The Transformative Potential of Black British and British Muslim Literature: Heterotopic Spaces and the Politics of Destabilisation 9783839447697

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Lisa Ahrens The Transformative Potential of Black British and British Muslim Literature

Lettre

Lisa Ahrens (Dr. phil.) worked as a research assistant at the University of Paderborn where she taught English Cultural and Literary Studies.

Lisa Ahrens

The Transformative Potential of Black British and British Muslim Literature Heterotopic Spaces and the Politics of Destabilisation

This thesis was accepted as a doctoral dissertation in fulfilment of the requirements for the degree »Doktor der Philosophie« by the Faculty of Arts and Humanities at the University of Paderborn in 2018.

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de © 2019 transcript Verlag, Bielefeld All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Cover layout: Maria Arndt, Bielefeld Printed by Majuskel Medienproduktion GmbH, Wetzlar Print-ISBN 978-3-8376-4769-3 PDF-ISBN 978-3-8394-4769-7 https://doi.org/10.14361/9783839447697

Contents

Acknowledgements ...................................................................................7 Introduction............................................................................................ 9

Section One: Theoretical Perspectives 1

Theoretical Framework: Perspectives on Power and Exclusion ........................ 29

2

Theorising (Interactive) Heterotopic Spaces in Black British and British Muslim Literature .............................................41 2.1 Space and Power ......................................................................................... 43 2.2 Heterotopic Spaces .......................................................................................45 2.3 Towards Interactive Heterotopic Spaces ............................................................48

Section Two: Literary Representations of Heterotopic Spaces 3 3.1

The Mosque..................................................................................... 57 British Muslims Between Private Religiousness and Public Secularism .................................................................................... 57 3.2 Representations of the Mosque as a Heterotopic Space .........................................60

4 The University of Oxford...................................................................... 85 4.1 The Oxford Myth ........................................................................................... 85 4.2 Representations of the University of Oxford as a Heterotopic Space ........................ 93 5 The Plantation ................................................................................. 117 5.1 The Plantation and Colonial Britain ................................................................... 117 5.2 Representations of the Plantation as a Heterotopic Space .................................... 119

Section Three: Interactive Heterotopic Spaces 6 Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming Genres ............................................. 141 6.1 British Muslim Interactions with the Bildungsroman ........................................... 143 6.2 Black British Interactions with the Slave Narrative .............................................. 178 7 7.1 7.2

Closeness and Distance: Creating Ideological Positions for the Reader..............205 Between Reinforcing and Generating Perspectives: Narrative Interactions with the Implied Reader .................................................. 206 Between Unreliable and World-Constructing Narration: Destabilising Standards, Constructing Belonging ................................................ 230

Conclusion .......................................................................................... 243 Works Cited .......................................................................................... 257

Acknowledgements

This book is about the transformation of boundaries, and it is safe to say that working on this project has been transformational for me in many ways. Pursuing my PhD was a privilege, as well as an adventure, both academically and personally, and I am deeply grateful to the many wonderful people who supported and accompanied me throughout this exciting journey. I would like to express my heartfelt gratitude to Merle Tönnies for her invaluable support, guidance, and trust in me and my work. I will be forever grateful to her for the many doors she opened for me, even when I thought they were closed. Her enthusiasm for my project, her feedback and her thought‐provoking mentoring created an environment in which I always felt inspired and free to ask questions, express my thoughts and develop ideas. This book would certainly not have been possible without her. I also wish to thank my second supervisor Sara Strauß: Her encouragement and interest in my work really made a difference, and I am extremely grateful for her valuable advice and for generously sharing her knowledge with me. Furthermore, I am very grateful to Christoph Ribbat and Jarmila Mildorf for taking the time to read my thesis, and for their insightful questions and comments during my thesis defence. Many thanks are due to Christina Flotmann-Scholz: Her inspiring ideas, her comments on my drafts, and our conversations were a constant and invaluable source of academic and personal encouragement, and I am deeply grateful for her support and friendship. I would like to thank the other members of ‘Team Tönnies’, Sophie Andersen, Joana Brüning, Nadja Fakha, Matthias Göhrmann, Dennis Henneböhl, Isha Kohli, and Julia Schneider, for their moral support and our thought‐provoking conversations, but also for great trips, get‐togethers and all the good times we share. I also wish to thank Katharina Hagenfeld for her kindness and encouragement, and for turning the office we shared into such a supportive space (with the best selection of teas). I am also grateful to Petra Tegtmeier for her valuable support, to Stela Dujakovic, Alexandra Hartmann, Anke Lenzing, and Miriam Strube for their interest,

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encouragement and advice, and to Christoph Singer for coming to the rescue when technology failed on the day of my thesis defence. Thanks are also due to the tutors and student assistants – Boluwatife Akinro, Martin Brock, Meret Brockmann, Natascha Schülting, and Nino Zulier – whose support provided me with time to focus on my thesis and made teaching such a wonderful experience. I am indebted to Muna Tatari, who took the time to answer my questions about Islam, and to my teacher Christine Schmücker, who encouraged me to read, write and go further. I am also deeply grateful to Simone Probst and Volker Peckhaus. Furthermore, I would like to extend my gratitude to the University of Paderborn for supporting my work with funds in the context of the University’s gender equality programme, and to the Faculty of Arts and Humanities for supporting me with travel grants. Outside academia, I am lucky to have the most wonderful people by my side. I would like to thank those who mean the most to me, my family. I am forever grateful to my parents, Beate and Klaus, for their love, their unwavering trust in me, their generosity and kindness. I will always look up to and be inspired by their courage and their commitment to doing the right thing. My mother is a great reader who passed her love for literature on to me, and I could never have written this book without my enthusiasm for reading and writing, and the open‐mindedness and resilience my parents taught me. Also, I am extremely grateful to my brother Daniel for his loyalty and for always making me laugh, and to my sister‐in-law Ronja for her kindness and her interest in my work. I would also like to thank my grandparents, Josefine and Josef Steffan, who unfortunately are not here anymore to see the completion of my project. They shaped my life considerably, and their memory remains a constant source of comfort and inspiration that I turned to many times throughout the years of writing. Very special thanks go to Ilka. It is wonderful to have a close and strong circle of friends whom I have known since we went to school together: I am grateful to Hélène Brandon, Johanna Hasse, Nicola Hülsmann, Nicole Pflock, Nadine Ricken, and Lilith Rüschenpöhler for the happy and precious times we continue to share, for their thoughtfulness and advice, and for their support and friendship which never ceased during difficult times. I am also grateful to my friends Anna Lienen, who provided much valued personal and academic advice during our ‘Wein und Diss’-meetings, and Vera Storp, whose energy, ideas and optimism always inspire me.

Introduction

During the years in which the present thesis was written, a number of significant, perhaps seismic events took place: In September 2015, former prime minister David Cameron addressed the Jamaican Parliament during his visit to the island, saying that “Britain is proud to have eventually led the way in its [slavery’s] abolition” and that it was time to “move on from this painful legacy” (par. 13-14). His speech thus illustrates what Kehinde Andrews refers to as Britain’s “progressive myth”, expressing that “the act of abolition was ‘British’, but the atrocity of slavery was not” (par. 2-4). Moreover, in June 2016, Britain voted to leave the European Union after a controversial campaign which called on Britons to ‘take back control’ – a phrase which political journalist Steve Richards described as the “slogan of the year, and perhaps the century” (par. 1), and which seems to represent a sentiment of fear and conservatism. Indeed, recent studies have found clear indicators which suggest that the vote for Brexit was motivated by Islamophobia (Swami et al. 174) and public aversion to immigration (Goodwin and Milazzo 462), while FOI figures show that Brexit has in turn also generated a dramatic increase in racist and Islamophobic attacks (Bulman par. 1) And in 2018, the Windrush scandal revealed that, following then Home Secretary Theresa May’s pledge in 2012 “to create, here in Britain, a really hostile environment1 for illegal immigrants” (Kirkup and Winnett par. 7), about 50,000 people from the Caribbean who had been invited by the British Government to Britain after World War II are now threatened with deportation (“It’s inhumane” par. 1). What those incidents illustrate is that Britain seems to be shaped by rather clear‐cut and exclusionary boundaries both inside the country and in relation to the rest of Europe2 . Indeed, the possibility of belonging to Britain appears to be available only to a limited number of individuals and societal groups. Examples from 1 For an overview of potential poetic responses to “the discourse on deportation" (Herd 35) which was created by Theresa May’s ‘hostile environment’ see David Herd’s essay “Valediction Forbidden Mourning: Poetry in the Age of Deportation”. Herd analyses how the 2016 Immigration Bill reinforces this hostile attitude towards migrants and refugees and calls for language and poetry to counter exclusion and create recognition for marginalised groups (ibid. 37). 2 This is also illustrated by a collection of essays by British writers edited by Nikesh Shukla (2016) and Afua Hirsch’s 2018 “hybrid of memoir, reportage and social commentary” Brit(ish): On Race,

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public discourse like those mentioned above suggest that it is particularly black Britons and British Muslims who are frequently excluded. What plays a considerable role in generating (but also, as will soon be pointed out, countering) exclusion is representation. In their study Framing Muslims: Stereotyping and Representation after 9/11, Peter Morey and Amina Yaqin point out that stereotypical representations of Muslims like for instance “[t]he bearded Muslim fanatic, the oppressed, veiled woman, the duplicitous terrorist who lives among ‘us’” (2) serve to “confirm[…] nonMuslim viewers of these images in their sense of superiority and cementing the threatening strangeness of the Muslim Other” (ibid. 3). Their remarks illustrate that representation and exclusion are inherently linked with societal power structures. Similarly, in his reading of representations of black athletes, Stuart Hall explains that representation, through the creation of meaning, has the power to create and naturalise power imbalances and “preferred meaning[s]” (“Spectacle” 228). Thus, representation has the potential to generate and reinforce exclusion or facilitate belonging. However, what this also implies is that exclusionary boundaries can potentially be destabilised and transformed through alternative representations. The dynamics described above serve as a point of departure for the present thesis. Against the background of British cultural studies and literary studies3 , it sets out to explore how contemporary black British and British Muslim writers use literary representations of space to engage with questions of belonging and exclusion. Gesa Stedman points out that cultural studies has “a political agenda – one that implies that the world can and needs to be changed” (5). The present study shares this view: It aims at analysing how black British and British Muslim novels challenge exclusionary boundaries set by dominant norms like secularism or whiteness, both on the level of representation and on the level of the potential interaction between reader and text. Space is here understood generally as “a practiced place” in Michel Identity and Belonging (Grant par. 2). Hirsch writes, among other topics, about heritage, class, and the body, and reflects on her time at the University of Oxford. The blurb of Shukla’s collection announces that the essays answer the question of “[w]hat’s it like to live in a country that doesn't trust you and doesn't want you unless you win an Olympic gold medal or a national baking competition?”. It thus foregrounds that black people’s belonging is not only contested by dominant society, but also highly conditional and narrowly defined. What is particularly significant is that the book was funded by (potential) readers who donated the money necessary to publish the collection. It includes 16 pages of their names, with each listing about 70 donators. This clearly indicates the continued relevance of and interest in questions of black British belonging to Britain. 3 Rainer Emig notes that “the relationship between Literary and Cultural studies in Germany, and particularly in the context of British Studies in Germany, is a special one” (28) and suggests that “a complete separation is […] unthinkable” (ibid. 29). Quoting Nelson, Teichler, and Grossberg, he highlights that “Cultural studies involves how and why such work is done, not just its content” (ibid. 30). As will soon be pointed out in more detail, this work combines a close reading approach with cultural studies’ attention to power structures and its concern with social change in order to analyse how literary texts might challenge exclusionary boundaries.

Introduction

de Certeau’s sense (117, original emphasis), thereby foregrounding the idea that space and its cultural implications and meanings can be (re)shaped by individual agency and practices. More specifically, this work makes use of Michel Foucault’s concept of heterotopia, a highly productive category which draws attention to the ways in which space and spatial practices can perpetuate or challenge power structures (“Other Spaces” 352). Building on Foucault’s theory, the upcoming chapters will therefore read three selected spaces – the mosque, the University of Oxford, and the plantation4 – as heterotopic spaces in order to analyse their potential for change. Moreover, in its conceptualisation of an interactive heterotopic space, the present thesis will open up an additional analytical category which examines the transformative potential implied in the interaction between reader5 and text. This work therefore argues that the concept of heterotopic spaces generates new perspectives on the possibility of destabilising exclusionary boundaries and changing power relations, as well as on the ways in which marginalisation and belonging are constructed. Regardless of how successful the attempt to change those structures is on the plot level of the works, it is suggested that literary representations of heterotopic spaces have the potential to create an interactive heterotopic space in which integration and exclusion can be reassessed. In this sense, the use of Foucault’s concept put forward by the present thesis illustrates how heterotopia can be applied programmatically to the study of literary texts: The approach employed here offers a close reading of literary representations of heterotopic spaces which embraces the social, cultural, and political context from which they emerge and pays particular attention to power structures6 . At the same time, the analysis also puts emphasis on the texts themselves and investigates their agency in guiding the reader towards certain ideological positions and outlooks, thereby potentially reinforcing or changing perspectives.

4 More information on the choice of exemplary spaces for the present thesis will be provided in Chapter Two. 5 More information on the present study’s conception of the reader can be found in Chapters Two and Seven. 6 Close reading is a strategy usually associated with New Criticism’s focus on the intrinsic value of a work which disregards the context from which it emerges. However, the present thesis suggests that a close reading approach which pays attention to detail benefits from a broader perspective which also includes a work’s background. By applying such an approach, this work aims at preventing arbitrary readings of the novels at hand as well as foregrounding the functions performed by particular representations and textual strategies.

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Foucault’s concept of heterotopia7 has been given a lot of attention by researchers. However, despite its enormous significance for British cultural and literary studies, the concept still lacks a thorough examination with regard to its potential as an analytical tool in such a context. The present study is certainly not the first one to focus on literary representations of heterotopias, but it intends to move beyond the frequently descriptive approaches which classify or label spaces as heterotopias but refrain from close readings that focus on the functions and subversive potential implied in Foucault’s concept. Thus, there are for instance critics who classify Chicano borderlands (Ashcroft, Utopianism 134), the woods in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream (Moffatt 182), various spaces in Angela Carter’s fiction, including catacombs, the castle, the prison, the city and the desert (Filimon 39), nature (Ismail et al. 153) and the mansion in Samuel Richardson’s Pamela and Daniel Defoe’s Roxana and Moll Flanders (ibid. 155-157) as heterotopias without paying much attention to their functions. Such readings appear to privilege the first five, rather descriptive principles of Foucault’s theory and overlook its sixth feature, heterotopia’s subversive potential. This is implied in the practices carried out there and in heterotopia’s relation to the rest of societal space. Significantly, however, it is exactly its possible transformative function which constitutes heterotopia as an analytical tool. At the same time, many critical perspectives also disregard heterotopia’s literary origins, which Foucault outlined in The Order of Things8 . Notable exceptions are Bill Ashcroft, Tiziana Morosetti, Marcel Thoene, and Sarah K. Cantrell. Bill Ashcroft and Tiziana Morosetti write from a postcolonial perspective. While Ashcroft considers silence in J.M. Coetzee’s oeuvre as a metaphorical heterotopic space which functions in a heterotopic manner (“Silence” 145), Morosetti reads African counter‐narratives by Femi Osofisan, Buchi Emecheta, and Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o as “literary het7 Within the scope of the present work, it is quite impossible to provide an overview of all research to date on heterotopia – the amount of texts would certainly provide enough material for a book‐length study. A highly recommendable source which includes an in‐depth and continually updated bibliography of literature on heterotopia is Peter Johnson’s blog Heterotopian Studies. Chapter Two provides more information on Johnson’s blog and on the various disciplines and areas in which the concept has been employed. Another overview of heterotopia’s reception can be found in Kelvin Knight’s PhD thesis on heterotopia in fiction (Real Places 22-34). The present thesis concentrates on works which are relevant for contextualising its understanding and application of heterotopia. 8 More information on heterotopia’s literary dimension will be provided in Chapter Two. At this point it is important to point out that the present thesis conceives of this literary dimension as going beyond merely focusing on the representation of heterotopic spaces in literature. Rather, it argues that textual strategies – like for instance the deliberate play with genre conventions, a text's narrative perspective or modes of mediation – can also have heterotopic and thus potentially subversive or transformative effects on the reader.

Introduction

erotopias” which employ non‐realistic genres9 (49). Cantrell explores Hogwarts in the Harry Potter novels as a heterotopic space which has “both reflective and compensatory functions, taking protagonists and readers away from their respective worlds in order to renew their sense of the conflicts that permeate those worlds” (209). Thus, she too draws attention to a literary text’s heterotopic potential for change. All three researchers thus provide case studies which illustrate that textual strategies can have heterotopic, and thus potentially subversive effects. In his study of four American novels, Marcel Thoene comes up with the term ‘narrative heterotopia’ which he applies to Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections. Thoene suggests that a narrative heterotopia is the socially constructed, dynamic entity that assumes different significations to different people at different times under different circumstances. St. Jude [the space analysed] is outsourced from being a mere place, and it even goes further than solely representing an inscribed place. By the time that two or more realizations of it collide, it is discursivized, therefore generating the heterotopia. (Thoene 161) Thoene’s definition draws attention to the fact that he conceives of heterotopia as a form of discourse and links it to what he describes as “the very heart of spatial studies, i.e. the historicity of spaces, the dynamics of attributes that society inscribes into spaces, or simultaneous significations that spaces signal to different recipients, which are all paradigms providing material for a plenitude of (historical) narratives” (ibid. 52). Even though Thoene does not elaborate on his understanding of discourse but only mentions Foucault’s “crucial contribution to” the concept (ibid. 52), the notion of heterotopia as a form of discourse appears to share with the present study a concern with how ‘language’ (in its broadest sense) and textual strategies can develop agency and create particular effects. However, his concept of narrative heterotopia ultimately remains rather vague and opens up many questions: Like Ashcroft’s, Morosetti’s and Cantrell’s readings, Thoene’s approach does not clarify how exactly those strategies work, and to what extent heterotopia can be used as an analytical framework or tool which is employed to bring about a text’s transformative heterotopic potential. This can probably be traced back to the fact that Ashcroft’s, Morosetti’s, and Cantrell’s interpretations appear in the form of essays and Thoene’s analysis takes up only a minor part of his study (it is not even 9 At this point it seems appropriate to draw attention to the fact that the term ‘heterotopia’ does not always refer back to Foucault’s theory. In her study, published in German, Judith Leiß for instance reads heterotopia as a sub‐genre of utopia and points out that her understanding of the concept differs from that of Foucault (40). She classifies those utopian texts as heterotopia which respond aesthetically to postmodernism (ibid. 20) and uses the term heterotopia because other critics in utopian studies previously employed it with reference to Foucault (ibid. 21; 39).

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mentioned again in the conclusion). This indicates that they do not have the necessary scope to bring about more in‐depth insights into the nature of heterotopia’s literary dimension, or perhaps that they simply chose to focus on different, equally valid aspects of heterotopia than the ones investigated here. There is, however, a longer study by Kelvin Knight entitled Real Places and Impossible Spaces: Foucault’s Heterotopia in the Fiction of James Joyce, Vladimir Nabokov, and W.G. Sebald, which aims “to reclaim the heterotopia for literary analysis” (Knight Real Places 21). Additionally, many findings of his thesis can also be found in his later essay “Placeless Places: Resolving the Paradox of Foucault’s Heterotopia” (2017). Disregarding Foucault’s later definition of heterotopia in favour of the earlier French original transcript of Foucault’s radio talk on the concept, Knight argues that heterotopia was never meant to be applied to real, tangible spaces (Real Places 21). Instead, he proposes to conceive of heterotopias exclusively as “literary motifs” (ibid. 21) and “fictional representations” of real spaces (“Placeless places” 142). However, focusing on heterotopic spaces only as ‘literary motifs’ still means that any analysis following his approach remains on the level of representation and disregards the potential textual agency those literary representations might have. Foucault’s remarks on heterotopia’s literary dimension on the other hand clearly reference the effect a text by Jorge Luis Borges, and particularly the way in which the narrative is arranged, had on him: It made him review the dominant mode of thinking at that time (Foucault, Order of Things xvi). Thus, Knight’s understanding of heterotopia serves, like Ashcroft’s, Morosetti’s, Cantrell’s, and Thoene’s, to foreground that Foucault’s concept does indeed not only refer to physically tangible places, but his approach finally does not seem to use heterotopia productively for literary analysis either. The present thesis on the other hand will show that focusing exclusively on the level of representation limits the enormous potential Foucault’s concept implies for studying literary representations of space in the context of exclusionary boundaries and how they might be destabilised. In fact, it will become clear that the representational or plot level on which issues like power, ideology and social change are discussed can engage productively with an additional, interactive level. This level can be reconstructed by drawing attention to the narrative techniques and literary strategies that function in a heterotopic manner. In order to develop, explore and assess heterotopia as an analytical tool from the perspective of literary studies, the present thesis is divided into three sections, each consisting of several chapters. The first section offers theoretical perspectives on power, exclusion, and space: Chapter One establishes the theoretical framework of this study and familiarises readers with Michel Foucault’s concept of power, Louis Althusser’s theory of ideology, Antonio Gramsci’s understanding of hegemony and Stuart Hall’s notion of representation. While all of these concepts will be used throughout the upcoming analyses, Sections Two and Three also draw on further theories from cultural studies (e.g. stereotyping or myth) and literary studies (e.g.

