatever they could from it in terms of money
and labour and land and profits and items to trade; and we call that
colonialism. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standarddocument">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standarddocument">
Europe has failed to do its most basic humanitarian
duty in accepting asylum seekers and housing them in places that are safe, dignified
and fit for human beings and do not resemble punitive facilities for convicted
criminals. In 2014, the UK government received around 30,000 asylum
applications, of which it accepted less than half. More than 85% of refugees
have been displaced to developing countries. Even given the current refugee
crisis, with people escaping from countries including Syria, sub-Saharan
Africa, Afghanistan, Somalia and Eritrea, the overall number of individuals coming
to Europe is less than 0.5% of the EU’s total population. These are just a few
of the facts, all available on the UNHCR web site and the sites of countless
charities like Asylum Aid and the Refugee Council. But nobody seems to care
about the facts of asylum and refuge when the hateful, fearful rhetoric is so loud
that it drowns out everything, including basic decency.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standarddocument">
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-54329926349984936072016-10-26T19:01:00.000+01:002016-11-15T19:02:57.840+00:00On Europe, insularity and the UK's identity crisis<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>This is an extended version of an article written for the British Council....before Brexit.</i><br />
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I’m currently away from home. Every morning I log on and read the news headlines, opinion pieces and arts pages in the British papers. From a distance, the UK looks like a tiny little island riven with inequality and lack of opportunity and tormented by suffering, poverty and precarity. On the international or pan-European rankings for social mobility, gender equality, quality of life, political representativeness of the population and a host of other social and political indices it comes up shockingly low.<br />
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It is human nature that people who are suffering look for someone to blame, a scapegoat for their pain – preferably a stranger who cannot answer back. The current government, the tabloid media and noisy attention-grabbing outliers like UKIP have taken that urge and focused it, as ever, on whoever is ‘other’, foreign, alien, different. They have managed to conflate unrelated factors to produce a false image of threat and imminent crisis, a phantom danger looming from outside in, making the leap from the 9/11 and 7/7 terror attacks to encouraging Islamophobic ignorance to threatening that Al-Qaeda, ISIS and Daesh are just this moment planning on coming to England to radicalise everyone, along with the millions of refugees who are actually fleeing them and wanting to leech off the state with their nasty greedy foreign ways, along with unscrupulous economic immigrants from beyond and within the EU all coming to steal English jobs and dare to be everything from doctors to waitresses to students to parents, which is why there aren’t enough schools, jobs, homes and hospital beds, because the foreigners have taken them and nasty faraway ‘Brussels’ (the stand-in word for the EU) has said it’s okay, led by mean Ms Merkel who secretly runs the whole show for some evil Germanic reason of her own.</div>
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It’s a lie. A toxic, widespread, all-encompassing, all-connecting conspiracy theory that has obscured the facts and poisoned the debate as we approach the referendum like a runaway train heading towards a brick wall. I don’t like getting party political – after all, yuppie New Labour were just as craven in their courting of the rich and famous as any Tory and Jeremy Corbyn is such a male-cronyist bro that he deserves honorary Bullingdon membership. But the present government has a lot to answer for and the present opposition have failed in countering the rhetoric with the facts. Under Cameron’s government, resources have been moved away from education, healthcare, housing and essential social services, kicking those who were already down, robbing at least two generations of a decent future, punishing the poor and disadvantaged, putting the abused at risk and hobbling anyone who isn’t privileged and financially well-supported. It is the same government that has granted asylum to shockingly low numbers of refugees during the biggest humanitarian crisis since the second world war, while allowing the false idea that millions are on their way to the UK to destroy society to flourish. </div>
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It’s as though Britain has faced and failed a challenge to its identity which has played out over recent decades. Following its century-odd of benefitting from its colonial exploitation of 84% of the world, including carving up the Middle East after the fall of the Ottoman Empire, it was painfully made to see the arrogance, greed and racism of its ways. Then came the slowly dawning realisation that England was no longer a great Imperial power and that people everywhere speak English now not because of England but because of America; and that England itself is not important in the political scheme of things despite its cultural prestige which includes Harry Potter, Downton Abbey, Dr Who, Sherlock and the BBC and despite its desperation to pal up with George W Bush and enjoy a random killing spree in Iraq which resulted in the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Iraqi civilians and dozens of British soldiers. And despite its past riches including Shakespeare, Milton, King Arthur, the Bloomsbury set, medieval architecture, the plague, The Tudors, Oxbridge, the Elizabethans, The Victorians and all the rest of it. And despite Cool Britannia which Tony Blair so loved. Because the world is a large and varied place, there are more than 7 billion people on Earth, times move on, colonialism wasn’t a great adventure for the colonised and contemporary India, China, Latin America and the protests and demonstrations, civil wars, fragile states, terrorist threats, breakdown in civic life, forced conscription, collapse of law and order and unliveable consequences of climate change in Sudan, Somalia, Eritrea, Mali, Afghanistan, Syria, Libya, Egypt, Yemen and elsewhere just seem more interesting and important at the moment. </div>
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Britain has had to accept that despite its past wealth and power, and despite ongoing cultural prestige, it is no longer a major political player it used to be. Following that, it had a choice. </div>
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One: humbly accept its change in status, recognise that it’s part of a world community and become an involved member of that community, willing to learn and make friendships across nationalities and languages and surface differences, taking a seat at the table in EU summits, contributing wholly and equally as one of a number of participants, being guided by a vision of what is best and fairest for those most in need, gaining in some instances, conceding in others, taking a humanitarian, open, internationalist and collective approach rather than a competitive one. </div>
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Two: throw all the toys out of the pram, keep a vision of white male aristocratic Englishness front and centre (because it was chaps like that who once led Britain to colonial greatness, oh happy days), close the doors against foreigners, close the shutters against dissenting voices, pull up the ladder, pull up the drawbridge, go deep inside and hunker in the aristo-bunker against outsiders, heathens, invaders, meddling foreign dignitaries, homegrown rebels and dirty diseased grasping peasants. Because if you can’t rule the sandpit you don’t want to play.</div>
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It made the wrong choice. Now it looks as though Britain will no longer be a European nation but instead an unimportant, unhappy, unhelpful island floating on the north-west edge of the continent. Britain gains nothing from shrinking away from the rest of the world except the likelihood of shrivelling away, eating itself up with inequality and deprivation, starved of the enriching influence of the wider world and the interest and variety it brings, hypnotised by visions from the past. It will develop a worldwide reputation, not of strength and sovereignty, but of xenophobia, jingoism and hostility to those who are in need of sanctuary. It is already gaining that reputation. </div>
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One could argue that Cameron was compelled to hold a referendum into EU membership following pressure from a significant minority of MPs in his own party. Or one could say that the referendum came out of nowhere, cooked up to derail political, activist and media critics of the government’s attitude to refugees and immigrants alike by stirring up the far louder invective of all those Britons who are full of rage, uncertainty and frustration and are looking to pin it on some mythical threat, and the whole thing has now got out of hand. One could add that even if Cameron was challenged on Europe by some of his own ministers, as Prime Minister his role is to handle such challenges within the party and show firm leadership without panicking and throwing the country’s future over to the public on a whim. </div>
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As I said to my mother, “It’s as though David Cameron randomly lobbed a parcel of shit into the middle of his own dinner party and now he’s got to clean it up, only to find that it’s gone everywhere. Now he’s having to get every single one of his high-profile friends from bankers to artists to business leaders to go on the record saying what a disaster it’s going to be if we leave.”</div>
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It’s true that the EU is bureaucratic, that some decisions satisfy the biggest power players and (no doubt) various vested interests. That is true of every single major institution and organisation in the world. That’s also what it means to be part of a world community: you don't always get your way, but you do always get to have your say. The oft-repeated complaint that 'Brussels makes all the decisions' is misleading: yes, EU meetings are held in Brussels... and the UK is supposed to play its part, show up and contribute at those meetings as a member of the EU. That's what being in a community means. You have a place at the table and you can say what you need to, in front of everyone else, and they listen to you respectfully and you listen to them respectfully, because you are pulling together with a common purpose which is bigger than your individual desires. Political decisions can be made with a long view, a wide lens and a collective vision; individual states’ leaders are not compelled to make the sudden wild promises or baseless claims that emerge when they’re tied into their own short election cycles and have to campaign amongst an indecisive public for votes. Collective EU membership overrides the pettiness of national process politics. </div>
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This referendum should never have come about and the question of leaving the EU should never have arisen. It signals something dangerous and depressing: England's increasing conservatism, inequality, isolationism, cynicism about multiculturalism and unwillingness to be part of any world community. It's as if, having rightfully been turfed off its colonial victory track and then its warpath, England is now sulking. </div>
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But you can’t stand by and let a great vision die. You have to fight for it, or else those who are the most angry, who can shout the loudest and perform the pernicious psychological trick of tapping into the worst people’s worst fears will win. </div>
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To throw away EU membership is to squander an opportunity to be a part of the wider world of varied languages, co-operation, cultural exchange, mutual opportunity, recognition of common humanity, symbolic sorority and fraternity. Leaving the EU sends a strong message that "we" are better than everyone else and are exempt from the challenges and inspirations of diversity, collaboration and change. Instead of doing to right thing by stepping out, standing alongside our neighbours, acknowledging our responsibilities in a troubled world and making things better by offering sanctuary and humanitarian assistance, we are slamming the door shut, blocking our ears and shouting insults to drown out the cries for help. Leaving the EU will not turn Britain into a strong fortress but into a decrepit prison whose inhabitants will first turn on each other and then waste away.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-41651323802586574912014-12-31T00:30:00.002+00:002015-12-21T13:01:40.985+00:00On sex, race, migration and asylum<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This long interview was initially granted to Asian Culture Vulture magazine and pegged to my book, <i><a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2015/01/asylum-and-exile-hidden-voices-of.html" target="_blank">Asylum and Exile: The Hidden Voices of London</a></i>, which was the result of my outreach work with asylum seekers and refugees in the capital. <br />
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<b><i>What was the moment that made you realise you wanted to write Asylum and Exile?</i></b></div>
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I realised within one or two meetings with my students, encountering their stories, their passion and their talent, that their words couldn’t go unrecorded. They were the most outgoing, wise, experienced group of people I’d ever met – yet refugees and asylum seekers are vilified in the press and are heard nowhere in debates surrounding these issues. They are silenced and demonised, or pitied and patronised – but every encounter, for me, was wholly life-affirming. These are individual human beings who must be respected and whose words must be heard; I was determined to use my (very limited) power to make that happen. It’s a typical journalist’s habit to make notes on everything all the time, regardless of whether those notes make it anywhere – but this time I really paid attention, memorising everything, writing up my ‘case notes’ at the end of every outreach session I did, then doing a lot of reading around issues of asylum, forced migration and refuge. I began doing outreach work in the top half of 2012 – promoting my previous book, Beyond the Wall, a reportage from Palestine, at the same time. I wrote Asylum and Exile at the very end of 2012, beginning of 2013, when it was still fresh in my memory. But I’ve continued doing outreach work since.</div>
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<i><b>What were your expectations before you started teaching the asylum seekers from your book?</b></i></div>
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I knew the sessions would be thought-provoking and eye-opening but I didn’t except the effects to go beyond the classroom, or that together we would create something bigger than ourselves – not just the book but the good energy and fellow-feeling. I kept my expectations of myself low: the worst thing you can do is go in assuming that you are going to transform people’s lives, and indeed I didn’t transform my students’ lives. It was they who opened my eyes and made me realise that it’s often the people who are the most overlooked and ignored who have the most to teach others. I thought the sessions would be constructive in a literary sense, but they took on a significance which was far more humane and humanitarian as the weeks went on.</div>
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<i><b>How did your perceptions change once you started teaching? What surprised you the most?</b></i></div>
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What surprised me was that people kept coming back to my sessions! It seemed to me that I was the one doing all the learning and developing, through listening to them, but that I myself was not contributing to my students’ knowledge in any way. They would share their stories and their writing with me – but these are people who already speak at least 2 languages fluently, and very few needed actual help with their English. The most interesting moments happened in between the writing exercises we did, not during them. I wasn’t surprised that my students had stories to tell about what they’d witnessed or survived both in England and in their home countries, but I was surprised by how politicised the whole group was: in the midst of their own personal experiences there was a very high awareness of the fact that the actions of powerful groups (whether governments, militia, rebels or whoever) led to millions of women, children and men being displaced, threatened, violated, tortured and generally having their lives torn apart, while the rich stayed rich and violent perpetrators acted with impunity, often with the collusion or non-involvement of the international community. All the students I had who were from African countries had a very high awareness and knowledge of the mess that Western European colonial exploiters callously left behind. All shared a cynicism about power-holders and governments and a scepticism about international bodies who talk the talk but don’t walk the walk.</div>
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<i><b>What is the main message you aim to share with Asylum and Exile? What was your intention? Do you hope this book will bring about measurable change?</b></i></div>
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Never judge anyone by appearances – you have no idea what people have lived through, survived, escaped, achieved, learnt or striven for. It’s those who are denied a voice who have the most to say about how the world really is and we should be looking and listening out for what they can teach us, not paying attention to well-fed, cossetted, ambition-hungry politicians. My intention with Asylum and Exile was to uncover unheard voices, add nuance and individualisation to the debate on asylum, remind readers that this is not an issue to be discussion but a question of people’s lives and get them to see asylum seekers and refugees as people. I was certain that I didn’t want to write a polemic that tells people what to think. I thought the best way to change the way we approach the negative stereotypes which bedevil all discussions about asylum and refuge was to bring out people’s stories and personalities, in their own words. I don’t know about ‘measurable change’ but frankly things are so stuck that even a tiny bit of change, or nuance, or complexity, would be valuable. </div>
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<b><i>Where do you think this negative perception of asylum seekers has come from?</i></b> </div>
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These negative perceptions are not accidental at all but are the result of right-wing isolationist politicians, timid and placatory left wing politicians and a jingositic, xenophobic tabloid media deliberately playing on people’s ignorance, racism, cultural stereotypes, fear of difference and fear of change. It’s a deliberately strategy and it works: it sells papers, it stokes the kind of fear that leads undecided voters to come out in support of whichever party appears to take a firm line. But it’s al illusory. The fact is that asylum/refuge numbers to the UK are relatively low, that England is not ‘full’, the majority of benefits claimants are not ‘foreign’, the majority of UK criminals are not foreign – and asylum seekers and refugees are telling the truth about what they have survived. No rational person on the planet leaves everything they have, their home, their family and friends, their achievements, their roots, their life, to risk everything to attempt to take advantage of a completely foreign country where they know they will be tested, disbelieved and possibly even detained – if they don’t die en route.</div>