Introduction

genre theory and narratology). Chapter Two moreover illustrates the understanding of space on which this thesis is built. In addition, it introduces the concept of heterotopia in greater depth and clarifies its use of the term ‘heterotopic space’. In a next step, it sets out to develop the concept of interactive heterotopic spaces by combining Foucault’s notion of heterotopia with Wolfgang Iser’s reader‐response theory. Such spaces are opened up by textual strategies which encourage readers to reassess established norms and outlooks. Sections Two and Three then focus on the analysis of such (interactive) heterotopic spaces. Section Two argues from a cultural studies perspective and analyses the representation of three different heterotopic spaces in six contemporary novels. Each of those spaces is characterised by a central conflict which illustrates the exclusionary boundaries that marginalise particular ethnic and religious groups in Britain. This study investigates the possibility of destabilising those boundaries, which is implied in the heterotopic spaces at the heart of the respective chapters. Against the background of the apparently exclusionary binaries of secularism and religion, particularly Islam, in Britain, Chapter Three studies Robin Yassin-Kassab’s The Road from Damascus (2008) and Leila Aboulela’s Minaret (2005). It offers close readings of the different mosque spaces and spatial practices represented in the novels and focuses on their relationship to and interaction with the rest of social space in order to explore the mosque’s heterotopic potential for overcoming the binaries mentioned above. Chapter Four is concerned with the conflict arising from the so‐called Oxford Myth: the promise of societal belonging which is implied in an Oxford education, but frequently turns out to remain unfulfilled for black students10 . Focusing on Diran Adebayo’s Some Kind of Black (1996) and David Dabydeen’s The Intended (1991), the chapter analyses representations of the University of Oxford and the extent to which it is shown to help the protagonists destabilise or even overcome exclusionary boundaries. Chapter Five offers a historical11 perspective on a conflict that rests upon the brutal system of slavery which not only abused and excluded an unimaginable number of people, but also perpetuated notions of white superiority and British imperial power that last until today. In its reading of Andrea Levy’s The Long Song (2010) and Bernardine Evaristo’s Blonde Roots (2008), Chapter 10 A prominent figure who has recently spoken about her experiences in Oxford as a black British student is Afua Hirsch, both in her book Brit(ish): On Race, Identity and Belonging and in an essay for the Guardian. She writes in the essay that upon hearing that she was a student in Oxford people usually presumed that she went to Oxford Brookes, “assum[ing] that was where someone who looked like me belonged” (par. 3). She also concludes that “our universities are both a symptom and a cause of segregation” (ibid. par. 5). Oxford, as the proverbial British or even English university, appears to represent this particularly clearly. 11 By focusing on the plantation from a historical perspective, the present thesis foregrounds the “sense of historicity” which, according to Gesa Stedman, was introduced by cultural studies’ “founding fathers” like Raymond Williams but has since then been lost (5).

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Five therefore examines the heterotopic potential of the plantation in the context of Transatlantic slavery and analyses how the former slaves use the plantation in order to expose its compensatory, hegemonic function for the British colonisers. Section Three then moves from a cultural studies analysis to a literary perspective on the three spaces selected for this thesis and puts the concept of interactive heterotopic spaces into practice. It explores two broader tendencies which can be seen to realise or support a text’s heterotopic potential for change in the reader: creating unfamiliar familiarity and generating closeness and/or distance. The first tendency, investigated in Chapter Six, is generated by the transformation of genre conventions. The chapter thus offers an analysis of Yassin-Kassab’s and Aboulela’s modifications of the Bildungsroman genre, and Levy’s and Evaristo’s at times deliberate play with conventions of the slave narrative. The literary strategies examined in Chapter Seven are the textual interactions with an implied reader in The Intended and Some Kind of Black, as well as the use of unreliable and world‐constructing narration in The Long Song and Blonde Roots, all of which can be taken to develop closeness to or distance from particular ideological positions in the plot. Indeed, those strategies open up an interactive heterotopic space between reader and text. Such a space creates a realm in which the conflicts analysed in Section Two can be analysed on a level which goes beyond textual representation and instead examines the novels’ textual agency. These introductory remarks and the brief preview of the present study have hopefully shown that it is primarily concerned with heterotopia’s potential for change and social transformation. Exploring this potential by applying a close reading approach to literary representations of heterotopic spaces which pays attention to the works’ social, cultural, and political contexts at the same time seems particularly fitting, given that literature has long been associated with a social function. Literature’s ability to offer alternative representations and change attitudes has for instance been addressed through “‘writing back’” against established and canonical dominant narratives (Thieme 1). This tendency is particularly prominent in black12 British and British Muslim literature, the two groups of texts at the centre of this work. 12 The use of the term ‘black British literature’ has been debated intensely (e.g. Procter 5; Reichl 33-40; Stein 7-18). Discussions range from concerns about grouping together heterogeneous texts in the first place to the denomination ‘black’ British itself. In this context, Gail Low and Marion Wynne-Davies explain that “the use of upper or lower case ‘b’ in the term denotes different groups, with the lower case signifying non‐white communities that have suffered a history of racism, and the upper case ‘B’ referring to an assertion of a chosen Afro‐centric cultural identity” (3). Since the present thesis is concerned with writers from diverse backgrounds such as Nigeria, Guyana, and Jamaica, and focuses on structures which generate belonging or exclusion, the use of lower case ‘b’ seems more fitting. However, it should be noted that the capitalised version is used when referring to theoretical concepts and categories which use an upper case ‘B’,

Introduction

Black British Literature: Diran Adebayo, David Dabydeen, Bernardine Evaristo, and Andrea Levy According to Mark Stein, black British literature is particularly characterised by its heterogeneity (18). It can best be described as a collective term that covers an imagined experiential field of overlapping territories. While at its narrowest it merely refers to writers with an African Caribbean background, at its widest it can include writing that takes recourse to domains such as Africa, Asia, or the Caribbean, and attendant cultural and aesthetic traditions. (Stein 17f.) Still, what most texts which belong to the category of black British literature share is that they not only deal with Briton’s black inhabitants, but also with British society more generally (Stein xii). Thus, Stein suggests that “[o]ne of the values of the term black British literature lies precisely in its reference to Britain and Britishness and its implied proposition that these concepts are subject to redress” (ibid. 17, original emphasis). This clearly illustrates that black British literature is concerned with questions of belonging, exclusion, and social change. Stein’s observation that black British literature “is about redefining where one is staying, about claiming one’s space, and about reshaping that space” (ibid.) is even more relevant for this thesis: His use of a spatial register points to the fact that many works of black British literature are actively involved in renegotiating the boundaries which generate marginalisation. Susanne Reichl also notes that black British literature can “be regarded as a counter‐discourse to mainstream British fiction in that it inscribes new positions and thus exerts some transformative power”13 (39f.). The black British novels discussed in the present thesis, Diran Adebayo’s Some Kind of Black, Bernardine Evaristo’s Blonde Roots, David Dabydeen’s The Intended, and Andera Levy’s The Long Song, also engage with those concerns. Sara Upstone refers to Levy and Evaristo as “two of the most established recent black British writers” (“Some Kind of Black” 279). The Long Song was nominated for renowned prizes (it appeared on the longlist of the 2010 Orange Prize and was shortlisted for the 2010 Man Booker Prize) and won the 2011 Walter Scott Prize for historical fiction. This certainly indicates considerable public attention. Blonde Roots is equally acclaimed: It was shortlisted for the 2009 youth panel of the Orange Prize and longlisted for the original Orange Prize in the same year. In Ireland, it was longlisted for the such as for instance the (female) Black British Bildungsroman (e.g. Tönnies, “Feminizing” 52 and Tönnies, “Black British Bildungsroman”). 13 Similarly, John McLeod concludes that black British literature “is often endeavouring to redraft an understanding of the nation and its people that is prompted by, but ultimately supersedes, exclusively Black British concerns” (46).

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2009 International Dublin Literary Award, it was a finalist for the Hurston/Wright Legacy Award in the U.S. and won The Big Red Read Award. Some Kind of Black won the 1995 Saga Prize even before it was published, the 1996 Writers’ Guild Award and the 1997 Betty Trask Award, whereas The Intended was awarded the Guyana Prize for Literature in 1991. It is perhaps because their works have been published by smaller publishing houses (Abacus and Peepal Tree) than Levy’s and Evaristo’s novels (Headline and Penguin) that they seem to be less well‐known to a non‐academic audience. Research on Levy’s and Evaristo’s novels is mostly homogeneous in foregrounding their focus on rewriting history14 and their categorisation as slave narratives15 . Indeed, similarly to this work, most researchers have read The Long Song and Blonde Roots as neo‐slave narratives, with some of them investigating the novels’ affiliation with the genre in greater detail (e.g. Lima 135 and Burkitt 408f.). Sofía MuñozValdivieso has examined The Long Song “in the context of comic African American slavery fiction” (“This tale” 45) and has foregrounded both novels’ status as British varieties of the slave narrative (“Neo-Slave Narratives” 43 and “Revisiting” 62). Her observations in this respect serve as a point of departure for the analysis in Chapter Six and will be explored there in greater depth with regard to the novels’ appropriations of various features of different slave narrative varieties. Space does not feature prominently within research on the two novels. Indeed, neither Levy’s nor Evaristo’s novel has been read in the context of space, let alone heterotopia. The plantation is merely considered as a background against which the plot unfolds, but there is to date no study which has focused on it explicitly. It is perhaps because the plantation features so prominently in the novels that it has so far been taken 14 Sara Upstone for instance considers The Long Song and Blonde Roots as “strategic rewritings of history intended to simultaneously speak to the silencing of black voices in conventional historiography, and the realities of race relations in contemporary Britain” (“Some Kind of Black” 280). Similar views are expressed by Tolan’s (100), Baxter’s (80), Fischer’s (112), Muñoz-Valdivieso’s (“This tale” 39), Laursen’s (66), Lima’s (137-144), and Flajšarová’s (321) readings of The Long Song, and in Burkitt’s (407) and von Rosenberg’s (385f.) analysis of Blonde Roots. Jana Gohrisch on the other hand identifies factors which limit the subversive function of Levy’s novel (430). 15 Researchers who offer different perspectives on the two novels are for instance Fiona Tolan, Judie Newman, Ole Laursen, Michelle Gadpaille, and Elif Öztabak-Avci. While Tolan employs a feminist and postcolonial perspective and compares The Long Song to Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea (103-106), Newman reads Blonde Roots as a utopian text (284) and links its reversal strategy to Lord of the Flies by William Golding (285). Laursen examines The Long Song in the context of trauma studies and Hirsch’s concept of postmemory (53), and Gadpaille draws attention to the practice of ‘pica’ – consuming non‐food items – as “a structural motif” in the novel (3). Öztabak-Avci investigates the narratee in Levy’s novel (118). Her approach is interesting because it includes the level of interaction between reader and text, even though by focusing on the narratee she employs a rather different approach than the present study.

Introduction

for granted and thus neglected in previous research. Critics have certainly identified the novels’ potential for generating new perspectives on Britain’s legacy of slavery and questions of belonging. However, neither their categorisation as slave narratives with a rhetorical function, nor researchers’ preoccupation with the texts’ rewriting of history have led to an examination of how their use of literary strategies might interact productively with representations of space so as to encourage an active, and potentially subversive reading process. The present work intends to close this gap by providing a close reading of the plantation as a heterotopic space and a thorough study of the textual strategies which might destabilise boundaries and promote transformation. Similarly, there are no critical perspectives on The Intended and Some Kind of Black which have read the University of Oxford as a heterotopic space. It is certainly true that Oxford does not feature too prominently as the actual setting of the plots. Most critical readings appear to have overlooked the enormous significance which Oxford and the Oxford Myth attached to it carry for the protagonists and their sense of belonging to Britain. Indeed, while critics have focused on the representation of London and its North-South divide in Adebayo’s novel (Sommer, “Texts” 359f.; Stein 19) and the switches between London and Guyana in The Intended (West 226; Relich, “A Labyrinthine Odyssey” 129), Oxford in general has been disregarded in secondary literature on the two novels but for one notable exception: Reading Some Kind of Black and The Intended as “‘postcolonial’ university novels”, Merle Tönnies offers highly insightful close readings of Oxford (“Postcolonial University Novel” 16). She concludes that in Adebayo’s narrative, “[t]he self‐seclusion of the institution is [...] brought to the reader’s attention in the very set‐up of the plot” (ibid. 28). Similarly, she points out that Dabydeen’s depiction of the protagonist’s experiences at an Oxford library indicate the fact that ultimately, “exclusion cannot be suppressed and manifests itself implicitly on a number of levels” (ibid. 25). Her position thus introduces a more critical perspective on Oxford16 in the two novels than in most other research, where Oxford is at times mentioned but not really analysed: Many readings of Adebayo’s narrative have for instance suggested that the protagonist Dele’s Oxford education provides him with the cultural resources to construct an identity (Mathias 177) or that it “makes him part pf the elite, upper class” (Câmpu 60). In her reading of Some Kind of Black as a representative of “utopian realism”, Sara Upstone indeed considers Dele’s admission to Oxford the novel’s utopian element17 (“Postcolonial” 144). 16 Chris Weedon shows similar tendencies when he briefly mentions the University's representation as “supposedly liberal” (87, emphasis added). 17 The realist element consists of the novel’s depiction of violence, dialect, racism and its detailed geography of London (Upstone “Postcolonial” 143).

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The Transformative Potential of Black British and British Muslim Literature

Most researchers celebrate Dele’s hybrid identity (Kurtén 53f. and George Sesay 103f.) and the novel’s depiction of the complexities of a multi‐ethnic society (Dawes 22f.)18 . Despite those dynamics, there are also critics who have noticed Some Kind of Black’s overall “tragic plot” (Stein 19). This observation is supported by Koye Oyedeji, who concludes that Adebayo’s text “serves[s] to remind us of the tensions and obstacles of [sic] which we face as we negotiate the differing dominant ideology of the territory we call home” (370). The present study shares his opinion and intends to provide insights into how this perspective is generated by the novel’s representation of Oxford as a heterotopic space. At the same time, it is argued here that Some Kind of Black still contains elements which might counter the pessimistic outlook on the plot level. These elements will be examined by applying the concept of interactive heterotopic spaces in Chapter Seven. Research on The Intended is most extensive19 compared with the other three black British novels discussed here, but at the same time also particularly homogeneous, with the novel’s use of intertextuality as its predominant concern. In contrast to the present study, most research considers The Intended a subversive, “decolonizing” (McIntyre 154) text. This evaluation is frequently based on the novel’s use of intertextuality as a signifier of agency (Stein 169) and a hybrid identity (Fernández Vázquez 81 and 87; West 234f.)20 . Even 18 Mark Stein (19) and Kwame Dawes (22f.) express similar views, whereas Sabrina Brancato offers a curiously negative reading of Dele’s identity when she suggests that he stands for an “essentialist and static notion of identity” (60) which illustrates the novel’s overall “dichotomous stance” (ibid. 64). 19 There is for instance an edited volume edited by Kevin Grand on David Dabydeen’s oeuvre which also includes three essays on The Intended. Similarly, a collection of essays on postcolonialism and autobiography in the works of Michelle Cliff, David Dabydeen, and Opal Palmer Adisa includes articles by William Boelhower, Wolfgang Binder, Tobias Döring, and Martina GhoshSchellhorn, who explore The Intended against the background of autobiography. 20 Further examples are for instance Russell West-Pavlov’s analysis of the novel’s depiction of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. He argues that Conrad’s text functions as “the principal pedagogic text through which reading skills, and thus access to hegemonic English culture, subsequently endorsed by examination results and university entrance, is transmitted to a young generation of immigrants” (52). In a surprinsingly optimistic reading of the The Intended, which seems to confirm the Oxford Myth, Mario Relich observes that their discussion of Heart of Darkness “reveals so much about Shaz, Joseph and the narrator himself” (“Literary Subversion” 55). He pays particular attention to the fact that the narrator’s reliance on the literary text itself helps him to create “his own individual identity”, whereas Joseph’s attempt to produce a film version of it leads to his ultimate failure “because film turns out to be too treacherous a medium” (ibid. 53). José Santiago Fernández Vázquez sees Joseph’s interpretation of Heart of Darkness as a counter‐discourse which challenges the narrator’s trust in dominant hegemonic discourses (88). Karen McIntyre argues that Dabydeen’s novel contains a “revisionary rewriting of canonical material – […] Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness” (159). Similarly, in his review of the novel, Charles Sarvan meticulously draws attention to aspects which he sees as (direct) references to Heart of Darkness (58-61), and Mark Stein suggests that The Intended “‘writes back’” to Conrad’s

Introduction

though there are critics who have noted that the protagonist’s degree of assimilation is highly problematic (West-Pavlov 50; West 221; Fee 69), they still tend to see the use of intertextuality in the novel as a highly positive element21 which counterbalances the protagonist’s ambiguous development. This work takes up a different stance and will show that other strategies in the novel are so dominant that they in fact limit the role of intertextual references. The present thesis attempts to offer a more nuanced reading of The Intended and Some Kind of Black than can be found in most other research. Such a perspective requires the analysis to not only acknowledge the functions of Oxford as a heterotopic space in the novel but also examine how textual strategies might contribute to or interfere with the novels’ heterotopic potential for change in the reader.

British Muslim Literature: Robin Yassin-Kassab and Leila Aboulela Robin Yassin-Kassab’s The Road from Damascus and Leila Aboulela’s Minaret belong to the category of British Muslim literature22 . The term ‘British Muslim literature’ is used here to refer to contemporary texts by British Muslim writers which mirror a novel (164) and thus concludes that the novel foregrounds “textual agency” (ibid. 169). For a discussion of further intertextual references in the novel, including William Shakespeare and William Wordsworth, see Jutta Schamp (134-140). Other examples of critics who focus on intertextuality in the novel are Pietro Deandrea (168) and Mark McWatt (112). 21 Other topics in secondary literature which are considered to contribute to the overall optimistic reading of the novel are its use of Creole (Parry 91; Fernández Vázquez 98; West 230) as well as “[t]he text itself, in its form, its deliberate messiness [which] counters the iron cage of racial absolutism and hierarchy" (Fee 124). 22 The designation of texts by writers with a British Muslim background is still being debated: Critics have for instance used terms like “British Muslim Migrant Fictions” (Nash, Writing Muslim Identity 26), “literature by writers of Muslim heritage” (Chambers, British Muslim Fictions 5), “British Muslim Women’s Writing” (Tancke 1), “Muslim Immigrant Fiction” (Hassan 298) or “black British Muslimah Literature” (Schmidt 25-35) to designate different aspects and emphases of texts by writers with a British Muslim background. There are also perspectives which refrain from employing any specific designation by making use of descriptions. Examples are Esra Mirze Santesso’s monograph Disorientation: Muslim Identity in Contemporary Anglophone Literature, which includes a chapter called “Islam and British Literature” (28-56), or Rehana Ahmed’s Writing British Muslims: Religion, Class and Multiculturalism (2015). The present study has selected the term ‘British Muslim literature’ for a number of reasons: It is supposed to foreground similarities to the other group of texts analysed here, black British literature. They share the concern with questions of marginalisation and belonging, but differ in a very crucial aspect: As pointed out previously, black British literature operates within a framework of racism and ethnicity, whereas Aboulela and Yassin-Kassab focus on religion and Islamophobia. The two signifiers ‘British’ and ‘Muslim’ thus serve to highlight the fact that this work is concerned with British literature and that it analyses texts in terms of religion rather than ethnicity.

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The Transformative Potential of Black British and British Muslim Literature

shift from ethnic to explicitly religious issues, and which aim at “re‐map[ping] the British landscape from a broadly Muslim perspective” (Chambers, “Recent Literary Representations” 179). In this sense, the novels discussed in the present work belong to a rather recent tendency within literary representations by British Muslims. It developed after 2001, when Britain saw “clashes between British South Asian and white youths in the northern English cities of Burnley, Oldham and Bradford” and the 9/11 attacks led to “the so‐called ‘war on terror’” (ibid. 176). This does not mean that literature in Britain did not focus on Islam before those events. Rather, Chambers argues that writers like Hanif Kureishi, Zadie Smith or Ian McEwan “have used Islam rather reductively, typically as a marker of fundamentalism, Islamism or the stereotypical figure of the terrorist” (ibid. 175)23 . Islam occupies a central position in those texts, but it still “remain[s] subservient to other issues such as gender, class, sexuality and regional identities” (Chambers, “Recent Literary Representations” 175). In contrast to that, the texts analysed here belong to a group of narratives which portray Islam in a more complex way. Chambers sees them as a response to Islamophobia (ibid. 176) and suggests that they “are beginning to challenge the dominance that the concept of ethnicity has had over perceptions of migrant diasporic writing” (ibid. 187). Other critics have made similar observations: Esra Mirze Santesso for instance identifies “a shift in recent Anglophone fiction from a focus on ethno‐racial tension to religious alienation” (4). Thus, rather than dismissing religion as a secondary marker of identity, writers like Aboulela24 and Yassin-Kassab consciously engage with the possibility of belonging to Britain while at the same time being a practicing Muslim25 . The complexity which characterises British Muslim literature’s treatment of Islam is also mirrored in the secondary literature on Aboulela’s and Yassin-Kassab’s novels. While there is only a handful of contributions available on The Road from Damascus, which are mostly concerned with questions of identity and representations of Islam26 (Chambers, “Sexy Identity-Assertion” 119; Rashid 93; Hilal 16; Ilott 31-42), Aboulela’s Minaret has generated a broad spectrum of criticism. In his Guardian review of the novel, Mike Phillips describes it as “a challenging tale” (par. 23 For a similar view see Catherine Rashid, who adds Nadeem Aslam’s Maps for Lost Lovers to the list mentioned above (94), a writer whom Chambers also includes in the new tendency she identifies (“Recent Literary Representations” 179-182). 24 In fact, Lindsey Moore refers to Aboulela as “to date the most high‐profile advocate of the Islamic revival in English‐language literature” (75). 25 Critics argue that this development can also be observed in society in general: Stefano Allievi identifies a “‘return of religions’” (19) in secularised public spaces, while Nasar Meer suggests that there is a new “‘Muslim consciousness’” which explains British Muslims’ increasingly dynamic negotiation of their religious identity (180). For more information see Chapter Three. 26 The only reading which adopts a different perspective can be found in Anna Rettberg’s essay on the novel’s approach to conviviality (188).