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<b><i>At the book launch, Maurice Wren, CEO of the Refugee Council, talked of a system to distinguish genuine asylum seekers from those wanting to abuse to the system. How possible is it to create such a system?</i></b> </div>
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Maurice was talking about the myth that the asylum system likes to create around itself: the myth is that Britain has always been a welcoming and tolerant place, and the asylum system is simply there to weed out genuine claimants from abusers. That is what those within the system, the assessment boards, the Home Office and the border agencies tell themselves. The reality is that asylum seekers (and indeed all survivors of violence and persecution) tell the truth and the system, far from being a discerning one, is a cruel and disbelieving one in which the policy is to be openly sceptical of any claim as asylum seeker makes, to persecute them and treat them as though they are lying. </div>
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<i><b>As someone who works within the media industry; an industry that often creates the negative stereotypes surrounding asylum and immigration, do you feel a sense of conflict within yourself? If so, how do you try to resolve it? </b></i></div>
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My ‘end’ of the industry isn’t the end which vilifies asylum seekers: we have the gutter press or the tabloid press to thank for that. Funnily enough, though, I am just as frustrated by seemingly sympathetic reports in broadsheets, which relay the numbers of asylum seekers who are trying to reach a safe port in a boat which sinks, or a lorry convoy which is raided by police… the victims in these cases are spoken about with great pathos, but are still not portrayed as individuals with names, lives and particular stories of their own. The solution to this is specific, accurate, long-form reporting and an emphasis on humanising and individualising the people involved, so that they seem less mythic and more real. The media doesn’t always do this very well, usually because of time constraints and issues of access; but charities do it incredibly well. For example the charity Women For Refugee Women has produced several testimony projects and performance works based on the reality of being an asylum seeker or refugee. In terms of traditional media I really appreciate everything The Guardian has done to investigate the abusive culture that exists within detention centres – in particular the sexual abuse of women detained at Yarl’s Wood. The newspaper’s investigation is an example of sustained, specific and compassionate reporting which is constructive and committed without being patronising.</div>
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<i><b>What do you hope to see in terms of the issue of asylum in the General Elections this year [the interview was done in 2015]?</b></i></div>
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I’m extremely disturbed by the debate which has developed around these issues. First there has been a dangerous elision of asylum and refuge with all types of migration and immigration, with Islamophobia and fear of terrorism thrown into the mix, with a hefty does of head-scratching about ‘whether or not multiculturalism really works or is a good thing, at the end of the day.’ It bothers me to see England becoming more insular, more sceptical, more right-leaning and yet more culturally ignorant and happier to peddle ever more outrageous and bigoted clichés. UKIP have been incredibly good at harvesting all of that ignorance, bias and fear and instead of condemning UKIP, the Tories are trying to take advantage of some of that fear and use it to gain votes of their own, implying that immigration is ‘indeed’ something to be concerned about and attempting to quell their voters’ (groundless) fears. Meanwhile not one single mainstream politician on the left has stood up to counter any of the myths and tell the truth. Why? There’s no career traction in the issue, no money and no votes, and it’ll take a long time for the general populace to really take in and beginning believing the truth rather than the lie. </div>
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<i><b>We now have former migrants criticising and vilifying newer immigrants and asylum seekers – as someone who has come from a migrant family, what are your thoughts on this?</b></i> </div>
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I do know what you mean: as long as people have been migrating (that is, as long as there have been people on this planet) there has been a quite understandable tendency to want to assimilate in a new place, to ingratiate and to imitate. There is also a kind of pride – or should we say ego – that comes from having successfully survived a migration and settlement in a new place: a cruel tendency to say, ‘Well, it was hard for me when I first came here, I had to fight for everything, I had to fight for acceptance. So why should it be easy for you? You people have to prove yourselves, just as we did.’ There’s the well-known phenomenon of successful migrants tending to vote Tory – the party least amenable to true multiculturalism – for economic reasons and also because the conservative Darwinian dog-eat-dog, rise up on your own, fight for what you have mentality tallies with their own experience trying to make it. You could say it was also a trauma response, in a way: there’s a tendency for those who have suffered to replicate hostile contexts, beliefs, environments, values and also an unconscious desire to ringfence and aggressively ‘defend’ whatever you have achieved in the last one or two generations; there’s a sense of precarity and tenuous position that comes from being a migrant which leads people to (subconsciously) fear newer arrivals, as if what they’ve gained may be taken away at any moment. It also shows a lack of humanity, I’d say. Tribal behaviour of any kind bothers me and I am always disgusted when people are friends only with their own kind, without any interest in or compassion for anyone who seems or looks or is different. It bothers me when white people do it and it bothers me when non-white people do it.</div>
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<b><i>Asylum and Exile tells the stories of the asylum seekers – what are your hopes for them to share to their own stories? How possible is it for them to do this at the moment? </i></b></div>
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While my students certainly spoke freely with each other and with the caseworkers and charities that helped them, I feel that the conversation should be happening at a far wider level: it should be happening in public life. That means the media, public events, panels, the written and published work. Asylum seekers’ stories give us a true picture of what Britain is really like – but to get to that true picture, ironically and depressingly, you already need to be on the inside, to have a platform which attracts people who are willing to listen. As soon as I was into my classes and meeting all the wonderful people I realised that what they had to say didn’t stop with me, I could pass on the humour, humanity, wisdom and pain. A young woman at a university seminar I spoke at in London asked me (nicely) what right I had to write this book, and she was absolutely right. I have no moral right, beyond the desire and ability, the worldly power and the permission of my students – but nothing has given me the authority to do so and I don’t particularly want to be a bleeding-heart heroine or spokesperson for people who are well able to speak for themselves. Of course it’s unfair that I get to bring out this book and be certain of it getting at least some degree of coverage; that’s why I’ve tried to stick to talking about the issue rather than giving celebrity style ‘lifestyle’ interviews. In terms of talking themselves, while I had several very forthcoming students, not many would really want to sit in front of an audience of strangers and rehash their experiences for other people to coo and sigh over. Many of my students were consumed simply by the necessity of surviving and getting on with daily life. Attending book events – even writing books at home in comfort – is something that the privileged do. </div>
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<i><b>What drew you to a career in writing at such a young age?</b></i></div>
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Passion! I was always interested in everything, inquisitive, friendly, passionate, political, not shy: pretty much the typical personality type to be a journalist. I was enraged by the sexism and racism I saw in front of my face all day, every day, but at the same time excited by the galleries, the gigs, the design, the books, the artistic world around me. I always knew I wanted to be in journalism: I remember telling people when I was 13, and by 14 I was a journalist and having the time of my life. It’s a true cliché that you should do what you love and also do what comes naturally, what feels easy and right and joyful. I’m lucky too in that journalism is also a fun career: it’s sociable, it’s outward-looking. When I write non-fiction I feel confident that I am influencing the debate in some small way, whether I’m writing about gender or Palestine or asylum. With fiction, I’m much more circumspect. </div>
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<i><b>You had your first book published at 18; what do you think were the advantages of starting at such an early age?</b></i> </div>
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To this day, I am ambivalent about cutting my first book deal at 16 and having the novel, Seahorses, come out at 18, followed at 21 by the second novel, Too Fast To Live. Probably because I’m ambivalent about doing fiction in general: I’m not someone who loves novels above all else or advocates for novel-writing in the way I advocate for journalism. I sometimes see novels as part of the entertainment industry. But generally speaking I’m proud of what I’ve dones since I was 14, despite its ups and its many downs and long periods of freelance panic and nothingness – those weeks which bring zero opportunities and no emails. Nightmare. One thing that I’ll say in favour of early success is that it gives you a head start and enables you to ride out the dud years that happen in a freelance career without losing too much traction. I’m lucky in that Seahorses was reviewed very well and sold well, but I was so immature at the time and I regret no longer being with the best agent in the business, Jonny Geller at Curtis Brown, and with a big publisher like HarperCollins. I never quite got back up to that level again, nor did I fulfil my promise, although I have gone on to forge a very fulfilling broadcasting career, which is where my passions and capabilities lie. Still, I do feel some pride in having survived for 22 years in the media and publishing worlds, which have transformed so much and come under such pressure from various changes. I think just surviving is something in itself. However, there’s so much I still want to achieve – not just career wise but life wise – that I don’t think my previous accomplishments count for anything. It’s been a very hard few years, from 2009 onwards, for reasons both professional and personal, so I’m actually in a phase of self-questioning and reinvention and wanting to step back from the fray for a good few years.</div>
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<b><i>There is the constant debate about migrants, no matter what generation, feeling a split sense of identity between the country they live in and the country they are originally from. What are your thoughts on this? How do you deal with this conflict if there is one?</i></b> </div>
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I actually think it’s a cliché that all second generation people feel some kind of split or conflict or rootlessness or whatever it is. I don’t feel that. First of all, there’s nothing wrong with not feeling 100% at home in a place; few people, of any kind, do. And those that do tend to be insular, parochial, solipsistic, ignorant bores. I can’t think of anything worse than a pathetic Little Englander who thinks England is the best place on earth – with no deep knowledge of any other place – and that famous saying, that anyone who’s tired of London must be tired of life, just struck me as the most insular, ignorant, arrogant claim in the world. I feel completely at home in all places. I feel like an international, which is what I am, not just for reason of racial heritage but also reasons of privilege, class and entitlement, which one should not be disingenuous about. I used to go to India nearly every summer as a kid, stopped when I was 14 because my career had begun and I was crazy in love with it, went back in 2013 and completely, utterly loved it. In terms of the energy, warmth, dynamism, contradiction, rate of change and female solidarity, it was a total buzz – far more so than England, which actually feels incredibly flat these days. I think the real forward drive is to be found in China, India, parts of Latin America, parts of Africa, not Western Europe. After being in India and China I now look at England with a far more critical eye than I did: I see it moving away from the rest of the world, suspicious of foreigners, socially stagnant, heavily mired in misogyny, porn culture and rape culture…. so like all migrants I plan to go onwards, somewhere. </div>
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<i><b>How was it entering the career at such a young age and also as an Asian girl? Do you think you had a different experience? </b></i></div>
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It was, frankly, a thrill beginning a career at 14 and it was a lucky experience for me because I was a novelty and therefore not a threat. I knew then and still know that many of the places I work for are endemically casually sexist and virtually all-white (although the arts and style magazines I worked for were slightly better on this score than the more traditional newspapers and broadcasting outlets) but I was heavily protected, especially during the many years when my career was happening in tandem with school and university: a circle of friends, all style journalists, who were 10 years older than me and who showed me the ropes (and also showed me a really good time), the fact that I did my reviewing at writing work from outside the offices of the places I worked for; the fact that I cut my first book so early into my career, which gave me a lot of power or leverage within my career. I was always gender- and race-political: how could one not be? But these senses have sharpened even more as time went on: every few years there is a new, young, fresh name who is celebrated within journalism, but only a few are let through in every round. The general representation doesn’t change and as we get older, I see women (and in particular women and men of colour) being sidelined or plateauing more and more. Make no mistake, we live in a white male patriarchy. Every so often, a few people who don’t fit the mould are allowed in and tolerated, but never in numbers which would change the scene. We get only so far before hitting the ceiling, being replaced and then having to back off and find another way to survive. </div>
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<i><b>What are your thoughts on the number of British Asians authors in the industry currently? Do you feel they are represented fairly? And more specifically, British Asian women? </b></i></div>
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For me this is not just about British Asians but about taking a really wide-scale view of diversity: all races, all ages, all backgrounds, all shapes and sizes and not just the very readily accepted type of the privileged, straight, entitled white male who doesn’t think about his own (or his friends’ and colleagues’ own) sexual and racial entitlement for one second. We live in a rich and diverse world and it’s shocking to enter into any influence professional institution, whether it be the media or politics or the arts, and see that right the way through, there is a severe lack of any racial diversity whatsoever, added to the fact that there is a gender pay gap, that there is casual sexism, that there are so few women of any colour at the top. This is down to sexism and racism; not the overt kind but a much more deadly, subtle and usually subconscious kind which prefers a white male club to anything else. To this day I am staggered by people’s ignorance and sexual and racial clichés about race and gender: the banal obsession and romanticisation of the Raj era of British colonial exploitation in India; forced and arranged marriages; women’s oppression and victim-hood (which the West harps on without acknowledging that male violence against women is endemic everywhere); the inability to recognise that not all brown people are Muslim. The list goes on and on. We are rarely presented as experts on things which are not related to the clichés I’ve mentioned, and when we are it is in the light of a perceived problem which we have been said to have caused (sexual exploitation, FGM, forced marriage, terrorism). Meanwhile, as I mentioned before there is a real lack of diversity when it comes to power-holding, influence and career achievement behind the scenes: as book editors, theatre directors, film producers, executives, commissioners and so on.</div>
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I read an interview with Kamila Shamsie, the novelist, in which she described being part of the brilliant Fifty Shades of Feminism essay collection (which I am also in) – and many of the white Western feminists made pretty racist, smug, arrogant, ignorant allusions to how relatively lucky they felt to be in England/America and not some foreign backward distant culture where (they thought) it was all much worse. The sheer complacency, racial arrogance and cultural ignorance of that stance really gets to me: negatively stereotyping and generalising about areas, cultures, continents spanning thousands of miles. These people usually know nothing of the world beyond their cosy little circle; and people who think of themselves as sexual progressives or liberals are the hardest to get to see the truth. </div>
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For a novelist there is a special category of novel you are supposed to write, and it must conform to Western sexual, racial and class clichés: you must write something about parental oppression, religion and terrorism and radicalisation, about burning widows and child labour, about forbidden love in a mango grove during the monsoon season, about conflicted identity and about women who suffer. Or something about wearing a Muslim veil – how much you love it or hate it – or something with veil in the title! Beyond the Veil? Under the Veil? Sex and the Veil?</div>
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<i><b>What were some of the difficulties you faced as you entered the world of writing as well other broadcast areas such as radio and television?</b></i></div>