Introduction

1) and notes that “Aboulela takes a huge risk in describing her heroine’s religious conversion and spiritual dedication” (ibid. par. 11). His register already indicates that critical opinion on Minaret is extremely diverse and ranges from highly positive readings in the context of feminism (Hasan 100; Schmidt 123), empowerment and female choice (Cariello 340f.; Hunter 96; Dimitriu 124) to “right‐wing Islamism” (Abbas 84), a “fundamentalism” that is “apolitical” (Hassan 317) as well as criticism of the novel’s pedagogic and didactic undertones (Nash, Anglo-Arab Encounter 145; Hunter 88; Abbas 90). In this context, the hijab, the Muslim veil, features as a dominant motif in secondary literature (Santesso 91-97; Canpolat 226-232; Schmidt 115-120)27 . It is perhaps because religion and particularly Islam and the signifiers attached to it (like for instance the veil) are ideologically charged to a considerable degree that most readings are either highly positive and celebratory or extremely negative28 . A notable exception is Eva Hunter, whose perspective the present study shares. She remarks that “Aboulela is to be esteemed for the aesthetic quality of her work and for evoking the comforts of her faith as well as the rewards of its daily disciplines, but, given her work’s appeal to young Muslim women, the quietist ‘solution’ that she advocates for Najwa is of concern” (94).29 Sarah Ilott reads both The Road from Damascus and Minaret as “British Muslim Bildungsromane” (27) and, similarly to this work, considers “shifting genre boundaries as a means of understanding shifting constructions of Britishness” (ibid. 5). However, in contrast to this study, she uses the Bildungsroman’s concern with identity as a point of departure and focuses on the representations of identity in novels by British Muslim writers rather than engaging with the Bildungsroman form or structure explicitly. Since the present study thus differs considerably from Ilott’s reading, both in terms of its overall approach and its interpretation of the two novels, it refers to Minaret and The Road from Damascus as British Muslim interactions 27 More information on how the novel’s depiction of the veil has been received by critics will be provided in Chapter Three. 28 Examples of positive readings are for instance Anna Ball, who considers Minaret “a neat act of textual resistance to the reductive notion of Islam” (120), Ileana Dimitriu’s claim that the novel promotes “a state of mind based on a utopian vision of human solidarity beyond the orthodox dichotomies of home/exile or secular/spiritual” (125), Hasan’s interpretation that “Aboulela offers an alternative definition of freedom, that is, the right to choose one’s way of life based on the Islamic worldview” (98), and Ilott’s suggestion that “Aboulela’s novels are paradigm‐shifting” (52). An openly critical but nonetheless convincingly argued interpretation is offered by Sadia Abbas (84-94). 29 A similar tendency can be observed in Claire Chamber’s reading which admits that Minaret’s “belief in a transcendental ummah [community of Muslim believers] is somewhat naïve, and downplays the very real tensions between different Muslim groups within an in any case divided Britain”, but still acknowledges that it is “an interesting novel of Muslim experience” (“Recent Literary Representations” 182). Hassan expresses a similar view (317).

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The Transformative Potential of Black British and British Muslim Literature

with the Bildungsroman instead of using the term ‘British Muslim Bildungsromane’. Catherine Rashid, Anna Rettberg and Lindsey Moore also consider the two novels as examples of the Bildungsroman. Just as the present thesis, Rashid refers to Mark Stein’s ‘novels of transformation’ and argues that “Yassin-Kassab is certainly aware of the socially transformative effects of a novel within an Islamophobic climate” (95). However, she focuses on the novel’s use of Sufi discourse rather than established Bildungsroman patterns in order to ascertain its transformative effects. Similarly, in her study of The Road from Damascus, Anna Rettberg concentrates on ethnicity rather than the genre itself. Distancing herself from Stein’s concept, Lindsey Moore examines Minaret in the context of Felski’s theory of feminist literature: She argues that Minaret privileges the “‘voyage in’” in the sense of “spiritual retreat” rather than the “‘voyage out’” typical of Bildungsromane (68f.) and reads the novel as an example of the shift in British literature from ethnic (Arab) to religious (Muslim) markers of identity. Thus, her interpretation, too, focuses more on the text’s representation of identity and feminist perspectives than on the genre itself. Space has not attracted much critical attention in the two novels. The only study which focuses explicitly on space in Minaret is an essay by Marta Cariello, who examines the mosque, the city of London and the kitchen. She touches upon the mosque only very briefly and offers no close reading of it, but merely describes its minaret as a space “that will host her [Najwa’s] survival” (340). Generally, the mosque is frequently mentioned by critics of Minaret 30 , but it has not yet been read as a heterotopic space31 . Literary criticism on The Road from Damascus has given equally little consideration to the mosque. The only notable reference appears in Anna Rettberg’s study of the novel. She focuses on the text’s description of Brick Lane mosque as a multicultural building and concludes that it “has obviously become an important topos for the multiethnic history of immigration to Britain and especially for the convivial Englishness in London” (185). Thus, apart from rather rudimentary references to and interpretations of the mosque in the two works, secondary literature seems to have overlooked its potential for destabilising power structures and challenging marginalisation. Reading the mosque as a heterotopic space will thus broaden the spectrum of critical perspectives on the novels significantly. Critics have associated Aboulela’s and Yassin-Kassab’s works with the Bildungsroman and identified didactic undertones in Minaret in particular. It can 30 See for instance Hunter (91), Hasan (100), Hilal (129) and Schmidt (115), who read the mosque as a space of comfort and belonging. Lindsey Moore, however, has noted that “[h]her [Najwa’s] mosque associations […] are not genuine attempts at friendship, but rather temporary alliances and attachments” (89). 31 In the last paragraph of her essay, Cariello remarks that spaces like the ones she focused on in her analysis “are possible heterotopias” (349), but she does not refer to Foucault or explicate how she defines heterotopia, nor does she apply the concept to her reading.

Introduction

therefore be assumed that the texts’ potential societal function has not gone unnoticed. However, this potential has so far been linked exclusively to Minaret’s and The Road from Damascus’s representations of British Muslims and Islam, and not to their appropriation of the established Bildungsroman genre. The present study on the other hand will go one step further and include the textual strategies employed by the works in order to ascertain how exactly they facilitate a reading process which might encourage readers to actively interact with the representations offered by the texts. The textual agency developed by Minaret and The Road from Damascus becomes especially obvious because the novels differ so considerably from other representatives of the genre. As has been shown above, both Foucault’s notion of heterotopia and the works discussed here have often been approached in ways which do not fully consider and explore their potential for change and transformation. The upcoming analyses will therefore employ the concept of heterotopia as an analytical tool in order to examine the texts at hand. Focusing on representations of heterotopic spaces and the use of literary strategies, they will investigate how the novels develop textual agency and negotiate exclusionary boundaries. Ultimately, the present thesis will explore the texts’ transformative potential in the context of what might be called a politics of destabilisation.

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Section One: Theoretical Perspectives

1

Theoretical Framework: Perspectives on Power and Exclusion

The present chapter presents the theoretical framework of the thesis, introducing readers to the concepts that connect the upcoming analytical chapters with each other. The term ‘framework’ has been chosen deliberately: Each analytical chapter deals with a particular conflict which is often contextualised within specific theoretical concepts and perspectives, such as myth, modern narratology, (resistance to) grand narratives, or genre theory. However, what links or frames all those conflicts are questions of power and exclusion. The following section therefore presents an overview of the concept of power used in this work, including different forms of power, its functions and its implications for exclusion and belonging. The theories used here encompass those of Michel Foucault (power), Antonio Gramsci (hegemony), Louis Althusser (ideology) and Stuart Hall (representation). This list of names might appear somewhat surprising. While Hall already combines different theoretical positions (such as Foucault’s and Gramsci’s, as well as structuralist approaches by Ferdinand de Saussure and Roland Barthes), Foucault and Althusser seem perhaps more unusual, particularly when considering the fact that Foucault is understood to have rejected the term ‘ideology’. He is said to have “followed with critical attention the successive definitions of ideology offered by Althusser and felt compelled to engage, often polemically, with them” (Montag 71). Critics sometimes trace this back to Foucault’s ambiguous relationship with Marxism and structuralism (cf. e.g. Resch 81; Montag 75-77; Ryder 134f.). On the other hand, there are also voices which foreground similarities between Althusser and Foucault, such as for instance their challenging of humanism (M. Kelly 84), or their rejection of a purely repressive understanding of power (Simons 3-5). The present work will refrain from evaluating the compatibility of Foucault and Althusser and the intellectual movements they represent on a general level. Instead, it will restrict itself to their relevance for the upcoming analysis. In this respect, the approaches mentioned above share a crucial characteristic: They all foreground an understanding of power which includes the possibility of resistance, an aspect which is essential with regard to the aims of this thesis. Ideology and hegemony highlight different, but complementary characteristics of power and, together with

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Section One: Theoretical Perspectives

Hall’s theory of representation, provide insights into the nature and functioning of social exclusion.

1.1

The Circularity of Power

Chris Barker and Emma A. Jane point out that “[c]ultural studies writers generally agree on the centrality of the concept of power to the discipline” (12). A critic whose understanding of power is particularly relevant in this respect is Michel Foucault. He challenges the “‘repressive hypothesis’”1 (History 10), which claims that power works essentially through repression or coercion. Conceiving of power as repressive implies that it is exclusively restricted to a group who has the monopoly to exercise power over another group. In this sense, power is seen as relatively static and concentrated or centralised: it can be imagined as “radiating […] downwards on a subordinate group” (Hall, “Spectacle” 261, original emphasis). It is therefore possible to speak of a top‐down approach to power. In contrast to that, Foucault foregrounds the “circularity of power” (ibid.). Such an understanding devises power as (1) relational, (2) pervasive, and (3) productive. 1

Power is relational. According to Foucault, “the term ‘power’ designates relationships between ‘partners’ (and by that I am not thinking of a game with fixed rules but simply, and for the moment staying in the most general terms, of an ensemble of actions that induce others and follow from one another)” (“Subject” 337). The term ‘relation’ already implies a sense of movement, which emphasises the circularity of power. This characteristic of power thus rejects the idea that it is centralised. In fact, power structures might change depending on the relationship between people who are tied up in the circularity of power. Quite significantly, this also entails the possibility of resistance to or even transformation of an existing power imbalance, which constitutes a central element in the concept of power employed in this work. In addition to that, by explicitly referring to ‘partners’ who form part of a power ‘relationship’, Foucault also suggests that power includes both the powerful and the marginalised or even powerless. Thus, Mona Lilja and Stellan Vinthagen remark that according to Foucault, “the individual is both subjugated and constituted through power and

1 In The History of Sexuality. Volume I, Foucault analyses Western society’s attitude towards sexuality. Even though this is the main topic of The History of Sexuality, he also writes about the nature of power more generally. One of his questions which is related to the repressive hypothesis is whether “the workings of power, and in particular those mechanisms that are brought into play in societies such as ours, really belong primarily to the category of repression” (History 10).

1 Theoretical Framework: Perspectives on Power and Exclusion

2

an actor who disseminates it” (108). This is an observation which points to the second defining feature of power, its dispersion. Power is pervasive. Lawrence D. Kritzman maintains that “[a]ccording to Foucault, power can be found among a multiplicity of microstructures” (525). In this sense, power cannot be conceived of as being exercised from above. Rather, it operates from many different places and can be found everywhere. Foucault explains that “power relations are rooted deep in the social nexus, not a supplementary structure over and above ‘society’” (“Subject” 343). Consequently, it is not only the law or the police which exercise power on behalf of the state. Instead, Foucault argues that there is another form of power – disciplinary power2 – which is linked to schools, prisons, hospitals, and other institutions concerned with regulating and ordering people’s behaviour. In Discipline and Punish, he suggests that those institutions3 rely on division and supervision: They create a “constant division between the normal and the abnormal, to which every individual is subjected” (Discipline 199) and then brought into “a state of conscious and permanent visibility that assures the automatic functioning of power” (ibid. 201)4 . What is significant here is the fact that disciplinary power not simply controls and shapes a person’s behaviour, but also his/her mind: the fact that s/he is constantly aware of being observed and judged against a normative set of acceptable practices supports the internalisation of those norms and rules. These dynamics can be described as “normalizing judgment” (Foucault Discipline 184; Lilja and Vinthagen 109)5 . Thus, Chris Barker notes that

2 Foucault also mentions other forms of power such as sovereign power, which is reminiscent of power in the sense of the ‘repressive hypothesis’, or biopower, which, in contrast to disciplinary power’s concern with the individual, “is interested in the body of a population (a nation, members of an organisation, etc.) and its ‘health’ and ‘effectiveness’ as a totality” (Lilja and Vinthagen 118). While the present study does not focus on a specific form of power mentioned by Foucault but aims at providing insights into the nature of power more generally, disciplinary power seems to be a particularly useful example in this respect. 3 Foucault uses the prison as an example of disciplinary power. However, it should be noted that more private institutions like the family and, more generally speaking, other social practices and representations also function in a way which “shapes and normalises subjects” (Lilja and Vinthagen 109). 4 As will soon be discussed in greater detail, space or particular spatial arrangements can have a profound impact in this respect. 5 In Foucault’s theory, it is particularly discourse which shapes the norms that generate exclusion or define what is acceptable and what is not (52). He conceives of discourses not simply as a linguistic concept, but also as the practices and social actions which produce meaning, knowledge and what he has termed a ‘regime of truth’ (Hall, “Work of Representation” 44-49). Stuart Hall maintains that representation can be discursive as well as semiotic (ibid. 43; 51), and indeed both theories shape his understanding of representation. Thus, as will soon be explained, the present work will pay particular attention to representation in the sense of Stuart Hall’s notion of a ‘regime of representation’ (“Spectacle” 245).

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3

“Foucault likens the circulation of power through human societies to a capillary system and argues that it is vital to the generation of subjectivity” (162). Characterising power as pervasive or dispersed – circulating – throughout society also means that “[p]ower has its principle not so much in a person as in […] an arrangement whose internal mechanisms produce the relation in which individuals are caught up” (Foucault, Discipline 202). This understanding of power clearly forms a contrast to the repressive or openly coercive form of power: Foucault speaks of disciplinary power as “a design of subtle coercion” (Discipline 209) which affects society as a whole and “assures an infinitesimal distribution of the power relations” (ibid. 216). Power is productive. This characteristic of power is particularly relevant in the context of the present thesis, which is informed by a cultural studies perspective on power. Barker and Jane explain that power “is also understood in terms of the processes that generate and enable any form of social action, relationship or order. In this sense, power, while certainly constraining, is also enabling” (12). Thus, thinking of power as productive explicitly counters the ‘repressive hypothesis’. This becomes particularly obvious when Foucault suggests that power “needs to be considered as a productive network that runs through the whole social body, much more than as a negative instance whose function is repression” (“Subject” 129). The productive nature of power can be understood in two ways: On the one hand, (disciplinary) power can be considered productive because it shapes people’s behaviour and thoughts, thereby constituting their subjectivity – Foucault famously remarked that “[d]iscipline ‘makes’ individuals” (Discipline 170). This function can be traced back to power’s omnipresent or pervasive character in particular. On the other hand, as already implied in its relational nature, power also produces resistance. Indeed, according to Foucault, resistance is inherent to power: “Where there is power, there is resistance, and yet, or rather consequently, this resistance is never in a position of exteriority in relation to power” (History 95). Just as power operates from many different positions, so does resistance, which exists “everywhere in the power network” (ibid.). What this implies is a sense of an ongoing struggle, and resistance does not mean that power ‘ceases’ or simply disappears. Rather, a power imbalance can be destabilised and, potentially, transformed, but this transformation is then likely to be challenged again. In this sense, Foucault’s concept of power foregrounds the idea of destabilisation and transformation, and it is this aspect which will be a central element in the upcoming analytical chapters: As pointed out in the introduction, the present work is interested in studying the possibilities for change and transformation on a representational as well as on an interactional level. Foucault’s insistence on power’s inextricable link with resistance epitomises this potential quite remarkably.

1 Theoretical Framework: Perspectives on Power and Exclusion

Considering power’s productive nature, and particularly its implication of resistance, the question remains why societies are still structured by unequal power relations. The novels at the centre of the present study all foreground societal spaces which draw attention to, but also potentially challenge power imbalances, and this is a tendency which can be observed in other spaces and in society in general as well. Two concepts which attempt to disentangle that paradox are hegemony and ideology, which are thus also relevant for the upcoming analysis.

1.2

Power and Resistance: Ideology and Hegemony

Mark J.C. Stoddart notes that throughout the twentieth century, the most prominent answer to the question posed above was provided by Marxism and its notion of ideology (195). It is generally agreed that Marxism conceives of ideology as a “false consciousness” (Engels qtd. in Dant 63). Chris Barker and Emma A. Jane summarise the Marxist notion of ideology as follows: Marx […] argues that the dominant ideas in any society are the ideas of the ruling class. Second, he suggests that what we perceive to be the true character of social relationships within capitalism are in actuality the mystifications of the market. That is, we accept the idea that we are free to sell our labour, and that we get a fair price for it, since this is the way the social world appears to us. (71) It is not only because of its rather exclusive focus on the economic sphere that the Marxist approach to ideology has been criticised but also because of its implications for the individual: Indeed, Stoddart notes that in the context of Marxism, ideology is often seen as “a relatively stable body of knowledge that the ruling class transmits wholesale to its subordinate classes” (192). This is reminiscent of the top‐down approach or ‘repressive’ approach to power and leaves only little room for resistance or individual agency. Consequently, the Marxist notion of ideology does not seem to be conducive to the aims of this work. In order to avoid those limitations in the upcoming analysis, the present thesis will focus on two other perspectives which not only challenge the idea of ideology as a false consciousness, but also provide alternative explanations as to why power imbalances are so often maintained: Antonio Gramsci’s concept of hegemony and Louis Althusser’s understanding of ideology (Hall, “Race” 48; Stoddart 193; Barker and Jane 72). Althusser’s work is based on Gramsci’s theory (Barker and Jane 75) and therefore incorporates many of the latter’s thoughts and ideas. Most specifically, Althusser takes up Gramsci’s distinction between (repressive) coercion and (ideological) consent. In fact, he develops this distinction into the notions of ideological state apparatuses and repressive state apparatus, which will soon be explained in greater detail. Stuart Hall credits Althusser’s theory of ideology with instigating “a

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decisive move away from the ‘distorted ideas’ and ‘false consciousness’ approach” and “open[ing] the gate to a more ‘linguistic’ or ‘discursive’ conception of ideology” (Hall, “Problem of Ideology” 32). This is achieved by focusing on how ideologies provide the individual with a coherent position or sense of self within society, which makes him/her accept (unequal) power relations. Quite significantly, Althusser includes the concept of ‘representation’ in his approach. He suggests that it is not their real conditions of existence, their real world, that ‘men’ ‘represent to themselves’ in ideology, but above all it is their relation to those conditions of existence which is represented to them there. It is this relation which is at the centre of every ideological, i.e. imaginary, representation of the real world. (257) This definition abandons the Marxist idea that there is a distinct ‘truth’ behind the ‘false consciousness’ that is constituted by ideology. John Fiske elaborates on this aspect when he remarks that “[c]onsciousness is never the product of truth or reality but rather of culture, society, and history” (“Culture” 1269). Stuart Hall expresses a similar view when pointing out that for Althusser, “‘[i]deologies’ are here being conceptualized, not as the contents and surface forms of ideas, but as the unconscious categories through which conditions are represented and lived” (“Cultural Studies” 66). Moreover, not only does ideology operate through unconscious representations, but it also functions as a system. This becomes obvious when Althusser, in For Marx, describes it as “a system of representations” which has “a practico‐social function”, thereby emphasising that ideologies systematically create meanings as well as practices (231). What plays a particularly significant role in realising ideology as an unconscious system of representations are ideological state apparatuses (ISAs). According to Althusser, they include, among others, the educational system, family, politics, religion, media, culture, and the practices carried out in them (Reproduction of Capitalism 75; 77). In this sense, it is essential to distinguish between the ideological ISAs, which create consent, and the repressive state apparatus (RSA), which exercises coercion and is linked to the police, the army, the judiciary system and courts or the government (Althusser, Reproduction of Capitalism 153; 221). Fiske describes the functions of ISAs as follows: Althusser believes that we are all constituted as subjects‐in-ideology by the ISAs, that the ideological norms naturalized in their practices constitute not only the sense of the world for us, but also our sense of ourselves, our sense of identity, and our sense of relations to other people and to society in general. (“Culture” 1270) Thus, ISAs provide the individual with orientation and meaning and assign him/her an apparently safe position in society, thereby constituting him/her as a subject. Ultimately, this might contribute to the perpetuation of unequal power relations because the individual is made to feel comfortable in the position created for him/her. This is achieved through ‘hailing’ and ‘interpellation’. Hailing evokes the individual’s

1 Theoretical Framework: Perspectives on Power and Exclusion

attention, and interpellation refers to the process of the individual’s acceptance of the position prepared for him/her (Fiske, “Culture” 1271). Hailing and interpellation can be carried out through all kinds of practices. Since ISAs relate to a variety of social and cultural institutions, they can refer to anything which might have an impact on the perpetuation or destabilisation of power imbalances. Fiske links ideology closely to the cultural sphere. Indeed, he remarks that “culture is ideological” (“Culture” 1269). This observation can be traced back directly to ideology’s role as a mechanism or strategy of power. With regard to culture, Fiske identifies a “struggle for meaning, in which the dominant classes attempt to ‘naturalize’ the meanings that serve their interests into the ‘commonsense’ of society as a whole, whereas subordinate classes resist this process in various ways and to varying degrees and try to make meanings that serve their own interests” (ibid.). At this point it appears useful to draw attention to Gramsci’s concept of hegemony. While both Gramsci and Althusser are concerned with consent rather than coercion, they differ with regard to the levels on which consent is generated: In Althusser’s theory, it is the individual who is at the centre of attention, whereas Gramsci focuses on larger societal structures. Hegemony can thus be described as a condition which is inscribed into the structures of society: Quoting Stuart Hall, Dick Hebdige refers to hegemony as a situation in which a provisional alliance of certain social groups can exert ‘total social authority’ over other subordinate groups, not simply by coercion or by the direct imposition of ruling ideas, but by ‘winning and shaping consent so that the power of the dominant classes appears both legitimate and natural’ [Hall, 1977]. (16) It is important to keep in mind that hegemony is dependent on the subordinate group’s consent. This consent can be seen as a central element of hegemony. Not only does it seem to be based on “voluntarism”, but it also “appears as the ‘common sense’ that guides our everyday, mundane understanding of the world” (Stoddart 201), a circumstance which demarcates it clearly from purely repressive or coercive power. Consequently, hegemony – like Foucault’s concept of power and Althusser’s understanding of ideology – seems to include the opportunity for resistance: it implies that (unequal) power relations are by no means fixed but instead temporary, according with Gramsci’s definition of hegemony as a “moving equilibrium” (Hebdige 15; Clarke et al. 40). The fact that hegemony needs to be constantly achieved, negotiated or won draws attention to the ways in which this is done. Stuart Hall maintains that hegemony is “the product of a certain mastery of the class struggle” (“Race” 45). Mark C. E. Stoddart is more specific here when explaining that “the social action of everyday life produces hegemonic effects” (201). Thus, hegemony is linked to practices – hegemonic practices – which aim at generating the subordinate group’s consent to

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being governed. Both Gramsci and Althusser link such practices to culture (Stoddart 202). However, perhaps because of his concern with the individual, Althusser is much more explicit than Gramsci and his focus on social structures when it comes to explaining how culture is used to sustain hegemony: It is through cultural practices like hailing and interpellation – carried out by ISAs – that the individual is made to accept a position set out for him/her by the dominant group. Ideology structures the individual’s auto‐image and general outlook on the world, and as an unconscious system of representation, it does so in a way which seems self‐evident or ‘common sense’. It therefore seems possible to say that ideology is used to maintain hegemony. As pointed out above, the cultural and social practices and – particularly in the context of Althusserian ideology – representation can be considered essential in the process of recreating hegemonic power structures. The following section will therefore take a closer look at this process and explore how it might contribute to generating social exclusion or belonging.