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I was incredibly lucky because my career has developed organically and I never had any struggle getting in, but as with all people facing the double barriers of sexism and racism, I am aware of how tenuous my position is. You are given just one chance to succeed – and if you fluff it, that’s it. I am noticing these barriers more and more as time goes on as I see young men promoted over women with far more expertise, drive and experience and I see that the women and people of colour, including me, have hit some kind of shelf, or wall, or plateau, or glass ceiling. Despite our achievements and our track record, the big commissions and name-making assignments aren’t coming. I also witness casual sexism on a daily basis. In my experience, when I have tried to speak or write about this, giving copious concrete examples, I have simply been blacklisted from the organisations I was alluding to. It bothers me intensely that women and people of colour of both sexes are so heavily under-represented at all levels of the worlds I work in – not just in front of the camera or mic or page but also behind the scenes as editors, producers, directors, executives and decision-makers. We know that black and Asian actors are leaving the UK because roles are not written for them; I wouldn’t be surprised to see the same thing happening with writers, producers, broadcasters, journalists and other talent, especially in those working in the freelance, unstable, creative or media world. Certainly, I’m thinking that way. </div>
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<b><i>Finally, what’s next for you? Is there another book in the pipeline?</i></b></div>
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I would be very interested in doing a long stint in a women’s prison. I’ve already done some prison work (since 2012) but would love to commit myself to three years in one place. The same goes for doing more work in detention centres – easily the most frightening places I’ve ever been, and worth exploring (and exposing) for that reason. So I want to expand my humanitarian work, and not just as a reporter.</div>
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My other job is in broadcasting so I’d like to do more documentaries with the BBC. They’re always enormous fun and you meet tons of wonderful people in the process. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-9834664498562877652014-12-31T00:30:00.001+00:002015-08-12T22:27:28.594+01:00Psychogeography of trauma: inside a UK detention centre<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>A slightly different (worse) version of this essay was published by The Free Word Centre as part of its Briefing Notes essay series. <a href="https://freewordcentre.com/blog/2015/02/life-is-a-scary-movie-inside-a-uk-detention-centre" target="_blank">Read the original here.</a></i><br />
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The detention centre was, hands down, one of the most frightening places I’ve ever been to. This was because of the sheer nastiness, anger and self-satisfaction of the staff – civilians and guards alike. It was horrifying, a sinister place, and it was clear to my colleague and me that nobody who worked there had even one dreg of basic human feeling for the individuals they were detaining or any understanding of, or interest in, what those people had survived. <br />
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The staff were suspicious even before we arrived, asking for written assurances that we wouldn’t name them or hint at where the institution was. The staff referred to the people inside as detainees and asked that “the workshop content is suited to a detainee context.” I replied via email, “I can confirm and guarantee this, having spent many weeks working with asylum seekers and refugees, a large proportion (about 50%) of whom had themselves been detained or imprisoned or both…I understand the sensitivity required to work in such environments and the necessity of not pushing individuals for personal stories or details… I have also worked with people of varying levels of psychological wellness, language skills, vulnerability and other needs. More than anything I want to foster an accepting and constructive environment…”<br />
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***</div>
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The detention – or ‘immigration removal’ – centre is in a part of England renowned for its landscape rather than its architecture or human-made sites of interest. It’s a minor, plain-enough town, ugly but bustling and not unpleasant on the morning we arrive. Even though the centre itself is a short taxi ride away, its atmosphere has seeped into the town itself, and its people. There’s a jovial, talkative woman driving our cab. “Are you a legal team?” she asks us. Local drivers are accustomed to taking legal aid professionals up to the centre, I gather. At first I think she must have sympathy for the detainees, what with “English not being their first language” and all. Then she surprises me by telling a crude rhyme, which comes out of nowhere:<br />
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<i>There was a young lady from Rabat</i><br />
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<i>Who gave birth to triplets Pat, Nat and Cat</i></div>
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<i>Breeding was fine, but feeding wasn’t</i></div>
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<i>When she found she had no tit for tat.</i><br />
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She throws back her head and laughs, with grotesque relish and mockery, and this macabre exultation – shocking two milksop Londoners with her rhyme – sets the tone of the day. <br />
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We draw close and I see the place. Darker, blockier, seedier, uglier than a prison. Prisons have a school vibe to them, a sense of pressurised containment. Some of them look like quite jolly red brick Peabody estates. They’re peaceful from the outside, thick with it. But detention centres are built to terrify and repel even from the outside. They’re designed to be visually disruptive, ugly; a psychogeography of trauma inflicted. There are more rolls of barbed wire outside this detention centre than outside the prison I visit: three rolls atop metal mesh fencing. Barbed wire runs up the muddy grass slope. There are yet more rolls of barbed wire, netting and cameras around the building, which is blocked across the old stone archway that was once the gate of the city. The place seems abandoned – as if everyone just ran out twenty minutes before we turned up. We don’t even feel as though we’re being watched. We feel as if there’s no-one around and nobody cares where we are, who we are or what we’re doing.</div>
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I go to the visitors’ centre where we’re supposed to leave our things in lockers numbered from 1 to 180. There’s a sign saying “Powdered baby milk/food is not allowed in the centre. Please ensure you have enough baby milk/food made up for the duration of your visit.” There’s a form I can fill in, headed “Violence reduction: reporting any incident of unacceptable behaviour.” It invites me to describe “what incident has cause [me] to feel intimidated, upset, threatened, humiliated, embarrassed or frightened.” At the bottom of the form, in block letters, it says, “Everyone has the right to feel safe here…. Unacceptable behaviour in any form will not be tolerated.” I’m assuming that this is a form for reporting on detainees’ behaviour, not guards’ behaviour. There’s even a drugs amnesty box where you can slot in those last few fronds of weed or whatever it may be. Although there are warning signs everywhere – like “passive sniffer dogs are in use here” and detailed instructions in how to body-search a “male subject” – the truth is that I could stroll in with some drugs, a gun and a camera. Nobody scanned me, checked me or searched my bag. </div>
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We go to the main entrance, Fortress Gate 1, and the guy – the officer? The guard? Who are these people allied to? The police? – greets us with a strange combination of derision and indifference. He doesn’t question our purpose for being there. We hand over our ID and he barely glances at it. “Is there anyone else coming in with you? Just you two?” In prison you get a shrewd and searching look and the hard yet oddly reliable staff rebut any friendliness, leaf through your ID as if it’s fake, then write your name in little letters a little book along with the time you came in. Here, they don’t care, or don’t know, and that’s what makes it so frightening. One man makes an announcement on the communications system: “Call out. If anyone knows the whereabouts of Officer Ryder, can you call in?” Later I find out from a colleague who sits on asylum appeal panels that these detention centres are run by private companies, the same ones (like G4S) that’re making a killing from operating huge American prison complexes. The staff are private company employees, not public servants.</div>
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At this immigration removal centre there’s a “rec pitch” – a football pitch – a gym and an education centre, which is where we’re going. “Do you ever get trouble?” I ask the woman in charge of education, a brisk type who, like our taxi driver, seems full of uncanny, righteous anger. “No – no – there’s only one officer and that’s for our protection,” she says with a laugh that hits my nerves. The education centre’s like a modern school block with corridors and classrooms. I go in to meet some of the other staff and see a woman vigorously cleaning her hands with hand sanitiser, as though the detainees are dirty and whatever they touch is dirty. The staff laugh amongst themselves about how the detainees “sleep ‘til two or three in the afternoon.” I point out that sleeping so long is a symptom of depression and they nod blandly without a trace of empathy. “They do like their sleep,” they say, snidely. Other staff members, alerted to the novelty of us being here, sidle in and look us over with narrowed eyes and twisted smiles. After asking a few questions and painfully pulling out answers I learn that most of the long term staff work wholly within the detention system, moving from centre to centre. They make a career of it.</div>
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The woman in charge of the education centre takes us to the small classroom where the furniture, walls and supplies are in a better state that those at the charities where I do outreach work helping asylum seekers and refugees. The woman casually gives me three flimsy free-with-a-newspaper editions of an Ian Fleming novel, Casino Royale, and says I can give them to the detainees if I want. She doesn’t seem to give a damn either way. She goes out to find and harangue some of the detainees who’d promised to attend my session.</div>
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A few men come in – there are no women here – heads bowed, walking slowly and creakily as if weighed down, looking at me out of the corners of their eyes like mistrustful kicked dogs. They are from all over the world, southern Africa, eastern Europe, east Asia, with varying levels of English. One east Asian guy had a full life in the UK, running a business and making music, with a wife and baby, before he was picked up and slung in here. There are good facilities for making music at this centre, apparently. </div>
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One man comes in on crutches. His leg has been amputated, or hacked off, just below the knee. He is completely silent and seems shattered, mentally.<br />
“Aren’t there more coming?” asks the woman in charge of education.<br />
The guys shake their heads heavily. They mention their friends’ names and say they might go and look for them again, they might be sleeping. The woman laughs at their slowness.<br />
“It’s healthy and safety,” she says to me in front of them. “When I do it, I get them moving about looking for fire exits. Otherwise they sit there saying they dunno where the fire exits are. If they say they’re tired I get ‘em to stand up and jog on the spot. I’m cruel like that.”</div>
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I go through some bits of reading and some short writing exercises but don’t make much headway. It’s not that the men are disengaged or contemptuous, it’s that the oppressiveness of the environment itself, its fearfulness and energy sapping intimidation, has seeped into them and mixed with the horror that is quite obviously already there. We’re having some fun with different genres – Horror, Romance, Comedy, Western, Sci-Fi – and I start a sentence and get them to finish it in the spirit of a certain type of writing. </div>
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“Comedy. Something positive,” I say. “‘If the man doesn’t catch his train on time then….’”</div>
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“Then he will die!” bursts out one of the men in the class, his eyes huge and full of tears, his dry voice trembling.</div>
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That is how it goes on. Many of the men at the back don’t want to speak because their English isn’t good. They are forcing themselves to be in the class and gruffly encouraging their friends. But they are all here for the same reason: whatever they went through to come to the UK, whatever they left behind, they weren’t believed, they tell me. Not the guy who’s crying, not the guy whose leg was chopped off, none of them.</div>
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The despair and a strange feeling of intimidation spread across the entire class. All the guards I’ve seen so far are short, heavy-set white men. Every so often one of them slopes into the room as though he owns it, trades sardonic looks with the education woman, looks at the detainees as though they’re scum, looks me up and down with glinting eyes and a smug smile and says, “So. You’re the author.” There is an overwhelming sense of foreboding.</div>
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The cynicism lifts slightly when we visit the library, which is empty. The librarian speaks with real care for the detainees, showing us the selection of films and books in different languages, the long stacks of dictionaries: Albanian, Vietnamese, Turkish, Arabic, Urdu, even Tamil for Sri Lankans fleeing the aftermath of the civil war. She tries to make sure that every language spoken in the centre is catered for. </div>
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When the session is up the men go off, slow and pained. The education woman seems fiercely pleased as she walks us out. “I’m reading Jane Austen’s autobiography at the moment,” she boasts loudly. Austen didn’t write an autobiography. “I don’t intend to read any of the novels. I’ve seen the films.” She says it with sharp, slashing relish, eyes glowing as though she’s put Austen firmly back in her place. </div>
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We call for a taxi, twice. It doesn’t come. Perhaps the taxi firm thinks it’s going to be picking up detainees, illegal immigrants who won’t pay the fare. There’s a minivan parked outside the detention centre, full of luggage: cheerful, normal-looking wheelie cases, as if people are going on holiday. Staff members are pulling out the luggage and leaving it on the ground. It’s shift handover time and guards are coming out of the centre, swaggering, marching and righteous, jaws tensed. They’re so angry that they jerk their cars hard out of the parking spots, backing out sharply and speeding through the car park, tyres scraping, engines revving hard. One of them almost runs over my colleague, I think deliberately, backing straight into him as we idle about waiting for the taxi. As he drives past the officer’s face is hard and set and satisfied. </div>
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***</div>
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On the way home I read a piece one of the detainess has written, entitled A Conversation That Changed My Life:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“The conversation that changed my life in the UK is the one I had in the Home Office during my first interview, because that conversation was one kind of a bad dream for me. After that conversation I found myself in the detention centre. Adding to what I faced in my home country, it seems like life is a scary movie which I would like to get out from.”</blockquote>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-28197832229781577672014-12-31T00:30:00.000+00:002015-08-12T22:27:04.807+01:00Choosing political sides in England's porn-fed, combative culture<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>This is an oddly backdated essay reprinted from the 28 Days project released a month before the 2015 general election, just before the Tories got in for another 5 years with a (slim) majority. <a href="http://28days.org.uk/choosing-sides/" target="_blank">You can read the original here.</a></i><br />
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“If England’s not careful it’s going to wind up on the wrong side of history,” I said. <br />
“Compared to what? Its past? Hasn’t it always been on the wrong side?” was the sardonic reply from a colleague.<br />
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We were at a panel discussion about the reality of asylum and immigration in Britain. The audience was full of people who work in the field: service providers, to use that chilling phrase which leaches all the humanity, pain, richness and desperation out of their vital work. I was talking about my latest stint of outreach work, with asylum seekers and refugees, and how the individuals I encountered and the things they had survived were so different from the derogatory and scare-mongering messages put out by politicians and the media. </div>
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My colleagues described how they’d witnessed the development of a ‘Fortress Europe’ mentality: an informal bloc of Western European countries whose policies and public messages are openly hostile not just to asylum seekers and refugees but to immigrants of all kinds, to true multicultural understanding, to a nuanced acceptance of religious or cultural difference. There is a mindset of arrogance and racism which sees the rest of the world as backward, dangerous, uncivilised, tribal, contaminated with violence and propensity towards terrorism and religious (but really, they mean Muslim) fundamentalism. It’s as though Orientalism is back, only even nastier than before and without the swollen-up self-assurance of Imperial, exploitative power. There’s an attitude of uncaring exclusion and desperate self-protection against the perceived barbarity of outsiders, often simultaneous to economic recession and the breakdown of reliable education, employment and stability within these European countries themselves. Even politicians on the mainstream left will not stand up for multiracial multiculturalism, open borders or asylum seekers’ and refugees’ rights. They won’t debunk the myths or take the heat out of the bile and misinformation. Why is that? It’ll take too long to change hearts and minds and anyway there’s no money or votes in it. </div>