1.3

The Power of Representation

Representation is an essential concept in the analysis of power and exclusion. Houston A. Baker, Jr. et al. point to the “political power of representation” which they identify as a central concern of postcolonial and black British cultural studies (7). They suggest that representation can be used subversively to challenge established, often exclusionary representations of marginalised groups by providing “alternative styles of representation” (ibid.). Indeed, representation, power and exclusion are linked in ways which can be described as either confining and hegemonic, or as productive and potentially counter‐hegemonic. In order to explain how this ambiguous relationship is established, it seems necessary to begin with a definition of the “unfinished project” of representation (Hall, “Work of Representation” 63), followed by an exploration of how it contributes to or challenges exclusion – a topic which is at the centre of the present work. The cultural studies understanding of representation has been centrally shaped by Stuart Hall. His seminal essays “The Work of Representation” and “The Spectacle of the ‘Other’” illustrate how representation contributes to the construction of meaning and can be used as a hegemonic practice to perpetuate dominant ideologies and power imbalances. Most generally, representation is about the production of meaning. Hall draws on semiotics (represented here by Ferdinand de Saussure and Roland Barthes) and on discourse (represented by Michel Foucault) to explain how representation works (“Work of Representation” 15). Hall argues that because semiotics and discourse approach representation from a constructionist perspective, neither of them supersedes the other. Instead, they both contribute greatly to the understanding of representation (ibid. 62). In fact, the semiotic and discursive

1 Theoretical Framework: Perspectives on Power and Exclusion

approaches highlight different elements of representation, which will be illustrated in the following. Semiotics is concerned with signs, and what it foregrounds with regard to representation is that meaning is constructed and ultimately naturalised, and that difference plays a significant role in this respect. The arbitrary relationship between the two elements of each sign, the signifier and the signified (de Saussure 67), suggests that meaning is never naturally given. Indeed, it is not the individual elements which generate meaning, but the various ways in which they are combined. A highly relevant concept in this respect is that of codes which “stabilize meaning within different languages and cultures” (Hall, “Work of Representation” 21). What is implied in the notion of a code is the idea that it is conventionalised and thus facilitates communication: On a rather innocent or neutral level, codes help the individual make sense of the world by translating between mental concepts and the language systems used to represent them (ibid.). However, codes also contain an ideological function: Each sign’s arbitrary nature “opens representation to the constant ‘play’ or slippage of meaning, to the constant production of new meanings, new interpretations” (ibid. 32). Hall’s observation that meaning is fixed through culturally, socially and even historically specific (ibid.) codes thus illustrates the fact that meanings preferred by particular groups or in particular times become conventionalised and eventually naturalised. In fact, this process creates dominant and marginalised meanings. What contributes considerably to codes’ naturalisation of meaning is, among other factors, the importance of difference and binary oppositions. Stuart Hall points out that “in order to produce meaning, signifiers have to be organized into ‘a system of differences’. It is the differences between signifiers which signify” (“Work of Representation” 32). Binary oppositions – that is concepts, terms, objects, ideas which carry opposite and often mutually exclusive meanings such as death or life, war or peace, are often used to establish and fix difference. Using the example of speech and writing in Western philosophy, Jacques Derrida argues in Of Grammatology that one element (speech) of the binary opposition is usually assigned a higher value than the other (writing) because they have been linked to positive (“the living self‐presence of the soul within the true logos”, 35), or negative associations (“the intrusion of an artful technique”, ibid.) respectively. What this implies is that difference and binary oppositions are not simply used to make sense of the world, but that they also function in a more normative manner by establishing hierarchies through particular signifying practices like stereotyping, a tendency which will be explored in greater depth in Chapter Five. It should be noted here that de Saussure’s theory is concerned with language in its most literal sense. Nonetheless, his approach can be applied to the cultural sphere as well. Stuart Hall maintains that “since all cultural objects convey meaning, and all cultural practices depend on meaning, they must make use of signs;

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and in so far as they do, they must work like language works” (“Work of Representation” 36). Indeed, cultural studies – represented here by Stuart Hall’s notion of representation – generally has a broad understanding of language, which also includes visual images, objects (e.g. fashion, traffic lights) or music (ibid. 19). A key theorist who has illustrated the potential of signs for the analysis of culture is Roland Barthes, whose theory of myth6 makes use of de Saussure’s semiotic approach in order to clarify how signs can be used to naturalise ideological bias. Michel Foucault’s notion of discourse broadens the scope of representation further. Like the semiotic approach, discourse takes a constructivist perspective on representation, but Foucault uses a different terminology when he refers to the construction of knowledge rather than meaning (Hall, “Work of Representation” 44). However, regardless of these differences in terminology it is important to remember that both concepts denote strategies which can generate exclusion by establishing (and ultimately naturalising) a particular norm. Hall points to three characteristics of discourse which are relevant for his theory of representation. The first is, as already mentioned above, the fact that discourse covers a broader range of elements which potentially create meaning or truth. In this sense, discourse goes beyond the semiotic understanding of language by including individual and institutional practices (ibid.). Quoting Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe, Hall foregrounds that “every social configuration is meaningful” (“Work of Representation” 45, emphasis in the original). It does therefore not come as a surprise that Hall ultimately thinks of representation as a practice (ibid. 25). Secondly, Foucault’s understanding of discourse intensifies the notion of the arbitrary character of meaning and language. Discourse is thought of as historically specific, an observation which is linked to the importance of truth in Foucault’s theory. Foucault maintains that discourses produce knowledge which changes over time7 . What this emphasises is that meaning – or knowledge – is never essential or fixed. On the one hand, this refers back to the concept of ideology employed in the present work: Since ideology aims at creating ‘meaningful’ positions for the individual in order to make him/her accept social and cultural hegemonies, it appears only logical that representation is the key means by which ideology does its work. On the other hand, the constantly changing and culturally specific nature of representation also implies the possibility of resistance and transformation. In fact, this is an observation which leads to the third contribution of Foucault’s concept of discourse to Hall’s theory of representation: Discourse provides a practical context for representation by linking the generation of meaning or knowledge to questions 6 Barthes’ concept of myth will be elaborated on in Chapter Four when it is applied to the analysis of the Oxford Myth. 7 In fact, many of Foucault’s works (The Archaeology of Knowledge, The History of Sexuality, Discipline and Punish and The Birth of the Clinic) trace the development of specific discourses over time.

1 Theoretical Framework: Perspectives on Power and Exclusion

of power (Hall, “Work of Representation” 47). A concept which is particularly relevant in this respect is Foucault’s ‘regime of truth’. In an interview on truth and power, Foucault suggests that regimes of truth are “the types of discourse which it [a society] accepts and makes function as true, the mechanisms and instances which enable one to distinguish true and false statements” (“Power/Knowledge” 131). Thus, while discourses produce knowledge, not every type or form of knowledge has equal weight: Once the preferred form of knowledge has been naturalised and appears self‐evident, ‘truth’ becomes an essential criterion and mechanism of power. It is therefore significant that, in analogy to Foucault’s regime of truth, Hall introduces the notion of a ‘regime of representation’ to describe the dominant representations or “representational practices” which serve as a form of power to generate social exclusion and marginalisation by “represent[ing] someone or something in a certain way” (“Spectacle” 259). The discursive approach to representation thus foregrounds its links to power and highlights the potentially divisive nature of representation. This also becomes obvious when Hall speaks of the “power in representation” (ibid.). As pointed out above, the element of difference and binary oppositions usually implies a hierarchical division which is established by and supports a particular norm. According to John Fiske, norms serve “to make sense of the world” (Media Matters 42). Quite significantly, they always carry implications of exclusion. Thus, Richard Dyer for instance remarks that in the context of stereotyping – an exclusionary practice – norms create “boundaries of normalcy” (“Stereotyping” 29) which define what or who is acceptable and “belong[s]” (Matter of Images 14), and what or who is/does not. Considering the fact that the present work deals with representations of heterotopic spaces, the term ‘boundary’ appears particularly significant. As will soon be discussed in greater detail, such spaces can represent, challenge or even subvert social structures. Thus, it is suggested here that the norms which structure society and the heterotopic spaces analysed in this study create boundaries which generate exclusion or belonging. Boundaries can be destabilised and transformed, and it is at this point that representation becomes relevant. Representations confront people with particular meanings, and as regimes of representation, some of them are more dominant than others. Those representations which are dominant generate hegemonic norms and boundaries which potentially marginalise certain groups. Representations therefore (potentially) function as ideologies but can also be challenged. Chris Barker for instance points out that “popular culture become[s] the crucial site[…] of ideological conflict” (97). In this context, the concept of ‘power in representation’ suggests that representations and representational practices can also be used to resist and, to return to the spatially inspired register introduced above, destabilise and transform exclusionary norms and boundaries. In fact, the present work explores to what extent the novels examined here contribute to such

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a transformation, both on the purely representational level of the text, as well as on an interactional level between reader and text8 . The conflicts at the centre of the analytical chapters originate from norms which produce exclusion: With regard to the mosque, secularism or at best Christianity function as a standard which generates exclusionary boundaries. The norm which is most prominent at the University of Oxford and the plantation is ‘whiteness’, which Fiske explicitly refers to as a norm and form of power (Media Matters 42). Each of these conflicts will be illustrated in greater detail in the respective analytical chapters. At this point it is important to keep in mind that representations of whiteness and secularism can be constructed in a way which generates exclusion, but that such representations can also be contested and challenged by creating alternative representations or by exposing the constructed and naturalised nature of representations.

8 The concept of the interactive heterotopic space will be developed in Chapter Two. At this point it is sufficient to keep in mind that the boundaries and norms at the centre of this work are analysed by studying representations of the ‘real’ spaces within which they occur, as well as by examining the textual strategies used to engage the reader in an interactive reading process which might encourage him/her to challenge those norms.

2 Theorising (Interactive) Heterotopic Spaces in Black British and British Muslim Literature

As suggested by the title of this thesis, ‘space’ constitutes an essential element in the upcoming analytical chapters. The present chapter will therefore illustrate the understanding of space employed throughout the analysis and link it to questions of power, ideology and representation. It will then familiarise readers with Michel Foucault’s briefly sketched but highly productive theory of ‘heterotopia’, before setting out to develop it further into the concept of interactive heterotopic spaces. The present work understands space – in its most basic sense – as a dynamic concept which is socially constructed and actively involved in the creation and negotiation of meaning. This conceptualisation can be traced back to the concerns of New Cultural Geography. Having emerged in the 1980s, New Cultural Geography forms a contrast to “‘traditional’ cultural geography in its questioning of the very possibility of mimetic, realist forms of representation” (Jones 226). What this foregrounds is that space is not simply a neutral location without social, cultural or political implications. Rather, it is “an active force in the world that is imbued with ideology and politics. Space, then, is argued to be inextricably interlinked with social power relations and hierarchies1 and therefore to underpin all social relationships” (ibid. 221). This new understanding of space seems to have contributed to the ‘spatial turn’ and its preoccupation with “reworking […] the very notion and significance of spatiality to offer a perspective in which space is every bit as important as time2 in the unfolding of human affairs” (Warf and Arias 1). Critics agree that the term ‘spatial turn’ was first introduced by the geographer and urban planner Edward W. Soja in his 1989 monograph Postmodern Geographies: The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory (Döring and Thielmann 7; Hallet and Neumann 11; Tönnies and Grimm 99). However, Jörg Döring and Tristan Thielmann also point out that the term did not gain the prominence it enjoys today until the 1996 publication of Soja’s Thirdspace (9). 1 Space and its links to ideology and power will soon be discussed in greater detail. 2 This was also famously highlighted by Michel Foucault, who, in the 1960s, suggested that while previous times were defined by history or entropy, “[o]ur own era, on the other hand, seems to be that of space” (“Other Spaces” 350).

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Within the spatial turn, one can identify different approaches and ‘sub’-turns, most specifically the topographical and the topological turn3 . The topological turn conceives of space as a rather abstract structure which consists of relations (Günzel, Raum 116). In this sense, a topological understanding of space moves away from concrete spaces and instead focuses on spatiality (Günzel, “Spatial Turn” 221). The approach which is more relevant in the context of this work – and which features particularly prominently in the literary and cultural studies discourse on space (Döring and Thielmann 13) – is the topographical turn, first put forward by Sigrid Weigel in 2002. Arguing from a literary studies background4 , she suggests that in the context of the topographical turn, “places are no longer viewed merely as narrative figures or topoi, but also as specific, geographically identifiable locations” (192). Doris Bachmann-Medick further emphasises that during the topographical turn, “forms and techniques of representation take[…] center stage” (223). In this sense, the topographical turn foregrounds a constructivist approach5 to space as a text which can be read and analysed accordingly (Döring and Thielmann 17; Tönnies and Grimm 100). Such an understanding “directly shifts the focus to the mutual interaction between ‘real’ places and their representation” (Tönnies and Buschmann 7)6 . This interaction is also emphasised by Michel de Certeau. Considering ‘place’ as the physical, geographical location which can easily be identified on a map, he defines space as “a practiced place” (17, emphasis in the original), thereby highlighting the importance of spatial practices and the constructed nature of space. Thus, spatial practices and, indeed, (literary) representations of space are significantly involved in the creation of meaning. Consequently, they epitomise the way in which the topographical perspective transcends the notion of space as a mere setting or background. This is particularly relevant in the context of the present study, which 3 For a comprehensive overview and discussion (in German) of the differences between the different turns, see Günzel, “Spatial Turn” 219-237. 4 Weigel’s approach has been criticised for its attempt to demarcate the analysis of space in AngloAmerican cultural studies from that in European Kulturwissenschaften (Döring and Thielmann 15f.) She considers cultural studies approaches prescriptive and argues that the discipline uses space as a political means to an end (Weigel 191f.). However, it remains questionable whether such a differentiation is productive. The present work will not get involved in that discussion but instead focuses on those implications of Weigel’s essay which are, as suggested by Döring and Thielmann (16), and Tönnies and Grimm (100), indeed relevant for the analysis of space. 5 The idea that space does not exist independently but is socially produced was most famously propagated by Henri Lefebvre. The production of space takes place via three processes which he refers to as “[s]patial practice” or “perceived space” (38), “[r]epresentations of space” or “conceived space” (ibid.), and “[r]epresentational spaces” or “lived space” (ibid. 39). Thus, he highlights not only the constructedness of space but also the interplay between ‘real’ spaces and their representation. 6 A similar view is expressed by Hallet and Neumann (12).

2 Theorising (Interactive) Heterotopic Spaces in Black British and British Muslim Literature

focuses on how ‘real’ spaces are represented and used to maintain or transform exclusionary boundaries.

2.1

Space and Power

Doreen Massey remarks that “[i]t is, perhaps, no longer innovatory to state that space and power are intimately intertwined” (“Concepts” 16). However, it still seems useful to take a closer look at how exactly space and power are linked, and in particular, how space functions as a means to perpetuate or destabilise power relations in society. Merle Tönnies and Ina Grimm explain that “space is a powerful category as far as the naturalisation of meanings and identities is concerned” (9). This becomes particularly obvious by Foucault’s analysis of the Panopticon, an imaginary prison developed by the British philosopher Jeremy Bentham. Foucault describes its architectural set‐up as follows: at the periphery, an annular building; at the centre, a tower; this tower is pierced with wide windows that open onto the inner side of the ring; the peripheric building is divided into cells, each of which extends the whole width of the building; they have two windows; the other, on the outside, allows the light to cross the cell from one end to the other. All that is needed, then, is to place a supervisor in a central tower and to shut up in each cell a madman, a patient, a condemned man, a worker or a schoolboy. By the effect of backlighting, one can observe from the tower, standing out precisely against the light, the small captive shadows in the cells of the periphery. They are like so many cages, so many small theatres, in which each actor is alone, perfectly individualized and constantly visible. The panoptic mechanism arranges spatial unities that make it possible to see constantly and to recognize immediately. (Discipline 200) The passage above clearly illustrates that the Panopticon is designed in a way which facilitates the constant exercise of power over the inmates. Its set‐up makes it easy for the ward or supervisor to watch them at all times. However, what is even more significant is the Panoptic effect, that is the individual’s internalisation of his/her constant visibility. Foucault concludes that “this architectural apparatus should be a machine for creating and sustaining a power relation independent of the person who exercises it” (Discipline 201). Thus, the design of the Panopticon naturalises power structures and produces the individual’s behaviour and even mind‐set. Consequently, the physical basis of the Panopticon naturalises the exercise of power for and through the individual. At this point it is possible to return to the previous chapter, particularly to the concept of power illustrated there. According to Foucault, power is productive, which implies that it not only shapes the way people act and think but might also

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facilitate resistance. This also extends to the link between space and power: Space is not only produced (for instance through power relations) but must also be seen as actively contributing to power structures and hierarchies. Accordingly, right after defining space as socially produced, Henri Lefebvre goes on to point out that “space thus produced also serves as a tool of thought and of action; that in addition to being a means of production it is also a means of control, and hence of domination, of power” (26). Doreen Massey argues similarly when she explains that social relations – manifested for instance in social practices – are always spatial, and that, “since social relations are bearers of power what is at issue is a geography of power relations in which spatial form is an important element in the constitution of power itself” (Space 22). A spatial concept which foregrounds space’s productive nature is Homi Bhabha’s post‐colonial ‘third space’. In an interview, Bhabha suggests that “hybridity to me is the ‘third space’ which enables other positions to emerge. This third space displaces the histories that constitute it, and sets up new structures of authority” (“Third Space” 211). David Huddart suggests that for Bhabha, “hybridity is not a consequence of other, allegedly ‘pure’ positions thrust together” (126). Instead, two different cultures or identity positions – for instance those of the coloniser and the colonised – develop into a ’third’ identity position. Thus, third spaces do not consume or blend cultural differences, but rather emphasise that intercultural encounters produce new identity positions which originate neither purely from the one nor purely from the other culture. In this sense, third spaces challenge binaries and the dominance of specific cultural narratives. Indeed, its insistence on the constructedness of identities and cultures is a significant strength of Bhabha’s theory. It can therefore function as a useful analytical category with regard to postcolonial identities as it can be used to explain their complexity. This has been demonstrated extensively, for instance in literary and cultural studies (e.g. Pérez Fernández 154f.; Dörr 61-65; Brosch 149-153; Bryant 253-256) and educational sciences and pedagogy, where the concept of the third space helps teachers understand the multi‐layered background of learners with a migration background (e.g. Rodricks 341-343; Idrus 28-31). However, while the present work certainly appreciates Bhabha’s theory, it is also aware of the fact that the concept of the third space creates limitations with regard to this thesis’s aims and concerns. First of all, Bhabha’s third space seems to be metaphorical in nature. Thus, Andrew Teverson and Sara Upstone remark that “[t]he metaphorical concerns of Bhabha point to a preoccupation with abstract spatiality in postcolonial criticism” (2). This implies that third spaces belong to the topological rather than to the topographical turn which forms the theoretical context of this thesis. Bhabha explains that the third space is “unrepresentable in itself” (Location of Culture 37), a statement which further emphasises the assumption that third spaces might not be

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unequivocally productive when it comes to analysing literary representations of ‘real’, specific spaces. As will soon be pointed out in greater detail, this work will also focus on an interactive heterotopic space which is not tangible or conventionally ‘real’, but which is still linked to representations of real spaces. Thus, since the present work is interested in exploring how spatial representations contribute to, destabilise or transform power structures, disregarding or marginalising the level of representation might constrain the analysis. Secondly, third spaces mostly focus on the personal identities produced there, but they do not explicitly pay attention to how a particular third space relates to the remaining social space. On the one hand, this might result from the fact that this ‘remaining’ space is difficult to define because of the third space’s metaphorical nature; on the other hand, Bhabha seems to be concerned with the individual rather than the social. The present thesis’s interest however lies in transformative processes on the level of society, even though the individual is of course always part of societal structures. It is therefore necessary to examine how the spaces analysed here relate to the rest of society and societal space. A spatial theory which seems more efficient and productive with regard to the upcoming analysis is Michel Foucault’s concept of heterotopia, which will be explored in the following section.

2.2

Heterotopic Spaces

As the example of the Panopticon has shown, Foucault was aware of the fact that space and power are intricately linked. Kathryne Beebe et al. note that his “extensive analyses of urban planning and of the exclusionary spaces created for the insane, the diseased, and the criminalized are testament to his theoretical engagement with the social meanings and significance of location” (526). This concern is epitomised by Foucault’s concept of heterotopia. Compared to the vast scope and extent of Foucault’s oeuvre, heterotopias only occupy a rather small position, but this by no means reflects the concept’s complexity and efficiency for the analysis of power structures. Tracing the development of the category within Foucault’s work, Hamid Tafazoli and Richard T. Gray point out that his theory of heterotopia remains fragmented (8). Foucault used the term ‘heterotopia’ for the first time in 1966 when it appeared in the preface to Les mots et les choses7 (ibid.). It was mentioned again in a radio broadcast which was later turned into a lecture he gave in front of architects in 1967. This lecture was published after Foucault’s death in 1984 as “Des Espaces Autres”8 , the translation of which forms the basis for the understanding of heterotopia employed throughout the present work. 7 The English translation was published in 1970 as The Order of Things. 8 The English translation was published in 1984 as “Of Other Spaces”.