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There was a sense on the night of the panel discussion that England in particular is at a critical point. There is less social mobility than ever before, greater insularity and pessimism, a developing xenophobia and isolationism, higher youth unemployment, less equality of opportunity, greater instability in the job market, a housing crisis in the capital, a weakened welfare system. Underlying everything are the terrifying levels of male violence against women and girls: the harassment, the rape, the objectification, the ageism and dismissal, the mockery, the victim-blaming and disbelief and perpetrator excusal by everyone from social peers to the police and judges, the molestation, the grooming and exploitation and abuse, the gendered bullying in schools and the full-blown development of porn-fed, coercive rape culture. There is the commodification, pornification, sale and renting and usage of us by men and the mainstreaming of a society in which it’s okay to rent and use a human woman to gratify you sexually. We fear terrorism, gun crime, natural disasters, wars – but the most common form of violence in the world is male violence against and abuse of women and girls within the home. That’s in addition to the fact that women have to do more cooking, cleaning, childcare, family admin and parental care because men do not do enough; that we are paid less for the same work; that our behaviour, achievements and ambitions are subject to an onslaught of double standards, pejorative stereotypes, sneers and degrading insults; that our employers punish us for being pregnant and having children; that we are kept out of the higher tiers of every profession and discipline from scientific research to academia to the arts to the media to politics. And when we speak up about what we have witnessed and survived, we are threatened and punished, sometimes by the male perpetrators, sometimes by their male cronies, often by male strangers who send us anonymous rape threats. </div>
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I do not believe that people are politically apathetic. Quite the opposite: we are riled, mistrustful, angered and exhausted as we live out the consequences of trying to survive in this hard, patriarchal, capitalist society in which London has become a playground for the international super-rich while the government’s euphemistic ‘austerity’ drives make brutal cuts to social care services, legal aid, charity projects and public sector jobs, all of which have directly impacted the lives of the near-destitute, extremely vulnerable asylum seekers and refugees I work with. </div>
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Given the male abuse and inequality we suffer, women are the major users of these services, as well as the majority of employees in the public sector. So we lose our jobs at one end and at the other we lose protection, we lose assistance when we are survivors of male violence, as victims seeking advocacy, as daughters trying to secure support for older relatives, as mothers struggling to survive when our children’s fathers don’t do any fathering and we can’t find work that will accommodate our family lives or pay enough to cover childcare. Rape crisis services close despite endemic levels of male sexual violence; women’s shelters close despite endemic levels of male domestic violence. </div>
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Meanwhile, mainly male, mainly white politicians sit back as three course dinners are served to them, with good wine. They work hard, they are dedicated, but they will never be hungry, or cold, or poor, or isolated, or understand what it’s like to fall down between the cracks in society. There is a shock as one looks at the leaders of the three main parties, plus the UKIP freak, and sees that they are, but for a few minor nuances, much the same type. The fabled apathy of the populace kicks in not when we talk amongst ourselves but when we consider the possibility of the political elite listening to and acting on our demands and grievances. We do not believe that they will do so; they have lost our trust and our faith. We believe, instead, that politicians work on behalf of themselves and their wealthy, powerful, well-connected friends. </div>
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When did the political system begin slipping away from us like this? Not with Cameron and his men’s club of Eton and Oxbridge cronies. I’d say it happened before then, when Labour betrayed itself to become New Labour, the party of the bourgeois yuppie, the groovy Britpop rightwing-leftwing hybrid that quickly became a war-mongering monster led by a deluded religious zealot. Millions of people protested the Iraq war but it made no difference and that told us everything: people in power don’t listen to people without power. Women are always at the bottom of that heap, of every heap, which is why, scrolling forward a decade-odd, Osborne’s cuts disproportionately affect women – and he didn’t even realise. </div>
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The revolution that must come is a specifically feminist, anti-macho, anticapitalist one which dissolves and sweeps away the current combative and exclusive political system altogether. Will I see that happen in all the election years I’ll witness in the future? I doubt it. But I know which side I’m on.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-25359596495492287132014-12-30T00:30:00.000+00:002015-08-12T22:26:11.806+01:00The reality of asylum and refuge in modern Britain<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>This essay was first published by the Free Word for its <a href="https://freewordcentre.com/blog/2015/01/briefing-notes-asylum-and-refuge-in-britain" target="_blank">Briefing Notes</a> series, pegged to my book <a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2015/01/asylum-and-exile-hidden-voices-of.html" target="_blank">Asylum and Exile: The Hidden Voices of London</a>. </i><br />
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Bodies in boats. Grateful, half-drowned people wrapped in blankets. Women dying of suffocation under plastic packages in long distance goods lorries while traffickers pocket their savings. Gangs of organised criminals terrorising Britain. Impoverished, illiterate moochers living off the state, filling up hospitals. Detainees being abused horribly by staff in UK detention centres like <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2014/may/17/mps-serco-yarls-wood-centre-sex-assault-claim">Yarl’s Wood</a>.<br />
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Those are the images and horror stories that stifle any meaningful investigation into what it’s like as a human being with a name and a face, a life and a past, trying to survive as an asylum seeker in Britain. Some of the stories invite our pity, others are designed to attract our hatred and suspicion. None of them represent asylum seekers as complex, distinct individuals. The nastiest clichés are promulgated by some of the most powerful and pervasive forces in society — the media and politicians of all stripes — against those who have the least power and visibility and are concerned more with basic survival than gaining votes or readers.<br />
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Politicians both marginal and mainstream hustle for public support by fear-mongering and fudging, making sweeping statements about foreigners who they say are criminals, advantage-takers, callous and opportunistic illegals, troublemakers who do not know how to behave, who import regressive values, who refuse to learn new languages and muck up residential streets with their garbage. The stereotypes go unchallenged because those with the loudest voices and the greatest number of vested interests are shouting above (and about) those who have no public voice. The clichés pander to pre-existing prejudices about foreigners, incomers, the dangerous and malign ‘other’ who will take and sully. Nobody bothers to try and get to the truth because, at the end of the day, the people being slandered are largely invisible to them, being bounced between detention and prison, living near-destitute or with the meagre support of charities or working off the books in factories, building sites or cleaning firms.<br />
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An asylum seeker is an individual who is petitioning to be formally recognised as a refugee. Once recognised, refugees gain certain very basic and minimal rights to protection and support by the state, but that is only the beginning of a long journey towards starting a full and dignified life and establishing a support network, stable housing, employment or education in a completely new country. At the moment the situation, as described to me by the CEO of a major refugees’ charity, is “Fortress Europe”: there is a culture of systematic rejection of asylum seekers, of denial and disbelief of their stories (particularly women asylum seekers who have survived rape and other sexual torture), of brutally enforced deportation or detention in hellish incarceration complexes where detainees have even fewer rights than convicted prisoners. The most sinister place I’ve ever visited was a UK detention centre, which had more rolls of barbed wire around it than any prison and whose staff were universally angry and hostile.<br />
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Meanwhile, myths about asylum abound, the most pernicious one being that the number of asylum seekers is intolerably high, that most asylum claims are false and that the country is ‘full’ and can’t take any more. In continental western Europe boats have been refused permission to dock. Australia actually seems proud to advertise its antipathy towards asylum seekers, warning that anyone who tries to enter by sea and runs into difficulties will not be saved. I am shocked, as ever, by the sheer cruelty, the inability to see asylum seekers as human beings, the indifference about whether they live or die and the failure to imagine what these people must have experienced in their home countries, what they lived through which made them think that anything — even the prospect of drowning in a dinghy in a foreign sea — was better than that.<br />