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Critics have noted that initially, Foucault linked heterotopia to language (P. Johnson, “Unravelling” 85; Topinka 54; Tafazoli and Gray 8). In the preface to The Order of Things, Foucault describes the effect a text by the Argentinian writer Jorge Luis Borges had on him: He explains that it made him laugh because it “shattered” his thoughts and indeed the order of thinking of that time (xvi). He then goes on to link this effect to heterotopias which he characterises as disturbing, probably because they secretly undermine language, because they make it impossible to name this and that, because they shatter or tangle common names, because they destroy ‘syntax’ in advance, and not only the syntax with which we construct sentences but also that less apparent syntax which causes words and things (next to and also opposite one another) to ‘hold together’. (Order of Things xix, original emphasis) Tafazoli and Gray thus state that in its early use, heterotopia refers to a type of discourse which disrupts order and is directly linked to language (8). That heterotopias can have an ‘imaginative’, intangible dimension is of significance here, as will soon become obvious with regard to the emergence and function of interactive heterotopic spaces. At this point it is sufficient to keep in mind that heterotopias can have a ‘disruptive’ function, an observation which is also true for Foucault’s later account of heterotopias as real spaces. In the short essay “Of Other Spaces: Utopias and Heterotopias”, he introduces another understanding of heterotopia and defines it by distinguishing heterotopias from utopias. He suggests that they are real and effective spaces which are outlined in the very institution of society, but which constitute a sort of counter‐arrangement, of effectively realized utopia, in which all the real arrangements, all the other real arrangements that can be found within society, are at one and the same time represented, challenged and overturned: a sort of place that lies outside all places and yet is actually localizable. (“Other Spaces” 352) What he foregrounds here is heterotopias’ tangibility and, even more importantly, he points to their significance for society: Since heterotopias can represent, challenge or even overturn a society’s ‘real arrangements’ – such as for instance power structures and hierarchies –, they carry the potential for social transformation and change. Thus, the definition above clearly foregrounds the fact that heterotopias are characterised by their relation to the remaining social space, a circumstance which is not given in Bhabha’s theory of third spaces. Foucault then goes on to list six characteristics of heterotopias: [1] They exist in every society but are [2] culture‐specific: “over the course of its history, a society may take an existing heterotopia, which has never vanished, and make it function in a very different way” (“Other Spaces” 353). Moreover, [3] heterotopias juxtapose

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spaces which are generally considered incompatible. This principle makes it possible to speak of heterotopias as a “microcosm” (ibid. 354) in which different social structures are brought together. Further characteristics are [4] heterotopias’ detachment from established notions of time, for instance by existing temporarily (ibid.), and [5] their reliance on a system of opening and closing, thereby implying a sense of isolation or privilege (ibid. 355). The sixth feature, heterotopias’ functions, is particularly relevant in the context of the present work. As explained previously, the upcoming analysis requires a spatial theory which draws attention to a space’s relation to the rest of social space, and which focuses on processes of transformation. Those aspects are addressed by the fact that “they [heterotopias] have, in relation to the rest of space, a function that takes place between two opposite poles” (Foucault, “Other Spaces” 356). According to Foucault, heterotopias can either function as spaces of illusion or of compensation. As a space of illusion, heterotopias “reveal[…] how all of real space is more illusory, all the locations within which life is fragmented” (Foucault, “Other Spaces” 356). Heterotopias of compensation on the other hand compensate for the deficits of the rest of society by being “as perfect, meticulous and well‐arranged as ours [i.e. the rest of societal space] is disordered, ill‐conceived and in a sketchy state” (ibid.). What is particularly significant here is the fact that heterotopias move between those two poles: Rather than suggesting that heterotopias function either as heterotopic spaces of illusion or as spaces of compensation, Foucault therefore highlights the complex nature of heterotopias. Their functions depend on the people who use a particular space and thus also on the practices carried out there, thereby recalling de Certeau’s definition of space as a practiced place. By focusing on the ways in which particular spaces are used so as to destabilise or maintain power structures, it becomes possible to examine how exactly hierarchies and thus belonging or marginalisation are constructed. In this sense, heterotopia can be considered a highly productive and insightful concept when it comes to questions of power and exclusion. When looking at the characteristics outlined above, one cannot help but notice their diverse and rather general nature, which might result in an unlimited list of spaces which can be categorised as heterotopias9 . Indeed, Michiel Dehaene and Lieven De Cauter have suggested that “when putting on heterotopian spectacles, 9 On his blog Heterotopian Studies: Michel Foucault’s ideas on heterotopia, critic Peter Johnson provides readers with an extensive and insightful collection of resources, analyses and information. Building on his PhD thesis on heterotopia, he draws attention to the various fields and disciplines which make use of heterotopia such as art and architecture, media studies, death studies, digital studies, education and health studies, gender, sexuality and queer studies, literature, marketing and tourism, museum and library studies, political and economic geography, urban studies, religion, as well as theatre, performance and music (P. Johnson, “Three Bibliographies”).

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everything tends to take on heterotopian traits” (6). Some of the spaces at the centre of the upcoming analysis are more conventional examples of heterotopias and indeed mentioned by Foucault himself, such as for instance the plantation (“Other Spaces” 356) or an educational space like the University of Oxford (ibid. 353). While a space like the mosque may appear unusual, the interactive heterotopic space developed in the following section is an altogether new concept which broadens the analytical scope and application of Foucault’s heterotopia. The present study by no means claims to have selected spaces which can unambiguously be considered heterotopias. For that reason, it refers to them as heterotopic spaces rather than heterotopias. This term hopefully acknowledges the diverse and complex nature of Foucault’s theory of heterotopia. At the same time, it is supposed to foreground the fact that the spaces chosen are heterotopic in the sense of what the present work considers the most central concern emerging from Foucault’s short essay on heterotopias: their potential for change and transformation10 . Indeed, the word potential is of particular significance here. Already at the beginning of his text, Foucault draws attention to the fact that heterotopias can represent, but also challenge or even overturn the societal ‘status quo’. Since the present work is particularly concerned with social exclusion and power imbalances, the ‘status quo’ which might be overcome refers to exclusionary boundaries and signifying practices. These dynamics are taken up again in the sixth characteristic which describes heterotopias as spaces of illusion or compensation, the latter of which even adds the perpetuation of existing structures to the three other potential heterotopic functions (representing, challenging, and subverting) listed above. The upcoming analysis will therefore examine the ‘heterotopic potential’ of literary representations of the mosque, the University of Oxford, and the plantation by exploring how those representations potentially support or subvert exclusionary boundaries and power structures. In a next step, it will take a closer look at the textual strategies which might encourage readers to negotiate such boundaries in interaction with the text, thereby creating an interactive heterotopic space.

2.3

Towards Interactive Heterotopic Spaces

As pointed out above, heterotopias can be conceived of as ‘imaginative’ spaces linked to language and discourse, and as real spaces which are part of and at the same time outside of society. In secondary literature, the second approach 10 Peter Johnson comes to a similar conclusion when he explains that “[t]he examples [given by Foucault to illustrate the characteristics of heterotopias] are extremely diverse, and difficult to summarize, but they all refer in some way or another to a relational disruption in time and space” (“Unravelling” 78).

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is much more prominent, but critics like Peter Johnson (“Unravelling” 85) and particularly Kelvin T. Knight (“Placeless Places” 142; Real Places 19) have drawn attention to Foucault’s earlier definition of heterotopia. Johnson reminds his readers that heterotopia’s ‘disruptive’ function was already set out in Foucault’s initial understanding of the term: “Foucault’s overall concern in The Order of Things is to establish the ground from which we produce classifications and order, the foundational ‘codes of a culture’. Textual heterotopias help to expose this ground. They are distinct from his later account, but there are connections” (P. Johnson, “Unravelling” 85). Knight goes even further than Johnson when he remarks that he wants to restore Foucault’s heterotopia to its literary origins, thereby resolving the paradox by which it is seemingly riven, and to examine the changing role and significance of these places – the library, the garden, the mirror, and so on – as a set of literary motifs through the course of twentieth‐century fiction. (Real Places 9) Thus, in contrast to Johnson, Knight does not see Foucault’s ‘textual’ and ‘real’ heterotopias as different but related accounts. Rather, he argues that “the heterotopia was never intended as a tool for the study of real urban space. Instead, it seems to hold the promise of a conception of the heterotopia that sees it signifying a set of literary motifs used by writers to present an alternative configuration of space” (Real Places 21). Knight therefore highlights heterotopia’s relevance for literary studies. He is certainly correct when he remarks that “the discipline has yet to formulate a satisfactory conception of Foucault’s other spaces by reasserting its privileged position in the concept’s history” (ibid. 29). However, while the present thesis also intends to link the concept of heterotopia to literary studies, the upcoming analysis will move a step further than just analysing heterotopias as ‘literary motifs’. Rather than remaining on the representational level implied in the study of literary representations of heterotopic spaces, it also operates on an interactive level and sets out to broaden the scope of the analysis by identifying and exploring literary techniques which have a heterotopic function and can thus be used to create the ‘disruptive’ effect which Foucault discovered in literature. As pointed out above, Foucault’s concept of heterotopia makes it possible to analyse how literary representations of heterotopic spaces negotiate the potential for changing societal structures, as well as the ways in which marginalisation and belonging are constructed. Even if those structures cannot be changed on the plot level, the present study argues that the confrontation with such heterotopic spaces places reader and text in a dialogue in which exclusionary boundaries might be destabilised and transformed. This aspect constitutes a direct link between social reality and textual representation. Keeping in mind the functions of heterotopic spaces, i.e. their heterotopic potential – the ability to represent or support, but also subvert or even suspend societal structures –, it becomes clear that heterotopic

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spaces might not only be concrete in nature. Rather, it also seems possible that they are, on a meta‐level, interactional. This notion is supported by de Certeau’s definition of space as a ‘practiced place’: Space is shaped by the different ways in which people use it – by the practices carried out within it. De Certeau explicitly refers to literature when he suggests that “an act of reading is the space produced by the practice of a particular place: a written text, i.e., a place constituted by a system of signs” (117). In this sense, the reader11 is able to create a space through practice, and this happens when s/he reads the respective novels and interacts with, interprets, agrees with or questions what is presented in the text12 . Reading can therefore be seen as creating an interactional heterotopic space which links society, text and reader, and which not only broadens the analytical scope of ‘heterotopia’, but might also provide deeper and more complex insights into questions of power, space and exclusion. To map out this interactional space further, the present thesis will draw on Wolfgang Iser’s reader‐response theory. Iser’s concern with literature’s impact on the individual’s way of thinking and attitudes is central to his early works in the 1970s, and even more explicitly so in his later literary anthropology. Kenneth M. Newton thus points out that for Iser “reading is a dynamic process in which the norms and codes that govern the reader’s thinking and perception may be called into question” (78). Indeed, Iser’s oeuvre is highly complex, covering literary analyses of a number of texts as well as theoretical works. The present thesis builds its definition of an interactive heterotopic space on three elements of Iser’s approach which are particularly conducive to its aims and concerns: the interactive process, potential meanings and strategies. 1

The Interactive Process

In The Act of Reading, Iser develops a ‘theory of aesthetic response’ which places the interactive process between text and reader at the centre of attention. Already his decision to refer to his theory as one of aesthetic response is highly significant: Although he is consentaneously considered a member of the Constance school of Reception Aesthetics, his approach makes him stand out from the other Constance 11 The present work refrains from defining the ‘real’ reader in detail. As will soon be pointed out, the concept of the ‘implied’ reader is more relevant in the context of this study. However, given that most of the novels analysed here were exclusively published in English (except for an Italian translation of The Road from Damascus, a Spanish translation of Minaret and Italian, Spanish and German translations of The Long Song), it is assumed here that most readers are likely to have some familiarity with British society and literary conventions. 12 That literature can be subversive and potentially effect change in the reader's perception has been addressed by various critics, for instance through theories of counter narratives or narrative empathy (see e.g. Martha Nussbaum 1-12; Molly Andrews 1-3; Mark Stein 36; Suzanne Keen 38-64; and Patrick Colm Hogan 11-39).

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school representatives because he thinks of it as a theory of response rather than reception. What this means is that Iser’s approach is not concerned with studying the ways in which literary works have been received and experienced by specific, historically allocable readers. Instead, it is the reader’s active interaction with the text during the reading process, and his/her contribution to the construction of meaning which forms the basis of his theory. Iser explains the central concerns of his approach as follows: Aesthetic response is therefore to be analysed in terms of a dialectic relationship between text, reader, and their interaction. It is called aesthetic response because, although it is brought about by the text, it brings into play the imaginative and perceptive faculties of the reader, in order to make him adjust and even differentiate his own focus. This approach implies that the book is to be regarded as a theory of aesthetic response (Wirkungstheorie) and not as a theory of the aesthetics of reception (Rezeptionstheorie). [. . . ] Consequently, a theory of aesthetic response is confronted with the problem of how a hitherto unformulated situation can be processed and, indeed, understood. A theory of reception, on the other hand, always deals with existing readers, whose reactions testify to certain historically conditioned experiences of literature. A theory of response has its roots in the text; a theory of reception arises from a history of readers' judgments. (x, original emphasis) What this foregrounds is that Iser focuses on the text and the reading process it facilitates rather than on a specific reader and how s/he might be influenced by individual or social factors in his/her reaction to or reception of the text. This is also mirrored by the fact that he is mostly concerned with the ‘implied’13 reader who can be thought of as a textual position created for the real reader. Chapter Seven will demonstrate that some novels might have particular ‘real’ readers in mind, but this does not mean that ‘real’ readers are identical with those ‘implied’ readers. The fact that Iser conceives of the reading process as interactive allows him to avoid the danger of narrowing down a text’s meaning to one particular interpretation. He argues that literary texts consist of two poles, the artistic and the aesthetic pole. While “the artistic pole is the author’s text […] the aesthetic is the realization accomplished by the reader” (Iser 21). His prime concern however is the interaction between those two poles: “As the reader passes through the various perspectives offered by the text and relates the different views and patterns to one another he sets the work in motion, and so sets himself in motion, too” (ibid.). Thus, reading is not only an interactive process which creates meaning or ‘the work’, but it also has an impact on the reader. Similar dynamics can be observed in the interactive 13 The concept of the implied reader will be explored in detail in Chapter Seven.

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heterotopic space, which is based on the assumption that a text’s heterotopic potential for change might be realised in the reader through the text’s ability to create a particular reading experience, thereby linking reader and text productively. 2

Potential Meanings

When Iser remarks that his theory ‘has its roots in the text’, he answers back to the objection voiced by critics that focusing on the reader might result in arbitrariness (de Bruyn 95)14 . He is concerned with how a text instigates an interactive process, and not with a specific effect on a particular reader (Newton 78). This becomes particularly obvious when Iser states that “[i]n literary works, […] the message is transmitted in two ways, in that the reader ‘receives’ it by composing it” (Iser 21). What this foregrounds is that a reader’s understanding of a text is never purely subjective, but always potential. Consequently, meaning can never be understood as fixed and naturally given, but must be conceived of as constructed and dynamic15 : “[T]he text represents a potential effect that is realized in the reading process” (Iser ix). The present study therefore foregrounds the active nature of reception processes and the reader’s ability to reject or accept the potential meanings, positions and biases put forward in a particular text (Hall, “Encoding/Decoding” 514-517). For the interactive heterotopic space, the fact that meanings are always potential carries great significance: The reader is not merely a passive recipient who unequivocally adopts the ideological positions foregrounded in the text but must be seen as an active co‐creator of meaning. Since readers will respond differently to a text, the meaning they create in interaction with the text will differ considerably as well. Consequently, keeping in mind that meaning is always potential illustrates why in the context of the interactive heterotopic space, a detailed definition of the real 14 Criticism of Iser’s theory has been expressed most prominently by Terry Eagleton (69f.) and Stanley Fish in his review of The Act of Reading, “Why No One’s Afraid of Wolfgang Iser” (6-13). For comprehensive discussions of Iser’s critical reception see Brook Thomas (14-34), Elinor Shaffer (28-40), Ben de Bruyn (96-100), and Yanling Shi (982f.). 15 In Poetic Justice, philosopher Martha Nussbaum also draws attention to literature’s role in shaping readers’ perspectives. Like Iser, she acknowledges that different readers “will legitimately notice different things about a novel” and that the novel will therefore have different effects (8). However, she does not see this as a shortcoming of the literary imagination, but instead considers it to be one of the aspects which invest the literary imagination with a democratic function (ibid. 9). This highlights that meaning does not rely on the interaction between reader and text alone, but also on that between various readers. Even though this aspect cannot be analysed on the basis of the structures offered by the text, it still serves as a reminder that the variety of meanings which might potentially be constructed can be modified further. Nussbaum’s reference to the post‐reading phase adds substance to the suggestion that reading constitutes an interactional heterotopic space and that literature might challenge exclusionary boundaries.

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reader becomes irrelevant, and also draws attention to the literary strategies which are employed to create a particular reading experience. 3

Strategies

In order to examine how a literary text creates potential meanings, Iser focuses on textual strategies which organise a text’s repertoire, that is a “referential context” which consists of “material selected from social norms and literary allusions” (86). As “the immanent structures of the text and the acts of comprehension” (ibid.), strategies can be thought of as ‘triggers’ which structure the reading process. Iser lists narrative techniques or a work’s structure and set‐up as examples of strategies (87), but generally the term can refer to any strategies or techniques in a literary text which facilitate the interaction between reader and text. Indeed, strategies guide and structure the interactive process: The text with its inherent strategies, patterns, and structures may suggest a particular route or direction, but the reader’s “imaginative and perceptive faculties” (Iser x) also contribute to the journey and might construct a reading of the text that is substantially different from that of other readers. What is particularly significant is that in order to achieve their “ultimate function” (ibid. 87), strategies organise the reader’s actualisation of the text in a way which “defamiliarize[s] the familiar” (ibid., original emphasis). In The Act of Reading, Iser highlights the role of blanks and negations as strategies which control the reader’s response by defamiliarising the familiar. While blanks “leave open the connections between perspectives in the text, and so spur the reader into coordinating these perspectives”, negations “invoke familiar or determinate elements only to cancel them out” (Iser 169). Indeed, it is the central function of defamiliarising the familiar which points to an important characteristic of the interactive process: For the text to create meaning and, in the context of an interactive heterotopic space, change and transformation, the reader needs to be confronted with unfamiliar elements. Iser argues that the interaction between reader and text can only be successful if the reader’s perspectives are challenged: “Thus the text provokes continually changing views in the reader, and it is through these that the asymmetry beings to give way to the common ground of a situation” (Iser 167). Considering the aspects discussed above, it can be concluded that an interactive heterotopic space is created by the reader’s interaction with a literary text. Just as ‘real’ heterotopic spaces carry a potential for change and transformation, so does the interactive heterotopic space. Combining central elements from Iser’s theory with the heterotopic space’s potential for change, the interactive heterotopic space functions as an analytical tool while at the same time foregrounding the active role of the reader. From an analytical perspective, it encourages a reading of texts which focuses on the strategies used to create particular biases and ideological positions for the reader, whereas for the reader, those strategies might open up

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a realm in which the text’s heterotopic potential might be realised. However, determining the extent to which this potential is actualised in the reader lies beyond the analytical grasp foregrounded by the concept of the interactive heterotopic space. It is argued here that in the present work, those functions are achieved through the use of strategies which encourage the reader to question exclusionary boundaries generated by the norms and standards mentioned in Chapter One, and which guide him/her towards particular ideological positions in the text. The strategies explored in Chapters Six and Seven of this thesis are related to the creation of unfamiliar familiarity through British Muslim and black British appropriations of the Bildungsroman genre and the slave narrative, as well as the creation of closeness and distance through the use of implied readers, and unreliable and world‐constructing narration. The strategy of transforming genre conventions constitutes a direct link with Iser’s theory of defamiliarising the familiar and realises it in connection to the concept of interactive heterotopic spaces: Analysing how familiar genre patterns are changed makes it possible to examine how the novels at hand develop textual agency and support an active reading process which might open up an interactive heterotopic space in the reader. The strategy of creating distance or closeness moves beyond the examples mentioned in Iser’s theory and explores additional ways of opening up such spaces for the reader. Quite generally, it can be said that the way in which heterotopic spaces are represented contributes to the creation of interactive heterotopic spaces and provides a basis for the literary analysis of textual strategies and their potential effects on readers. However, the present work suggests that the relationship between the two levels is much more complex than that. It also sets out to explore the extent to which the representational and the interactive level might intensify or weaken each other’s heterotopic potential.

Section Two: Literary Representations of Heterotopic Spaces

3 The Mosque

3.1

British Muslims Between Private Religiousness and Public Secularism

Islam seems to occupy a substantial part of contemporary public discourse. This observation is particularly true for a predominantly secular or Christian society like Britain which displays a rather ambiguous attitude towards Islam. Quite strikingly, this discourse mainly portrays Islam as a threat to ‘western’ values and security, and links it to topics like terrorism and female oppression (Nökel and Tezcan 8). This has been illustrated on various occasions: In the United States of America, Donald Trump’s 2016 election campaign relied on an anti-Islam rhetoric, and his presidency has been dominated by his controversial call for a ‘Muslim Ban’. This tendency can be observed in Europe as well, where the German Islam‐critical ‘Alternative für Deutschland’, France’s Marine Le Pen, and Geert Wilders in the Netherlands rely on similar strategies. In the United Kingdom, figures released by the Home Office suggest that “racially or religiously aggravated offences” rose by 41 per cent following the Brexit vote (“Race and Religious Hate Crimes”), and there are voices which claim that the decision for Brexit has “emboldened racists” as it seems that the vote has “unleashed a Pandora’s box of bigotry and Islamophobia” (Versi par. 2)1 . Thus, it is certainly possible to observe an Islam‐critical atmosphere throughout the U.S. and Europe, including Britain2 , the country which is at the centre of this thesis. It does therefore not come as a surprise that in their study of Muslims in Britain, Waqar Ahmad and Ziauddin Sardar identify a rather hostile attitude towards British Muslims. They draw attention to the fact that British Muslims are fre1 The events mentioned here are examples of recent manifestations of Islamophobia and illustrate why questions of Muslim belonging to Britain are now perhaps more topical than ever. While the British Muslim novels analysed in this thesis, Robin Yassin-Kassab’s The Road from Damascus and Leila Aboulela’s Minaret, were published before those incidents, they still respond to similar tendencies and indeed, Islamophobia features prominently in them and is often linked to specific events like September 11. 2 In their study Framing Muslims: Stereotyping and Representation after 9/11, Peter Morey and Amina Yaqin offer an interesting reading of media representations of Muslims.

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quently portrayed as “undermining the core values of Britishness3 ” (1). On the one hand, this is the outcome of specific events which have contributed to constructing Islam as a potential threat, such as the Rushdie affair in the 1980s, the 2005 London tube bombings. More recent examples are the 2017 attacks on a Manchester pop concert, London Bridge and Borough Market, all of which were carried out by terrorists who misused Islam to justify their actions. On the other hand, it also results from Britain’s auto‐image as a secular society where “religion is largely marginalised and relegated to private spheres” and therefore has “no place in public space” (Ahmad and Sardar 3). Nilüfer Göle expresses a similar view when she remarks that “Islamic visibility (and not solely the identity) creates such a malaise because it has a corporeal, ocular, and spatial dimension” (181), thereby foregrounding the significance of spatial visibility when it comes to questions of exclusion and belonging. José Casanova challenges the view that religion in general does not play a role in public space anymore and argues that “the religious sphere became just another sphere” which is a “less central and spatially diminished” one (Casanova 21). However, the fact remains that this religious sphere, at least in Britain and many other western countries, is predominantly occupied by Christianity (Sardar 19). This is also emphasised by Meyda Yeğenoğlu, who draws attention to Islam’s representation as an “enemy” to both “Christianity, and to a secular Europe” (Islam 153). Indeed, even though compared to the 2001 British census the latest edition from 2011 sees an increasing number of people considering themselves as non‐religious, there is still a majority of those who identify as Christian (“What”). Still, the fact that British public space appears to be dominated by secularism and/or Christianity implies that identifying as a Muslim might exclude the possibility of belonging to Britain. Apart from raising “questions of loyalty” (Ahmad and Sardar 3), the nature of Britain’s auto‐image supports the construction of a normality in which an openly displayed Muslim affiliation is seen as deviant. What this implies for openly religious British Muslims is that their belonging to Britain is constantly challenged and questioned by dominant society and the secular or Christian norms it represents. In fact, as pointed out in Chapter One, those norms or standards seem to generate exclusionary boundaries which construct secularism or Christianity and a publicly displayed Muslim affiliation as binary oppositions4 . Thus, it seems that 3 This is also emphasised by Nilüfer Göle, who suggests that “public Islam […] challenges the borders and the meanings of the secular public sphere” (173). This tendency might be perceived by some as a threat, and by others as an attempt to overcome the binary opposition between religion and secularism. 4 Speaking more generally about the ‘West’ than Britain in particular, Peter Hopkins notes that in public discourse, “the prevailing sense is that ‘the West’ and ‘Islam’ are – in a number of different ways – incompatible, divergent, mismatched and often in conflict with each other. This sense of

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openly religious British Muslims have to choose: Either they privatise their faith and are granted a place within secular British public space, or they embrace their religiousness and remain largely invisible within the private sphere. The frequently hostile attitude towards British Muslims described above is not only linked to the public visibility of British Muslims but also has a spatial dimension. Shahed Saleem notes that “[t]he proliferation of mosques, their visual presence, […] has fuelled reactionary narratives of a loss of indigenous British culture and ethno‐nationalist fears of being ‘taken over’ or ‘swamped’ by Muslims” (par. 2). However, it should be noted that as a space the mosque is, as suggested by Michel de Certeau and explained in Chapter Two, a ‘practiced place’. This observation draws attention to the diverse functions the mosque can have, depending on the people who use it and the structures which shape it. For dominant British society the mosque might constitute a threat or “security concern” (Ahmad 173), but also a “potential solution to radicalisation and Islamist violence” (ibid.). For British Muslims, the mosque is likely to have different functions. Following his analysis of interviews with what he refers to as 27 members of the Muslim elite in Britain, Waqar I. U. Ahmad concludes that they see the mosque as a space for the “public performance of male piety, divorced from community concerns and largely irrelevant to Muslim women” (171). In contrast to that, Saleem observes that less privileged Muslim communities not only build more mosques than their more affluent counterparts, but that those mosques then serve as “a ‘safe space’ for communities doubly marginalised through race and economics, where the mosque may represent the only way such a group can impact the social and public realm” (par. 5). This last function in particular is one which alludes to the heterotopic space’s compensatory function. Indeed, there are many reasons which support the notion of the mosque as a heterotopic space. It meets many of the characteristic principles mentioned by Foucault, such as heterotopia’s existence as a microcosm which combines many different spaces (many mosques are not only used for religious practice but also for social gatherings and lessons), or the fact that access is usually reserved for a specific group of people, in this case Muslims, even though many mosques open their doors to the general public (sometimes temporarily for special events or festivities). The upcoming analysis, however, is interested in the heterotopic potential the mosque might have with regard to the rest of social space. In this respect, Saleem’s suggestion that for many British Muslims the mosque represents a space which provides them with an opportunity to influence public space and become visible in it is highly relevant. It links the mosque to processes of transformation which might destabilise or even overcome exclusionary boundaries. At the same incompatibility is often bolstered by the employment of a complex series of binaries about the attitudes, values and behaviours of communities identified as ‘Muslim’ or as ‘Western’” (27).

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time, Saleem draws attention to “the idea that while British Muslim social and identity transformation is happening in the spheres of lived experience, academia, activism and Muslim institutions, the mosque remains a conceptually static space” (par. 7). What this implies is that transformative processes taking place inside or outside the mosque might not necessarily influence each other. This foregrounds the importance of transfer: Since heterotopic spaces have a particular function with regard to the society in which they occur, change and transformation on a broader social level depend on the extent to which a space’s heterotopic potential for change can be transferred to public space. The upcoming analysis will therefore examine the mosque’s heterotopic potential to transform the exclusionary boundaries which challenge and interfere with Muslims’ belonging to Britain. The main protagonists of Robin Yassin-Kassab’s novel The Road from Damascus5 and Leila Aboulela’s Minaret 6 are initially non‐religious or atheist and seem to have internalised the exclusionary boundaries mentioned above. As the narrative progresses, both protagonists adopt new attitudes towards Islam, and it is this attitude which influences the way they interact with British society and the boundaries they encounter there. Indeed, the present study argues that the different mosque spaces in The Road from Damascus and Minaret represent and transform the protagonists’ complex and highly different attitudes towards Islam. However, the mosque’s heterotopic potential for transformation ultimately remains limited to the private sphere, thereby leaving the boundaries between public secularism and private religiousness largely unaltered.

3.2

Representations of the Mosque as a Heterotopic Space

As the novel’s title already suggests, the mosque plays a central role in Leila Aboulela’s Minaret. The main protagonist, Najwa, leaves Khartoum for London in the 1980s after her father has been arrested in a military coup in Sudan. As the daughter of a government official and a student at Khartoum University, she leads a privileged and largely secular life. However, she frequently mentions that she is not quite happy with her life as it is and longs for something she cannot yet define: I understood the line ‘I’ve lived to bury my desires’. But I did not know from where this understanding came. I had a happy life. My father and mother loved me and were always generous. […] There was nothing that I didn’t have, couldn’t have. No dreams corroded in rust, no buried desires. And yet, sometimes, I would remember pain like a wound that had healed, sadness like a forgotten dream. (M 15) 5 All subsequent references to Robin Yassin-Kassab’s The Road from Damascus will use the abbreviation RD. 6 In the following referred to as M.

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Because of her lifestyle she thinks she should feel like an independent woman but instead prefers to be accompanied by her brother, she reflects on how little her studies in Business mean to her and feels uncomfortable wearing western clothes in front of men or when meeting people dressed in religious attire (M 10-12). It is already at this point in her life, when she still lives in Khartoum, that the impact of the mosque on her becomes obvious. When she and her brother Omar get back home from a party, the dawn azan, the call for prayer, interrupts an intensely secular situation created by Omar, who embraces everything western and secular unhesitatingly. Sitting next to him in the car and smelling the hashish he smokes, she describes how the sound of the azan went inside me [her], it passed through the smell in the car, it passed through the fun I [she] had had at the disco and it went to a place I [she] didn't know existed. A hollow place. A darkness that would suck me [her] in and finish me [her]. (M 31) Even though Najwa has not yet entered a mosque, she feels the powerful impact it has on her. The religious element, the azan, seems to pervade her secular and modern experience (the disco) as well as her surroundings (the smell inside the car). It appears to shape her perception. More significantly, she mentions a place inside her which she has previously been unconscious of. She refers to this place as ‘hollow’, thereby suggesting an emptiness waiting to be filled. At the same time, her remark is also reminiscent of the aforementioned ‘buried desires’. The fact that she becomes aware of this place only when she hears the azan implies that the emptiness inside her might be linked to a lack of religion in her life: The azan asks people to prepare for prayers and structures the day of practicing Muslims7 . Najwa’s strong reaction to the azan intensifies when she hears another mosque and feels that the sound is “tapping at the sluggishness in me [Najwa], nudging at a hidden numbness” (M 31). The call for prayer becomes a physical experience for her as it seems to leave the metaphorical level behind and literally starts to wake her up from a sleep‐like state, as indicated by the references to feeling numb and sluggish. The indirect representation of the mosque through the azan and the effect it has on Najwa lead to a crucial conclusion: Not only is religion presented to the reader as anchored in an institutionalised, concrete space such as the mosque, but this space also seems to challenge the secular standard which shapes her life. Following the azan, Najwa hears her household staff getting up to pray and observes that “[t]hey had dragged themselves from sleep in order to pray. I was wide awake and I didn’t” (M 32). The contrast between rich and poor and, correspondingly, economic materialism and religiousness, is one that can be found frequently 7 For a discussion of religion as a “‘displaced’ place” which is “dispersed, transnational, interconnected, and global, yet […] constructed and experienced”, see Cariello (341f.).

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in the novel. In this context, Najwa sees a “modest grace” in “provincial girls” covering their bodies with tobes, while she refers to her identity as “a girl from the capital” as the reason for not being friends with them (ibid. 14). In Khartoum, material wealth seems to be associated with secularism, while less materially privileged people seem to be linked to religiousness. Najwa’s admiration for her staff’s religiousness as well as for the girls she encounters in university indicates a value judgement by linking religion to positive attributes and presenting secularist behaviour as unfulfilling and even immoral. A similar effect is achieved by describing secular Omar’s negative attitude towards socially disadvantaged people – “he hated beggars” (10) – and her mother’s insistence on charity as a social convention based on certain rules (49). In contrast to that, Najwa gives generously when she is alone (10). What can be observed here are the first steps in the construction of a positive religiousness and its “‘(secular) other’” (Badran 113). In The Road from Damascus, the main protagonist Sami finds himself in a struggle between religion and secularism which is even more pronounced than in Minaret. Following the example of his father, an acclaimed academic in the field of Arabism and a convinced atheist who refuses everything spiritual or religious as “backwardness” (RD 2), Sami upholds the opposition between secularism and religion as rigidly as possible. However, the boundaries become increasingly blurred not only when his wife Muntaha suddenly explores her religiousness and starts wearing the hijab, but also when he experiences a moment of “spiritual epiphany” (Rashid 96): He escapes his father’s ghost in a vision‐like scene which sets a process of disillusionment and transformation in motion. This process affects both the idealisation of his father as well as his atheism and ultimately leads to Sami discovering a sense of religiousness inside himself. Sami’s first encounter with the mosque space is filled with less enthusiasm than in Minaret but also contains dynamic moments indicating a change in his religious attitudes. Like Najwa, he does not yet access a mosque directly. While she only hears the sound of the azan, Sami – as a child – visits mosques that are rather unconventional: “London mosques. This usually meant the suffocating lethargy of suburban living rooms, or maybe the neon vacancy of a disused warehouse” (RD 57). The impromptu nature of the mosques suggests a sense of privacy or even invisibility as they are not recognisable from the outside. Particularly with regard to the transformed living rooms it is very likely that they serve as mosques only temporarily and that the mosque as a space then disappears afterwards. Also, access appears to be much more restricted than in a traditional and constant mosque: Those who own the living room or the warehouse decide who is allowed to enter. Thus, the living room mosques’ dependency on particular people and a particular time – their transitoriness – suggest that Sami does not have a space in which religion is consistently rooted or which he can return to.

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The external circumstances surrounding the temporal mosques mark Sami’s experience of religion inside them. It is significant that this experience is based on the people who are with him. He remarks that it was sometimes “necessary” to visit mosques because of social conventions, e.g. “the expectations of neighbours and acquaintances” (RD 57). This emphasises that Sami does not visit the mosque voluntarily. At first glance, he sees the mosques as spaces which make him feel uncomfortable: behind the wall decoration there is “mildewed wallpaper or damp pocked plaster”, the air is filled with “the stagnant soup stuff of central heating” and “the odour of besocked feet” (ibid.). In fact, he experiences the atmosphere in a very physical way: He “yawned back tears, shivering from his teeth to his anus, and settled and rocked on this folded legs” (ibid.). He feels isolated (ibid.) and prays with the others, but “only for the prayer to end” (ibid.). Interestingly, like Najwa, Sami links religion to a wound. However, while Najwa experiences the lack of religion in her life as an unhealed wound, Sami, hoping for the prayers to end, remarks: “Islam taking its time to die, oozing like blood in a geriatric’s hardened veins, sluggishly, soporifically, dripping and dropping away from an unseen wound” (ibid. 57f.). Sami seems to feel the need to dispose of anything religious inside or around him, whereas Najwa appears to be searching for religion in her life. Sami sees religion – Islam – as a wound that has to heal, while Najwa’s wound is exactly the lack of religion. This contrast is further emphasised by their respective use of the words “sluggishness” (M 31) and “sluggishly” (RD 58) in the context of religion. Najwa’s ‘sluggishness’ refers to herself as a person without any religious guidance, while Sami employs the adverb ‘sluggishly’ in order to describe the pace at which a distance between religion and himself is created. What becomes obvious here is that Sami and Najwa set out from very different starting points: In Minaret religion is, right from the beginning, presented as something desirable, something that excites and inspires people. In contrast to that, The Road from Damascus confronts the reader with a representation of religion as something which is not only dilapidated and uncomfortable, but also potentially threatening. Both Najwa’s and Sami’s attitudes towards religion are therefore mirrored by the representation of the mosques they have access to. Sami’s rather negative description of the living room mosques is to some extent shaped by his father: “Accompanied by Mustafa, however, these mosque visits were also a kind of tourism, a glimpse into other people’s slightly sad, slightly exotic lives, a glimpse which reinforced the stable comforts of his own” (RD 58). He refers to his visits as “slumming it”, compares himself to a gentleman who visits a refugee camp and claims that he and his father possess “superior knowledge” (ibid.). Having his father by his side seems to put Sami into a position from which he has a different perspective. In contrast to his previous perception of the mosque – which has, considering the immense impact his father is described to have on him, very likely been shaped by his father’s secularism – Sami now looks at it as

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an outsider. Both he and Mustafa distance themselves from the people who pray there, reducing them to traits such as primitivism and a lack of knowledge. The narrator already points to the effect this has on Sami: By creating a difference between the religious people and himself and stigmatising them negatively, he is able to maintain his secularist convictions and thereby a sense of belonging to secular Britain. Just as Najwa constructs a secular and (economically) materialist ‘Other’, so does Sami with regard to a religious ‘Other’. Particularly in the case of Sami, the practice of ‘othering’ religious people can be seen as mirroring processes linked to dominant, secular British society. Understanding Islamophobia as an “ideological complex” (30), Tomaž Mastnak suggests that it is not limited to non-Muslims, but can also be adopted by secular Muslims (ibid. 29). In fact, references to Sami’s and Mustafa’s ‘superior knowledge’ and the praying people’s “unsuspecting earnestness” (RD 58) recreate Islamophobic representations and generate unequal power relations. By aligning themselves with the dominant and more powerful secular mind‐set of British mainstream society, Sami and his father can justify a sense of belonging to Britain. However, the opposition between secularism and religion, and particularly Sami’s conviction of this opposition, appear less clear when the mosque “invaded his home”, that is, when his mother invites people to pray at their house (RD 58). Sami admits that there “was certainly something attractive about the ritual movements” his mother makes (ibid.) and observes a change in her: Despite his father’s openly communicated disapproval and “in contrast to her usual flustered manner”, she performs the prayers “at a leisurely pace” and nothing can disturb her (ibid.). Sami is “fascinated” by the “halo of peace” surrounding her (ibid). His fascination even leads him to develop doubts, although they are at this stage only temporary and very small ones: “Was another reality glimmering through the surface of things?” (59). What follows then is reminiscent of Najwa’s remark on her ‘buried desires’: “He had the sensation of knowing something but not remembering it” and then thinks of a verse from the Qur’an his mother once taught him (RD 59). Taking a different stance towards religion, he shares Najwa’s impression of religion as something inherently familiar or even natural. Once again it becomes clear that Sami’s perception is shaped by the people surrounding him. This alludes to the power of normalisation and representation which is also in operation in British society at large. As pointed out in Chapter One, those who are most powerful and dominant in their capacity to set a certain standard as ‘normal’ define what is acceptable and what is not, who is fit to belong to a certain place and who is not (Dyer, “Stereotyping” 29; Fiske, Media Matters 42). Sami’s mother and father, who represent religious and secular standards respectively, therefore demonstrate the impact those standards can have. Thus, Reem M. Hilal remarks that “[t]hrough Mustafa and Nur’s characters and their widely differing views on religion, the novel addresses the British context and the place of

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religion” (99). Understanding the mosque as a mirror of Sami’s religious attitude it can therefore be said that his stance towards religion is at this point just as temporary and dependent on different people as the mosque space he has access to at this stage of his life. Moreover, in addition to mirroring Sami’s religious development, the temporary mosque at his parents’ house has an important function as a heterotopic space. It serves as a space of illusion which, according to Foucault, “reveals how all of real space is more illusory” (“Other Spaces” 356). Generally, what can be observed in the different living room mosques is a process of transformation and change inside Sami. While his father’s influence makes him see religion as primitive and unintellectual, this changes when he realises the effect Islam has on his mother. Religion and secularism – first presented as binary oppositions of which one is more powerful than the other – then undergo a development which implies a momentary shift in the power relations defining them. However, it is important to note that this does not equal a destabilisation of those boundaries but only constitutes a shift. The idea that one world‐view is more dominant and valued than the other remains. This is also implied by Sami’s remark when his fascination with his mother is interrupted by his father’s noises and the people and objects he sees outside: “There were conflicting worlds in this scene, worlds which could never be reconciled” (RD 59). The impossibility of transcending the opposition he is confronted with might be linked to the character of this heterotopic space, particularly its transitoriness and inivisibility to the general public. Sami is not yet able to translate the small doubts that have arisen inside him into actions. This also means that the momentary transformation of the secular standard presented by his father cannot yet be transported to the public space of British society. As an extremely private space, the transitory mosque does not provide a basis from which profound changes are likely to emerge. Thus, the boundaries between private and public, religion and secularism remain intact. However, the fact that power relations have temporarily been shifted signifies that the secular standard has been contested. As a result, its illusory nature has been exposed. The living room mosque’s function as a heterotopic space of illusion therefore provides the basis for further changes that might take place and lead to a conscious reflection on and change of existing norms and standards. The fact that the novel’s first chapter concludes with a foreshadowing of Sami’s development draws attention to the fact that Sami’s attitude towards religion will change as the narrative progresses, thereby foregrounding the living room mosque’s function as a heterotopic space of illusion. The azan sound in Minaret has a similar effect: just like Sami’s living room mosques, it reveals the illusory nature of Najwa’s secular lifestyle. The azan seems to create a heterotopic space of illusion which raises doubts inside her and makes her question the foundation on which the life that she and her family lead is based. It is interesting to note that this space is, as in Sami’s case, constituted by people

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who shape her perception and define her surroundings. This particularly results from the contrast that is created between Najwa and the religious people she encounters. As will soon be explained in greater depth, the extent to which Najwa’s attitude towards religion depends on her surroundings becomes apparent in the fact that she is unable to transform her life according to a religious standard before she loses her family, her boyfriend and the connections to her former life in Khartoum. Like Sami, she does not yet have a space in which a religious experience might be grounded or anchored. While Sami’s exposure to the mosque space is only transitory, hers is based on an intangible sound. Still, her confrontation with it and even more so the impact it has on her can be seen as a first step towards change and transformation in a heterotopic sense. Even though both Sami and Najwa are still placed between the apparently mutually exclusive mind‐sets of religion and secularism, the opposition implied in those mind‐sets now appears less natural. The next occasion on which Sami is seen visiting a mosque takes place after a significant moment in his life. This moment, which can be seen as a moment of epiphany with regard to his religious awakening, takes place in a prison cell. Following the loss of his academic career, Sami embarks on a night filled with alcohol and illegal substances, and is ultimately arrested for the possession of drugs (RD 180). Since Sami’s academic aspirations are an attempt to follow in Mustafa’s footsteps, whose career was defined by a renowned publication on secularism, this loss challenges the dominant secular standard set by his father8 . In fact, it is inside the prison cell that he seems to become conscious of the illusory nature of his secularist belief, a process perhaps set in motion by the living room mosques. Equally important, Sami realises his need for compensation. In order to fill the void created by the loss of his secular ideals, he now longs for something new to believe in and starts considering the thought that this might be a sense of religion (RD 183): “What if he were to believe, positively, in a God, in the unseen? […] Would it be wrong to at least aspire to such a belief, to hope? […] No, not wrong. Perhaps not right either. But not wrong” (ibid.). From then on, Sami embarks on a process of searching and questioning which sees him visit a number of mosques, all of which are linked to a particular concept of Islam and religiousness. The first possible alternative he explores is his brother‐in-law Ammar’s “underground mosque” (RD 204). In contrast to the social reasons for visiting the living room mosques with his father, Sami now goes there because he has “guilt to appease, and nothing else to occupy his time” (RD 204). While the reasons for attending the mosque might be different, there is also an aspect that unites them: Sami does not enter the mosque out of a religious belief, but has external reasons for doing so. While Sami is described to have adopted a more religious look, including 8 The link between Sami’s secular convictions and his father’s dominant secular standard will be explored in greater detail in Chapter Six.