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Three years ago, enabled by English PEN, I began doing outreach work in the form of writing workshops with refugees, asylum seekers and migrants from all over the world from Syria and Iran to the Democratic Republic of Congo, Sierra Leone, Malawi and Uganda. These experiences inspired my latest book, <a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2015/01/asylum-and-exile-hidden-voices-of.html"><i>Asylum and Exile: The Hidden Voices of London</i></a>, which features my students’ testimonies. I came to the conclusion that all the tabloid journalists, pundits and political bigmouths who rage against asylum seekers must never have met one. As I listened to my students’ experiences, read their writing and let myself be teased, mocked and berated by them it struck me that here were the warmest, funniest, most interesting people in the world, who had gone through unimaginable things: a man in Timbuktu witnessing a neighbour being disembowelled by an armed rebel as a warning to the other villagers; a woman who had been raped by rebels and then thrown out by her family because of it. “Please believe us,” said one woman to me, “if we go back to our countries they will rape us and kill us. Our leaders don’t care anything about us, only oil and minerals and power and money.” There was Claude, from the Congo, who had a degree in criminology and was forever ingratiating himself with the ladies — “Hello auntie, you know I am always pleased to see you. Can I get you some tea?” There was Manny, formerly a composer and professor of classical Persian music at Tehran University, who does odd days in a sandwich factory, in the freezer room, where people constantly fall ill from the cold but will be replaced if they miss a day of work. And there was Beatrice, who wants to be a writer and who described to me how, in England, it was assumed by many that she didn’t know how to read or write, turn on a light switch or wash her hands after using the bathroom. “I don’t say anything,” she said, “because I don’t want to offend them.”<br />
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Meanwhile, the country is being run by a club of white men who went to posh school and posh university and have experienced nothing of the real world: its diversity, its hardships, its chaos and violence. They decide on domestic and foreign policy, wars and aid money, arms deals and the euphemistic ‘austerity’ measures which have cut legal aid, public services, social services and charities’ budgets at the knees and directly imperilled so many people’s wellbeing including that of my students. They sit in their heated rooms in their expensive clothes, eating good food and drinking good coffee (all things which are out of the reach of my students), as they decide these things. They do not live with the physical consequences of their own policies, only the political consequences which affect their careers.<br />
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As the months progressed I felt ever more strongly the irony of being in a country where the most interesting people are the least heard, while those who are the most ignorant speak with the greatest volume and entitlement, making decisions in the full confidence that they will never have to experience the results.<br />
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Not every asylum seeker arrives dumped on a shoreline, barefoot, penniless and wrapped in a foil blanket. All my students arrived by plane. They fled international and civil war, fragile states in which law and order had broken down, extreme poverty and political persecution. Many of my students had been bounced between detention and prison or left in limbo for years between being refused leave to remain — that wonderfully Alice in Wonderland phrase which would grant them the right to stay in the UK — and receiving the final letter ordering them to get on the next plane.<br />
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One woman told me that she spoke such good English because her parents, who had been political figures, were repeatedly exiled abroad due to their work. All my students spoke at least two languages fluently and, like all people of a migrant background including myself, learnt new ones quickly. All were educated to last-year-of-school level and the overwhelming majority were educated to college level and beyond. Every single one wanted to work because while not all work gives dignity or an identity to be proud of, it gives a little money, it takes up time, it uses up energy, it involves other people, it gives a shape to the day. But asylum seekers have no right to any public money or services, no right to be housed or to work. So they labour as cleaners, packers, building site hands, relying on this shady, unreliable and exploited labour in which (one building site worker told me) a boss can promise money and then withhold it for days, or renege on an agreement and under-pay.<br />
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There is a crisis in the issue of asylum because there has been a crisis in world governance, war and conflict, poverty and inequality, which is not some accident but is the fault of violent perpetrators (whether renegade militia or rebels or national armies), selfish rulers, uncaring commercial interests, greedy power-holders and opportunistic political players. It is not the fault of the millions of asylum seekers and refugees who are fleeing the consequences of such parties’ actions. It is the nastiest kind of cynicism to scapegoat asylum seekers by saying that their testimonies are lies (or, to quote what the Home Office staff said to several of my students, “This is all just a fairytale you’ve made up,”) and that they have left everything behind, their identity, their life, their family, to take advantage of a foreign country.<br />
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Every asylum seeker I worked with was desperate to contribute, to feel like a part of society, to be seen as a person with something to offer, to not be invisible. Politicians at all points on the spectrum exploit the electorate’s fear, racism, insularity or simple lack of knowledge about the reality of asylum and there is no politician of any party who has dared to stand up and set the record straight about the numbers of asylum seekers in the UK, what they left behind and how they are treated here. It is as though asylum seekers’ stories begin the moment they arrive in a country and nobody bothers to ask what they have escaped.<br />
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Every human being has a personality, a social context and a past which make them who they are; but asylum seekers are not seen as human beings, so nobody is interested in those things. This is a failure, not of policy, but of common decency: the inability to see others as people just like ourselves. All it would take for prejudices to be broken down would be for politicians, the media and the public to stop shouting in fear and start listening with respect.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-237051036313736922.post-31284668727857035482014-12-29T18:16:00.000+00:002016-05-18T16:48:15.047+01:00China Flash: a collection of my recent articles about contemporary China<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik9OOHstJisCI48ybeuhkgeO3LPZl7eB6rUs5FCbF4l7M-qJhNQgj0TY0zll9tQQzCNXnlWCp08aRVzM9-9AQKMVu2JNV2HYmdk0JAn3NIpkN3XA8t6qKLlDlhoAfs4sHIRt7MGbUO5dHI/s1600/WP_000170.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik9OOHstJisCI48ybeuhkgeO3LPZl7eB6rUs5FCbF4l7M-qJhNQgj0TY0zll9tQQzCNXnlWCp08aRVzM9-9AQKMVu2JNV2HYmdk0JAn3NIpkN3XA8t6qKLlDlhoAfs4sHIRt7MGbUO5dHI/s320/WP_000170.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Zaha Hadid-designed Galaxy mall<br />
complex, Chaoyangmen, Beijing, end 2014</td></tr>
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<li><a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2014/11/china-flash-only-condoms-can-save-china.html" target="_blank">Only condoms can save China from a 'raging epidemic' of sexually transmitted diseases</a></li>
<li><a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.co.uk/2014/10/china-flash-film-maker-jenny-man-wu-on.html" target="_blank">Film-maker Jenny Man Wu on contemporary Chinese women's wit, pain and ambivalence</a></li>
<li><a href="http://bidisha-online.blogspot.com/2014/10/china-flash-lean-in-beijing-on-new.html">Lean In Beijing on the new sexism, corporate ambition, marital choices and awesome girls in China</a></li>
<li><a href="http://t.co/doXa3Oa0bq">Benedicte Bro-Cassard, Beijing fashion photographer, on luxury, sugar daddies and sugar daughters</a></li>
<li><a href="http://t.co/ZOUwU5A3Uu">Kong Lingnan, Beijing painter, on natural beauty and human ugliness</a></li>
<li><a href="http://t.co/FRvE1ukvIg">Writer Kerry Brown on the seven elite men who rule a country with Communist roots and capitalist shoots</a></li>
<li><a href="http://t.co/mkSXl40MgG">Writer Zhang Chao on media misogyny, social changes and the pressures facing young Chinese women</a></li>
<li><a href="http://www.timeoutbeijing.com/features/Blogs-Around_Town_Blogs/23878/Dashilar-Design-Hop.html" target="_blank">Dashilar Design Hop: highlights from Beijing Design Week 2014</a> (Time Out Beijing)</li>
<li><a href="http://www.timeoutbeijing.com/features/Feature/33964/Being-a-submissive-in-Beijing%E2%80%99s-SM-scene.html" target="_blank">Being a submissive in Beijing's S&M scene</a> (Time Out Beijing)</li>
<li><a href="http://t.co/gS20BG4QLz">ABS Crew: Beijing graffiti artists on legal, semi legal and illegal Chinese street art</a></li>
<li><a href="http://t.co/yELBJVaI0i">Even afternoon tea says something about modern, monetised China</a></li>
<li><a href="http://t.co/RjLyOimve3">Porcelain dolls, bad Samaritans and the law</a></li>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>"Do not believe most of what you read about China, it has already changed."</i></span><br />
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Benedicte Bro-Cassard, Beijing photographer</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com