3 The Mosque

a beard (209f.), he does not seem to be firm in his new convictions: He is referred to as a “fragile flower. Heavier, balder, and altogether less stable” (RD 218). Similar to the living room mosques, Ammar’s underground mosque is equally unconventional and not clearly identifiable from the outside: “Number seven was a house with its curtains drawn. There was an unsigned peel‐paint door beside it” (ibid. 219). He then transcends “down a dark stairwell” where he encounters “a long flat room hazed in artificial light” with “neon” and “bare plaster walls” (ibid.). There are “cracks on the ceiling” and a “concrete floor” (ibid.). The description of the underground mosque as rather run‐down and provisionary is reminiscent of that of the living room mosques. The narrator is quite explicit when he evaluates the mosque as “[h]idden, windowless and unasesthetic, the room was an ideal location for Ammar’s pared‐down protestant faith” (ibid.). The heterodiegetic narrator’s judgement already alludes to the fact that Ammar has created his own, rather radical interpretation of Islam which Catherine Rashid describes as “Sunni Islamism” (ibid. 96). When Sami enters the mosque for the first time, it is occupied by six men, one of whom is a convert called Mujahid. Sami describes him as “an Irishman, by his accent. Greenish skin. A blood‐red beard. A shalwar kameez”, who mentions problems with the neighbours, who do not approve of the underground mosque (RD 220). At this point, attention is drawn to the concern with religion rather than ethnicity which is expressed by the neighbours and thus, perhaps, British society in general. While it may be possible that the neighbours’ disapproval might be based more on the radicalism of Ammar’s Islam than on the concept of Islam itself, it becomes clear that an openly communicated affiliation with Islam is seen as problematic by many. Even though Mujahid can be identified as ethnically Western in terms of his appearance, he still draws the neighbour’s criticism due to his Muslim dress and obvious belonging to Islam. What is emphasised by this circumstance is on the one hand a rather hostile attitude towards Islam and on the other hand a rather pessimistic outlook with regard to the possibility of belonging to Britain and at the same time being Muslim. In addition to that, the contrast between private and public space is once again evoked: Once the security of the private sphere is left behind and religion is openly displayed within a rather public space, society’s reactions become exclusionary and hostile. That this is not only the case with Ammar’s rather radical Islam will become clear when looking at other incidents. However, not only the neighbours react negatively towards Mujahid, but also Sami himself looks with “bewilderment at this strange foreign gentleman” (RD 220). This stresses the fact that Sami has still not yet figured out how to overcome the boundaries between religion and secularism – he still seems to feel the need to categorise in order to make sense of the world. In addition to that, it also points to his attitude towards Ammar’s version of Islam. He does not understand Mujahid who uses a number of religious words. When it comes to Sami, “[t]he religious phrases always stuck in his throat” (RD 219). When Ammar and his friends ide-

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alise the possibility of living in a Muslim country because of the “hospitality, sexual morality, social responsibility, racial equality, honesty, piety and peace” (ibid. 221) to be found there, Sami is rather reserved and assumes that they might be “disappointed” (ibid.). However, the encounter triggers an important realisation in him: “I’m not an expert. I’m not … a conventional believer. [. . .] I expect Islam is something you find inside yourself rather than in any specific country” (RD 221). That Sami’s definition of unconventionality does not include Ammar’s version of Islam becomes clear on two occasions. The first one takes place inside the boundaries of Ammar’s underground mosque. Sami joins Ammar and his friends in prayer: “After a pause, Sami found himself going along. […] He had no opinions to prevent him from doing so. He’d renounced them” (RD 222). The narrator’s comment draws attention to Sami’s state of searching: Having abandoned his secular convictions, he is now looking for compensation and has not yet found it. Even though he starts the prayer rather unbiased, he soon develops an opinion: “He anticipated the coming movements, and his self subsided. But the prayer’s calming discipline was offset by Ammar’s military delivery: a long sura barked fast. In any case, Sami hardly heard it” (ibid.). Sami seems to focus on the prayer as such and not on Ammar’s manner of delivering it. This already suggests that he is open and positive towards a vital element of religion – praying and communicating with a higher entity – but less so towards the convention set up by Ammar. Even though he gains some insights regarding his father during the prayer (RD 222f.), he feels that Ammar’s delivery has left him with a headache (ibid. 223). Listening to the rather extreme views of Ammar and his friends on “European persecution” and the effects of it (224), Sami “may have nodded too, in physical sympathy. An unstable plant in a forest of nodding trees” (225). He then sits among them still and waiting (ibid.). The fact that Sami appears rather resigned, together with his previous reaction to the conventions in place in the underground mosque, indicates his need to keep searching. This impression becomes more explicit when Ammar takes him to a forest area in order to train for a “battle” (RD 264). Sami realises that Ammar has a rather political mission as he wants to fight “Vodka‐addicted atheists raping our sisters in Chechnya” and “Hindus desecrating mosques in Kashmir” (ibid.). This reminds him of his father: “Their interest, like Mustafa’s was ancient and modern, cutting out the centre of Islamic history” (ibid.). What this emphasises is that both religion and secularism can function as dominant and exclusionary standards or norms, thereby keeping the binaries which generate belonging or exclusion intact. In contrast to that, Sami’s interest in simple prayers without Ammar’s aggressive mode of delivery points once again to the aspect of unconventionality and the openness linked to it. It is neither the tradition and convention created by institutions, nor the instructions set up by Ammar that he wants to focus on. Instead, he asks Ammar: “Is God not purpose enough?” (RD 264). Ammar argues that while God is not

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there, it is the duty of believers to “implement His law” (ibid.). At this point, Sami’s religious development becomes clearer and more pronounced. While Ammar focuses on human‐made rules and interests related to religion, Sami wants to focus on Islam and its message, independently from conventions or purposes outside of the self in its relation to God. Sami now seems to be more certain that Ammar’s interpretation of Islam is not right for him – and neither is his underground mosque the right place for Sami. Thus, once again, a mosque space mirrors Sami’s development. While Ammar has clearly constructed the underground mosque as a space of compensation – from his perspective – in order to make up for the shortcomings he sees in his surroundings, to Sami it is more a space of illusion. It exposes the compensatory alternative Ammar presents him with as inappropriate: What it aims at is exactly the maintenance of the boundaries that Sami wants to destabilise. Thus, the underground mosque serves as a heterotopic space which ranges between compensation and illusion, depending on the people who use it. It focuses on substituting one dominant norm for another, but not on overcoming power relations. Thus, it cannot serve as a space from which a change or transformation of the exclusively secular norms of British society might emerge. Sami’s decision to abandon Ammar’s radical Islam as well as his underground mosque might also have been triggered by a further mosque he encounters in the interim between his prayer with Ammar and the training for ‘battle’ outside: Regent’s Park mosque, which is officially called the London Central Mosque. As such, it represents a much more traditional and institutional version of Islam. This is also mirrored by its appearance. In contrast to the living room mosques and the underground mosque, it is clearly visible and identifiable, permanent and tangible. The aspect of tradition is addressed by its golden dome and the minaret. Interestingly, Sami notices a “peculiar Englishness” about it, as coats are “hung up on hooks” and windows allow light to come in, as opposed to the mosques in Arab countries where “light is something to be escaped from” (RD 246). Considering the history of the mosque, this ‘Englishness’ can also be observed in the fact that it was designed by an Englishman and the land on which it is built was donated by the British government. As such, Regent’s Park mosque might be seen as a space which has to some extent been under the influence and control of British secularism, but even more so as a space that has won the approval of the British officials and now demonstrates the presence of Islam in London. Its ‘Englishness’ can be interpreted as an expression of British society’s demand for clear characteristics according to which categorisation is possible. As a mosque which is more linked to British politics and also easier to identify and control than for instance Ammar’s underground mosque, it is likely to contribute to maintaining the binary between religion and secularism. In fact, the donation of the mosque’s land by the British government as well as the government’s funding of some mosques in Britain has caused controversy

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among different branches of Muslims. The involvement of the British government is seen as critically by some groups9 . Interestingly, Waqar I. U. Ahmad also addresses this aspect in his analysis of Muslim elite perspectives on British mosques mentioned at the beginning of this chapter. He refers to Sarah Glynn’s examination of the British government’s attempts to promote a liberal, westernised version of Islam when he observes that: “In recent years the British government has attempted to strengthen links with Britain’s Muslim communities, while also introducing policies, in the guise of ‘social cohesion’, that have alienated Muslims by portraying them in terms of threats to national security” (Ahmad 173). Ahmad presents the government’s intentions as rather negative and implies the exercise of hegemonic practices which unconsciously – “in the guise of ‘social cohesion’” – reinforce an anti-Muslim ideology. He becomes more explicit when he claims that “[i]n cultivating bridges to the Muslim communities, both the recent Labour and the current (2012) Conservative-Liberal Democratic governments have been promiscuous with their affections” and therefore been shifting from one organisation to the other “depending on these organisations’ willingness to do the government’s bidding” (ibid.). What he emphasises here is an alleged instrumentalisation of religious organisations and mosques in order to maintain control over both the representation of Islam and its believers. Thus, it seems justified to explain Sami’s reservation with regard to Regent’s Park mosque and its ‘Englishness’ as a result of its representation as a symbol not only of institutionalised faith, but also of power imbalances and cultural dominance. However, regardless of its political implication, Regent’s Park mosque can be seen as a rather traditionally religious place which is the most institutionalised space Sami has encountered so far. He sees the mosque when he is about to take a decision. In a chapter which is tellingly called “Following the Heart” (RD 243), he seems to feel forced to make a choice between religion and secularism: “His foot waggled at the point of decision: right and up and across the bridge and into the community of believers, or left and onwards to the west, along the canal bank, towards his formative haunts” (RD 246). While first tending towards moving westwards, he suddenly realises there is a “partial pathway to belief” as he assumes that while he as “a personality”, “consciousness” or “soul” is “intangible” and therefore “a mere possibility”, so is God (ibid.): “If he’s going to believe in himself, he may as well believe in God. […] Sami and God appear to be, in some sense, brothers” (ibid.). Thus, Sami once again stresses the individuality of the religious attitude he seems to adopt. It appears to be based on a relationship between the individual and God alone, regardless of institutions or conventions surrounding them. The aforementioned ‘partial pathway’ is then also represented spatially: “He left the canal 9 See for instance the debate between the Lahore Ahmadiyya Movement and other Muslim leaders in Britain (Land).

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and threaded through the mid‐rise towers until he was on the Edgware Road and heading south. Following the heart” (RD 246). By choosing neither religion nor secularism, Sami develops in a new direction. It is important to keep in mind that Regent’s Park mosque is a significant space because he chooses to not enter it. Seeing it as a representation of institutionalised Islam and religious conventions, Sami moves away from it. Thus, while society’s dominant secular norm led Sami to develop a secular or atheist position, he is now – on a very personal and individual level – able to transcend the boundaries between secularism and religiousness by redefining it. This also means that he becomes increasingly difficult to ‘categorise’ in the eyes of British society. Neither is he purely secular, nor is he religious in the way that people are likely to be familiar with. While nothing can be said yet about the possibility of overcoming the boundaries between religion and secularism on a social level, it seems very likely that he successfully managed to do so on a personal level by freeing himself from institutional and societal pressures. Nonetheless, it has to be kept in mind that, unless a similar process takes place on the level of society, this development also reinforces the boundary between private and public space. Thus, similarly to the underground mosque, Regent’s Park mosque’s heterotopic potential depends on the people from whose perspective it is constructed. With regard to British society, it might serve a space of compensation: The easily recognisable and to some extent British‐controlled mosque allows dominant parts of society to fix Islam in a spatial location which can be watched and influenced. It therefore provides society with a sense of security and control, a tendency which might result from the dominant representations of British Muslims as a threat (Ahmad and Sardar 1). For Sami, Regent’s Park mosque functions as a heterotopic space of illusion which destabilises the binary opposition between religion and secularism. He refuses to replace one dominant norm with another, choosing instead, as will soon become more explicit, to enter a process of questioning established standards. A third perspective from which to evaluate Regent’s Park mosque’s heterotopic potential is that of British Muslims who actively and consciously practice a more traditional version of Islam. In their eyes, the mosque possibly serves as a heterotopic space of compensation as it combines both religious and social aspects. Thus, it is likely to provide them with a place that fulfils their hope for both religious and social activity in which they can experience their religion and the customs and traditions related to it. In fact, in Minaret, Regent’s Park mosque is represented just like that: as a compensatory space which can be seen as accommodating a parallel society. Najwa first enters the mosque when she considers herself to be at the lowest possible point. After her parents’ death and with her brother Omar in prison, she meets Anwar, a fellow student from Khartoum, again in London and starts a relationship with him. However, she feels increasingly alienated by him because of

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his hostile attitude towards her family, particularly her father, and the religious customs and traditions she was used to in Khartoum (e.g. M 151; 156; 161; 167). He frequently humiliates her and wants her to feel bad about herself: “When are you going to learn how to have a proper discussion?” (M 231), and “Anwar always said I was not intellectual” (ibid. 235). After she has slept with him, she feels desperate and guilty (ibid. 172). As a result, she for the first time experiences a conscious sense of alienation with regard to Britain and believes that she does not belong there: “For the first time in my life, I disliked London and envied the English, so unperturbed and grounded, never displaced, never confused. For the first time, I was conscious of my shitty‐coloured skin next to their placid paleness” (M 174). Even more drastically, she wonders whether anyone in London would care if she got pregnant and realises that no one would. She concludes: “This empty space was called freedom” (M 175). Apparently, Najwa perceives freedom as something problematic which makes her a “victim” (Hunter 94) – a judgement which is likely to seem strange to many readers10 . Her conception of freedom might be understood in the context of Immanuel Kant’s distinction between a negative and a positive concept of freedom (Kant, Groundwork 52). Negative freedom can be thought of as “freedom from heteronomous factors” (Treiger-Bar-Am 560), which means that one is free from external determinants. It is essential to note that one is free from something: When it comes to Najwa, for instance, she is free from the judgement and impact of her family and friends. In contrast to that, positive freedom is the liberty to do something. Kant considers human beings to be positively free when they are autonomous. According to him, autonomy is “the will’s property of being a law to itself” (Kant, Groundwork 52), which is expressed by his concept of the categorical imperative (ibid. 53). As a universal law or “metarule” (Neiman 86), the categorical imperative originates from a person’s pure practical reason rather than desires, wishes or any other external laws, and determines morality. In Religion within the Boundaries of Mere Reason, Kant explicitly refers to morality’s independence from religion when he says that morality does not need “the idea of another being above him” and that “on its own behalf morality in no way needs religion […] but is rather self‐sufficient by virtue of pure practical reason” (33). For Najwa on the other 10 Tamar Steinitz argues that “by focusing on sexual mores, [Najwa] trivializes a wider concept of individual freedom that is central to post-Enlightenment philosophical and political discourses in the West, reducing it to an empty cipher and rejecting it altogether” (379). Claire Chambers on the other hand notes that “Aboulela provocatively challenges Western perceptions of what freedom entails when her protagonist desires a position as her employer’s family slave, or concubine” (“Recent Literary Representations” 185). She suggests that the Muslim concept of freedom, which sees it as “an inner state of liberty from the tyranny of the senses, or as something that is experienced only as part of the collective group of the faithful” (ibid.) serves as an “alternative” to the Western notion and “suggests uncomfortable questions in relation to feminism’s unwittingly Eurocentric assumptions about what constitutes ‘female emancipation’” (ibid. 186).

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hand, religion and morality seem to be linked to each other, which might explain why she perceives freedom negatively rather than positively as an opportunity for exploring new directions. In fact, her impression of freedom as an ‘empty space’ implies that she longs for rules and laws provided by an external source like for instance religion. In this sense, following her disillusionment with the secular norms surrounding her, Najwa wants to replace the secular standard with an equally dominant religious standard. Her development therefore forms a contrast to Sami and his rejection of heteronomous norms and standards11 . Consequently, the binary opposition between religion and secularism remains intact. These observations are mirrored in the fact that Najwa continues to make value judgements about secularism and religion respectively. For instance, after she has slept with Anwar she assumes that “I was a true Londoner now” (M 176). Considering the fact that her sexual encounter with Anwar distresses her considerably and makes her feel guilty, London and thus secularism are linked to values which oppose those of Islam. Even more tellingly, when Wafaa, a woman from the mosque who prepared her mother for her burial, asks her whether she prays, Najwa thinks to herself: “I was further away than she thought; I was out of it now. She had no idea. If my heart had been soft, I would have burst into tears and asked her how to repent. But my heart was not soft. I saw Wafaa through Anwar’s eyes; a backward fundamentalist, someone to look down on” (ibid. 178f.). The opposition – or even conflict – between secularism and religion in Najwa’s life is made extremely explicit here but also points to where her allegiance lies. However, it is not before Najwa breaks up with Anwar that she first enters the mosque. Almost from its beginning, their relationship is presented as rather unhealthy. Despite the fact that Anwar’s behaviour is disrespectful, Najwa only feels that she cannot go on with their relationship when she realises that she forgot to fast during Ramadan – something she used to do in Khartoum for reasons of tradition (M 231). It is at this point that it becomes obvious how much their world views clash: Anwar has no intention of fasting nor does he feel bad about it, and he does not want to marry her either (ibid. 233). Najwa realises: “I was all alone, alarmed about something he didn’t care about” (ibid. 232). While she previously saw Anwar as one of the few remaining links to her former life and he was one of the few social contacts she had in London, she now perceives a distance between them which leaves her lonely and isolated after all. The next day she learns that her mother’s Christian friend who has looked after her is going to leave London for Brighton (M 234), which removes another acquaintance and supporter. She fails in her attempts 11 This is not to suggest that Sami becomes autonomous in the sense of Kant’s categorical imperative. The reference to Kant’s theory is supposed to illustrate that Sami and Najwa respond differently to their newly developed freedom from the dominant secular norm.

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to fast and is appalled at her “failure” and her “body’s refusal to obey” (ibid. 235). When her uncle calls her from Canada she hopes that he will ask her again to join him there as she is now prepared to go, but soon realises that he will not do so and that “Canada was no longer an option for me” (ibid. 236). This means another option is taken from her. While surely nearing a low point in her life, she seems to gain resolution. Anwar calls and asks her to stop by and help him with his work. She agrees but thinks to herself that “‘I’m not coming’. […] It was easier to tell a lie – ‘See you tomorrow’ – than to start a quarrel” (M 236). Her decision fills her with “a kind of peace” (ibid.). She goes on: “I lay in bed and fell deeply asleep. When I woke up I had a shower, but it was not an ordinary shower, it was like starting afresh, wanting to be clean, crying for it” (M 237). Thus, the impression of a new beginning in her life is supported by the imagery of cleansing or purifying herself. Ileana Dimitriu highlights the significance of the passage quoted above by describing is as Najwa’s “‘coming‐to-faith’ moment”, which “materializes in her going to the local London mosque” (123). Indeed, the next sentence then starts with a description of how she enters the mosque for the first time and sees a girl reciting the Qur’an (M 237). It is significant here that this girl seems to represent a new standard which she aspires to conform to. She notices that “her detachment […] was almost angelic” (ibid.) and thinks that: She must be confident of herself, otherwise she would not be reading out loud. I wished I was like her. That in itself was strange. She was pale and serene, her clothes unremarkable, her face neither lush nor pretty. She did not shine with happiness or success, qualities I usually envied. But still I wished I were like her, good like her. I wanted to be good but I wasn't sure if I was prepared. (M 237) The reference to the girl’s ‘detachment’ is significant as it suggests a retreat from public space. In combination with her ‘angelic’ appearance, the detachment seems to imply a closeness to God. By emphasising her new lack of interest in things that her former secular self has aspired to, Najwa takes a next step towards the construction of a secular ‘Other’ against which she constructs a new religious self. This process is continued when she realises that her clothes, which she considers to be “most modest”, are not appropriate for the mosque, as the other women cover her with a coat in order to hide her calves and the bare back of her knees (ibid.). Obviously, the mosque is defined by different norms and standards than those in operation in British society. This also becomes clear when she describes the impression the people in the mosque have of her: “What they could see of me was not impressive: my lack of religious upbringing, no degree, no husband, no money” (M 239). This certainly stresses the importance of religiousness in order to be accepted at the mosque – and constitutes a sharp contrast to British society, where the open display of religion is usually seen as problematic. She realises that “[t]he skidding and plunging was coming to an end. Slowly, surely I was settling at the bottom. It

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felt oddly comfortable, painless. It felt like the worst was over. And there, buried below, was the truth” (M 240). What Najwa communicates here is the impression that she first needs to rid herself of her secular ‘habits’ and – in the context of some kind of punishment which she expresses more explicitly as her religious formation continues – reach a low point from which only God can redeem her in order to see the ’truth’ and live a good life. Like Sami, Najwa’s perception of religion does not come about without the influence of people surrounding her. In fact, at the mosque Najwa is surrounded by a group of women. Following Wafaa’s invitation to come to the mosque, they occasionally talk on the phone, sometimes on Wafaa’s initiative, but sometimes also on Najwa’s. She refers to Wafaa and the other women at the mosque as her “guides” and explains that they “chose me. I did not choose them” (M 240). They invite her to their homes, and give her lifts to the mosque and books to read (ibid). As a result, Najwa feels that [t]he words were clear, as if I had known all this before and somehow, along the way, forgotten it. Refresh my memory. Teach me something old. Shock me. Comfort me. Tell me what will happen in the future, what happened in the past. Explain to me. Explain to me why I am here, what am I doing. Explain to me why I came down in the world. Was it natural, was it curable? (M 240) The mosque appears to be a “sheltering” (Cariello 349) place which provides meaning to her as well as comfort. Referring back to her ‘buried desires’ one can probably assume that they have now been exhumed. From this point on, Najwa seems to regain stability in her life and develops a sense of belonging to the community of British Muslims and the religious standard they represent. At an Eid party, Najwa – who has by then begun to wear the hijab – is asked to read a prayer to the other women at the mosque because she is “so well liked, everyone will enjoy seeing you [her] as part of the programme” (M 183). Significantly, this occasion takes place at the beginning of part four of the six different parts in which the novel is arranged. There are shifts between different locations (London and Khartoum) and times (the 1980s before and immediately after her father’s execution, as well as the 1990s when she is in a relationship with Anwar and 2003-2004 after she has embraced Islam). These shifts usually occur after incidents which Najwa experiences as particularly dramatic and then establish a contrast between those dramatic situations and ones that are less so. When Najwa prepares to read the prayer, the reader is still under the impression of Najwa’s sense of isolation and despair s/he has been confronted with on the previous page (“and now it was my turn to come down in the world”, M 179). The transformative potential of the mosque becomes obvious when seeing Najwa now surrounded by people who appreciate her, and with a firm sense of religiousness. While she reads the prayer, she thinks that “this is a happy occasion and I am happy that I belong here, that I

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am no longer outside, no longer defiant” (M 184). The fact that this thought occurs while she is at the mosque is significant as it anchors her sense of belonging spatially to Regent’s Park mosque and foregrounds its compensatory function: Najwa appears to have found a new standard which provides her life with meaning. In contrast to Najwa, Sami continues his ‘partial pathway’ towards a rather unconventional religiousness, which is represented by Brick Lane mosque. When he looks at the mosque, there is a “tall brick chimney, a red reminder of imperial pride, behind him” (RD 329). The mosque itself is a rather hybrid building: “Formerly synagogue. Formerly Methodist chapel. Formerly Huguenot church” (ibid.). The fact that Brick Lane mosque was previously home to other faiths, thereby functioning “as a reference point for religious plurality” (Rettberg 185), and is also surrounded by a symbol of imperialism emphasises the unconventionality of the mosque as well as its equality with regard to Britain: While the chimney serves as a ‘reminder’ of a time during which Britain’s links to other countries extended and grew, the mosque represents religion’s stamina as its believers have not only managed to survive and found their way to Britain, but now also have found a spatial anchor there. This time, Sami eventually enters the mosque and does so on his own, without any people who might influence him. Similar to Regent’s Park mosque, the prayer hall of Brick Lane mosque is described as a “very English building” (RD 330). However, in this case this might result from the fact that the mosque is a building which was not built as a mosque but made into one. This stresses the creative dimension linked to it: It was transformed into a mosque space – constructed out of something else, something English – and therefore also possesses some of its earlier features. Furthermore, Brick Lane mosque is also characterised by unconventionality and a lack of tradition due to the fact that the prayer hall “wasn’t built to look at Mecca” (RD 330). Inside the mosque, Sami leaves the thought of former influences such as for instance his father and his wife, as well as political concerns behind and, for a moment, also “sidesteps the idea of himself. Sami Traifi, inhaling abstraction, inhaling void” (RD 329f.). He starts praying and while doing so feels that he “splinters. […] As many bits of him as stars. And a sky containing the stars. He has only a hint of it. Something overarching and complete” (ibid. 330). What is emphasised here is the idea of something complete that consists of many different elements – and probably also mind‐sets. Sami seems to be released from the urge to align himself with either secularism or conventionalised religion by developing the individual religiousness that has already been mentioned when he chose his own path, away from institutionalised Islam. The impression that there is a new development inside him that supports this sense of religiousness is stressed by the remark that now “something spacious” has opened in him (ibid.). This is a significant moment in Sami’s formative journey towards a new outlook on the opposition between religion and secularism. The expression ‘something spacious’ anchors his religiousness in a spatial dimension: just like Brick Lane mosque,

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Sami’s religiousness is free from the institutional and traditional basis that defines Najwa’s religiousness. Indeed, his religiousness, represented by Brick Lane mosque, provides him with space for doubt and reflection. It might be for this reason that at the end of the novel the narrator refers to Sami’s “trembling, contingent faith, not necessarily expansive enough to house an eternal heaven, certainly not for Sami as he is” (RD 348). Indeed, Catherine Rashid refers to Sami’s “Islamic agnosticism” in order to illustrate Sami’s understanding of Islam (96). She stresses that “Yassin-Kassab authorizes Islam as a potential trajectory and end point for the journey of the protagonist”, thereby foregrounding Islam’s role as one option among others in Sami’s life (ibid. 102, emphasis added). A similar view is expressed by Claire Chambers, who argues that Sami’s faith “makes room for doubt and uncertainty” (“Sexy Identity-Assertion” 128). With regard to Brick Lane mosque’s heterotopic potential, it appears clear that it functions as a heterotopic space of illusion. The fact that its very construction suggests a sense of combination and hybridity mocks the rigid differentiation between religion and secularism. Significantly, Brick Lane mosque is not easily recognisable as a mosque, which implies that its heterotopic potential remains on the level of the individual rather than changing social structures. In fact, while the boundaries between secularism and religion which have concerned Sami on a personal level have therefore been transcended, those between religion and secularism on the level of society appear to remain intact, as will soon become apparent. Indeed, The Road from Damascus draws a rather gloomy image of British society and in this sense presents readers with a pessimistic outlook on the possibility of destabilising or transforming exclusionary boundaries and making the term ‘British Muslim’ less of a paradox. Ironically, this becomes obvious in the days following 9/11 when Sami steps out of Brick Lane mosque and is arrested by the police – a British institution which can be seen as representing British society. The reason for his arrest is given by the narrator: “Why was Sami in this situation? The burden of the beard, he supposed. The burden of belonging. Just when he was sorting himself out the external world took a lurch for the worse” (RD 333). This statement reveals a hostile attitude towards openly displaying one’s religion12 : The fact that Sami wears a beard makes him recognisable as a Muslim. Moreover, the incident described above draws attention to the problems which might arise when attempting to transfer religious elements into public space: Boundaries are not transcended, but instead aggressively defended by the dominant culture. This is also emphasised by the police officer’s inquiry after his country of origin. Sami insists twice that it is England until the officer pushes him to say “Syria” (RD 333). This 12 Anna Rettberg explicitly links the incident described above to the “consequences of 9/11”, thereby foregrounding the frequent association of Islam with terrorism which was mentioned at the beginning of this chapter (186f.).

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can be seen as actively forcing him to create a distance between himself and the rest of British society. When asked whether Syria was a Muslim country, Sami affirms this and at the same time remembers the answer he used to give as a child when he wanted to distance himself from Islam: “It’s a Mediterranean country. Would you call the Mediterranean Muslim?” (ibid., original emphasis). The contrast between his previous and his current answer indicates the extent to which Sami has developed and also highlights the success he has achieved in overcoming the binary between secularism and religion on a personal level. He is now able to accept both his British and his Syrian background and the secular and religious implications they carry, even though dominant culture still seems to pressurise him back into categories which are easily distinguishable and do not penetrate the British ‘standard’. The conclusion that must be drawn from these incidents is that the boundaries between religion and secularism remain intact on a social level. The only option which appears to remain is a retreat to the privacy of one’s personal sphere in order to express one’s religiousness. This is what Sami does when he and his wife visit Sami’s friend Tom Field in his hermit life out in the woods. It is there that he finds “[o]ut in nature, prayer felt easy to Sami”, and that he refers to his newly developed “doctrine of radical unknowing” (RD 347). Thus, once again, Sami’s belief is not defined by institutionalised conventions or traditions. Instead, its indefinability appears to be its most prominent feature: It is depicted as personal and open to different influences. The fact that for Sami religious practice is easier in nature might emphasise the personal and unconventional dimension of his religiousness. Even though this experience is a positive one for Sami personally, it also draws attention to the difficulties related to society when it comes to openly confessing to a minority religion. Therefore, the earlier suggestion that the image of British society is rather negative or at least marked with a huge question mark is further emphasised. This is also highlighted by Anna Rettberg, who argues that it is only Sami and Muntaha’s reconciliation which prevents the novel from drawing “an entirely bleak outlook for the British ‘multicultural project’” (187). While Rettberg’s analysis focuses on exclusion on the basis of ethnicity rather than religion, her reading still confirms that the novel creates a sense of resolution on a personal level only. In Minaret, the outlook on British society is even more pessimistic and the possibility of overcoming the binary opposition between religion and secularim is presented as almost irrelevant. In this sense, the present work argues against Ileana Dimitriu’s view that Minaret “carefully avoids the discourse of binaries” (124) and “cannot be accused of any retreat from modernity” (ibid. 126). It is perhaps because Dimitriu reads Minaret against the theoretical background of Bill Ashcroft’s “transnation”13 (Ashcroft, “Beyond the nation” 13) that she chooses not to focus 13 Ashcroft’s concept of the “‘transnation’ does not refer to an object in political space. It is a way of talking about subjects in their ordinary lives, subjects who live in‐between the positivities by

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on Najwa’s lack of interaction with society or the notion of the secular ‘Other’ which pervades the novel. Thus, studying Najwa’s religiousness in the context of the ‘transnation’ automatically confines the analysis to her subjectivity and does not pay attention to the social, political, and ideological structures which shape both British society and Najwa’s perception of it. Nonetheless, Dimitriu’s reading of Minaret seems to ignore the rather biased and “pedagogic” (Nash, Ango-Arab Encounter 136) perspective foregrounded in Aboulela’s writing14 . Thus, while Sami is committed to breaking down boundaries and dissolving constructions of the religious ‘Other’, in Minaret boundaries are reinforced by constructing a secular ‘Other’. This is for instance indicated by her encounter with Wafaa’s husband Ali, a convert: I had got the impression from Anwar that the English were all secular and liberal. Ali was nothing like that, yet he was completely English and had never set foot outside Britain. When I got to know Wafaa better, she told me about his conversion, how he used to be a devout Christian and felt that the Church was not strict enough for him. […] I thought of Anwar and Ali, how they would never meet, how the existence of one somehow undermined the other. He [Anwar] believed it was backward to have faith in anything supernatural […] and he could not help but despise those who needed God, needed Paradise and the fear of Hell. (M 241) The remark that Anwar and Ali, the secular and the religious, somehow undermine each other’s existence suggests the establishment of new boundaries: The religious is associated with positive attributes, while the secular is presented as a position of ignorance which has not yet embraced or realised the benefits of religion. In Najwa’s world, Islam seems to be the only way to live a good and happy life, thereby constituting a norm or standard. The two men, Anwar and Ali, almost become representative of Islam and secularism respectively when Najwa concludes: “These men Anwar condemned as narrow‐minded and bigoted, men like Ali, were tender and protective with their wives. Anwar was clever but he would never be tender and protective” (M 242)15 . When Sadia Abbas suggests that Anwar “is presented as obviously inferior to the younger Islamist and is replaced by him” (84), she which subjectivity is normally constituted” (Ashcroft, “Beyond the nation” 14). For Dimitriu, this implies that the ‘transnation’ represents “a state of mind based on a utopian vision of human solidarity beyond the orthodox dichotomies of home/exile or secular/spiritual” (125). 14 Several critics also foreground the didactic dimension of Aboulela’s fiction: Eva Hunter states that it is Aboulela’s “stated wish to guide and teach” (88), and Sadia Abbas refers to Aboulela’s novels as “didactically religious” (90) 15 Eva Hunter draws attention to questions of gender and feminism when she remarks that the quote above shows Najwa’s lack of “awareness of the obverse side of ‘protectiveness’, that is linked to an assumption of male superiority and privilege regarding human and legal rights” (93). Similarly, Lindsey Moore notes that Najwa’s worldview represents “a championing of feminine rather than feminist values” (79). Their essays thus offer insightful perspectives which counter Md. Mahmudul Hasan’s rather idealised reading of the “Islamic Feminist Perspective” in

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draws attention to the novel’s strategy of othering and the clear value judgements it attaches to secularism and religion respectively. Thus, by marking one of the two apparent binaries – religion and secularism – as better than the other, boundaries are maintained rather than destabilised. In contrast to Sami, who attempts to expand the heterotopic potential of the mosque from a personal level to society in general, Najwa seems to favour a clear separation of secularism and religion, and therefore also the public and private spheres linked to them. Najwa’s attitude towards British society is also illustrated by the novel’s representation of the hijab. Unlike Sami, whose beard serves as a signifier of his new religiousness, Najwa seems to employ her veil to hide behind it16 . Her remark that “[w]ithout it [the veil], our nature is exposed” attaches a sense of threat and danger to British society and public space (M 186). Ulrike Tancke expresses a similar view when she describes Najwa’s faith as “an act of self‐protection” and “a carapace” (9). This impression is emphasised further when Najwa suggests that she becomes “invisible” when wearing her veil (M 247). She establishes a direct link between her previously secular life and superficiality17 , thereby continuing the process of constructing a secular ‘Other’: The builders who had leered down at me from scaffoldings couldn’t see me any more. I was invisible and they were quiet. All the frissons, all the sparks died away. Everything went soft and I thought, ‘Oh, so this is what it was all about: how I looked, just how I looked, nothing else, nothing non‐visual.’ (M 247) Even more explicitly, Najwa expresses regret about her secular lifestyle and admits that tears ran down my face. I sweated and felt a burning along my skin, in my chest. This was the scrub I needed. Exfoliation, clarifying, deep‐pore cleanse – words I Aboulela’s writing and the “moral laxity and licentiousness common in big, Western cities like London” (98). 16 For a reading of Najwa’s veil as “a symbol of her faith”, please see Sabine Schmidt’s Beyond the Veil: Culture, Religion, Language and Identity in Black British Muslimah Literature (18). Other studies which conceive of Najwa’s hijab as empowering include for instance Claire Chambers (“Sexy Identity-Assertion” 121), Ileana Dimitriu (124), and Hasan (98) as well as Cariello (340f.). Seda Canpolat argues that the veil “affords Najwa protection from the sexist gaze but subjects her to the racist or, more precisely, Islamophobic gaze” (227), whereas Anna Ball sees it as “a gesture towards modesty and a marker of her femininity” (123), as well as “an expression of her own spiritual development” (ibid. 124). Elsewhere, Claire Chambers argues that “[w]hile the veil’s homogenizing tendencies are not denied, its democratic levelling out of differences and powerful symbolism as a badge of faith are also emphasized” (“Recent Literary Representation” 187). 17 Similarly, Eva Hunter observes that in Aboulela’s writing, “Islam’s depth is contrasted with ‘Western emptiness’” (92).

3 The Mosque

knew from the beauty pages of magazines and the counters of Selfridges. Now they were for my soul not my skin. (M 247) What is foregrounded here is that Najwa retreats from public space as her religiousness develops. Indeed, Lindsey Moore suggests that Najwa’s decision to wear the hijab “encourages her to reconceptualise the relationship between self and world” (77) and that this retreat is “physical, sartorial and psychological” (ibid. 79), whereas Esra Mirze Santesso remarks that it “enhace[s] her isolation” (92). A further example of Najwa’s reserved attitude towards society is her response to a racist attack: Three young men verbally abuse her on a bus and pour a soft drink over her hijab and face. She starts praying as soon as she senses that there might be trouble, but apart from that she does not show any reaction. This passage reveals her thoughts immediately after the attack: The bus stops and the doors swing open. A couple walk down the stairs and towards the exit. I make a quick decision and follow them out of the bus. The wind hits against my wet scarf, it makes my scalp feel cold. I use the dry edge of the scarf to wipe my face. I breath in and out to make the anger go away, to let it out through my nose. My cheeks are sticky. I bite my lips and they taste sweet. It could have been beer but I’ve been lucky. I blink and that's uncomfortable because my eyelashes are twisted and stuck together. I didn’t know that eyelashes could ache. I walk the rest of the way home thinking about my eyelashes and that I will have to wash my hair. I don’t like washing it at night. My hairdryer doesn’t work anymore and I don’t sleep well with wet hair. It irritates me, damp and sprawling over the pillow. (M 80f.) Significantly, the assault does not really seem to concern Najwa, or at least not as much as her hair and eyelashes, nor does she even consider going to the police in order to defy her attackers and the general attitude which lies behind their actions. Instead, she is so much focused on herself that everything else seems to be of minor significance. British society in general seems to become increasingly irrelevant to Najwa as her religious development unfolds, an observation which is illustrated by Waïl S. Hassan’s remark that Najwa’s newly developed religiousness “comes at a hefty price” (313). This also becomes clear when looking at the novel at large: Initially, British society had a moderate presence, for instance through shops and restaurants she visited or cultural products she consumed. Later on, she does not even seem to notice them anymore, they simply seem to disappear, which results in a “social canvas [which] is not too broad” (Abbas 85): Britain and British society only feature through the racists who attack her, and through British converts like Ali18 . 18 Geoffrey Nash also notes that there is “barely one significant English character” in the novel (Anglo-Arab Encounter 144).

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Thus, while Yassin-Kassab presents the retreat to the private sphere as necessary in order to develop a sense of belonging and then hopefully emerge from this sphere with a new sense of power that could destabilise fixed structures, in Minaret the boundary between private and public is encouraged and reinforced. Najwa’s concentration on the personal level and her focus on the private sphere might be understood by her wish to move back to Khartoum and therefore explain her reluctance to get actively involved in the process of changing structures in Britain. However, a return to Sudan is impossible for her as she feels that her father’s past prevents her from settling down there again. Still, at the same time her wish also expresses a value judgement which equals the maintenance of the binary opposition between religion and secularism. She seems to prefer an exclusively religious perspective. This is also emphasised when she utters regret over the fact that Britain is not governed according to Shariah law (M 193). Minaret therefore suggests that a religious society might strengthen and support the individual in his or her religious practice, and indeed, that “the only operative category of belonging is Islam” (Abbas 84). In contrast to that, a secular state appears to leave the individual no other option but to remain within a private sphere that is linked to spaces like the mosque. Najwa experiences religion – and particularly Islam – as something which is not only beneficial for the individual, but also for society at large. In this respect, Minaret is considerably more unequivocal and “normative” (Santesso 103) with regard to the impact and importance of religion than the complex and ambiguous understanding of religion, exclusion and belonging that can be found in The Road from Damascus. A similar view is expressed by Sadia Abbas who argues that Minaret is highly political and thus not, as suggested by Ileana Dimitriu, simply about Najwa’s state of mind19 . According to Abbas, Najwa’s wish for Shariah law in Britain is presented as a personal response, whereas in fact it constitutes “[a] right‐wing Islamist position [which] is turned into a dissenting liberal one because it is held by protagonists oppressed by their otherness and produced by an author who is a member of a minority in the West” (Abbas 86). To conclude, the representation of the mosque as a heterotopic space is embedded in an interplay of personal and social levels. In both Minaret and The Road from Damascus the representation of the different mosques mirrors the protagonists’ interpretation of religion and its relation to the rest of society. The respective 19 Similarly to Dimitriu, Sara Ilott and Anna Ball do not see political implications or undertones in Minaret either. Ilott argues that Aboulela “retreats from such politically charged debates and ideologies, instead offering tales of personal faith within small networks” (50), whereas Ball, referring to the Islamophobic attack on Najwa, suggests that “Aboulela refuses to imbue it with a broader political symbolism” (122). The points they make are not entirely convincing as they do not seem to distinguish between the protagonist Najwa and the ideological position or bias created by the text.

3 The Mosque

mosques can therefore be seen as possessing a significant transformative potential and impact on the protagonists’ religiousness and subsequently their sense of belonging to Britain. The functions of the mosque spaces analysed in the present chapter range between illusion and compensation. However, it is important to note that their impact is directed at the individual protagonists rather than at British society at large. Therefore, their heterotopic potential with regard to British society derives mainly from the impact they have on the protagonists and their ability to transfer this impact across the threshold between private religious and public secular space20 . That this is only occasionally the case, and then also only to a rather inconsiderable extent, has been highlighted by the mosques’ visibility or transitoriness as well as by what the protagonists experience once they try to transgress the boundaries. The various mosques in The Road from Damascus serve as spaces which not only represent but also trigger Sami’s religious development and the process of questioning the binary opposition between secularism and religion in his life. In Minaret, on the other hand, the mosque is represented in a rather one‐dimensional way. Najwa’s sense of religion develops inside Regent’s Park mosque and then takes over her perception of the world, which is also mirrored in the fact that Najwa functions as the only (and considerably dominant) focaliser of the narrative (Abbas 86). While neither Sami nor Najwa feel a sense of belonging to Britain that is without ambiguity or doubt, there are still differences in their attitudes towards the possibility of such a belonging. Sami still seems to be in the process of destabilising and renegotiating boundaries – he attempts to leave the privacy of the personal sphere behind and searches for contact with British society. Najwa, on the other hand, seems content with her lack of interaction with society. In fact, Minaret seems to represent secularism as an ‘Other’ and sets up religion as standard which generates new boundaries.

20 Esra Mirze Santesso reads Minaret in the context of social class and concludes that “[w]hat happens in the mosque stays in the mosque”, which illustrates that class barriers within the Muslim community are temporarily suspended during prayer, but reinstalled soon afterwards (89). Even though this observation refers to the Muslim community and not British society at large, it still emphasises that the mosque’s heterotopic potential cannot be transferred beyond the boundaries of the mosque.

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4 The University of Oxford

4.1

The Oxford Myth

The University of Oxford has always occupied a central role in British society. This becomes particularly clear when looking at Elitist Britain?, a report published in 2014 by the UK government’s Social Mobility and Child Poverty Commission1 . The study’s results are summarised as follows: “This research highlights a dramatic over‐representation of those educated at independent schools and Oxbridge across important institutions in the UK” (SMCPC 2). The report draws attention to the connection between education and social structures. At times when primary and secondary education are free and tertiary education is expensive but still feasible through student grants or loans, education in general appears less exclusive and prestigious. Strikingly though, universities like Oxford and Cambridge have maintained their status as breeding grounds of a privileged and sophisticated elite. Accordingly, the Elitist Britain? report finds that “Britain’s elite [is] formed on the playing fields of independent schools [and] finished in Oxbridge’s dreaming spires” (SMCPC 10). Indeed, the term ‘dreaming spires’ alludes to the ‘Oxford Myth’, which is at the centre of this chapter and will soon be illustrated in greater detail. The report goes on to present its readers with figures which show the wide spectrum of institutions and sectors which are shaped by Oxbridge graduates. These include for instance Britain’s judiciary, government and journalism. Compared to only 0,8 per cent of the British public as a whole who attended an Oxbridge university, 75 per cent of senior judges, 59 per cent of the Cabinet, 57 per cent of Permanent Secretaries, 44 per cent of Public Body Chairs, 33 per cent of members of the House of Lords and 24 per cent of MPs graduated from Oxford or Cambridge (SMCPC 10f.) Similarly, 47 per cent of newspaper columnists, 33 per cent of BBC executives (ibid.) and 45 per cent – compared to 52 per cent almost thirty years ago – of “the 100 top media professionals” attended Oxbridge (ibid. 36). Considering the fact that politics, administration and journalism play essential roles in structuring public life and opinion‐making, it is obvious that Oxbridge universities and 1 In the following abbreviated as SMCPC.

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its graduates are in possession of enormous cultural, social and political power. With regard to politics, this tendency is epitomised by the fact that out of 54 Prime Ministers to date, 27 graduated from Oxford and 14 from Cambridge (Nimmo par. 2)2 . A look at the two Houses’ Select Committees reveals a similar situation: 17 per cent of Select Committee members and 50 per cent of Select Committee Chairs attended Oxbridge universities (SMCPC 30). At the same time, these figures indicate a link between hierarchy or authority and an Oxbridge education: the more influential or privileged a position, the higher the number of Oxbridge graduates. This observation is also supported by the fact that only 8 per cent of local government leaders, but 57 per cent of Whitehall Permanent Secretaries attended Oxford or Cambridge (ibid. 44). Thus, Britain appears to be tightly in the hands of an academic elite whose members share very similar backgrounds and therefore probably also interests and values. Committed to finding ways of changing the status quo, the Elitist Britain? report also focuses on the future. It concludes that “[t]he data available suggests the grip of the narrow social group currently in the top jobs will only slowly be loosened in future” (ibid. 63). What this implies is a sense of consistency which might be sustained by the previously mentioned Oxford Myth. At the same time, this process also works vice versa, as the overall impression of consistency sustains the Oxford Myth as well. All in all, the Elitist Britain? report highlights the exclusive character of universities like Oxford. In this sense, it suggests that there are rather fixed and stable boundaries between the Oxbridge elite and British society as a whole, and that these boundaries restrict access to powerful and influential positions. In fact, the report’s findings seem to confirm Pierre Bourdieu’s assumption that social inequality is reproduced through education: power and education are inextricably linked. In the context of this chapter, Bourdieu’s thesis is particularly interesting because he often refers to France’s highly selective Grandes Écoles. Even though these institutions are, strictly speaking, not universities but establishments of higher education which prepare their students for leading positions in the government, judiciary or military, in business, administration or other influential sectors, they can perhaps be described to have a degree of prestige similar to that of Oxbridge. However, 2 The University of Oxford has set up a website which draws attention to the Prime Ministers who attended one of its colleges (“British Prime Ministers”), and there is a Wikipedia article entitled “List of Prime Ministers of the United Kingdom by education”.Both examples clearly illustrate that the educational background of British Prime Ministers is part of the University’s self‐representation as well as the country’s public imagination. As a side note: Only five prime ministers attended universities other than Oxbridge, and eight did not graduate from any university at all – three of which were members of the aristocracy like the fourth Duke of Devonshire, the second Earl of Shelburne and the first Duke of Wellington, which means that conventional schooling was perhaps seen unnecessary.

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according to Bourdieu, the educational system – and particularly institutions like the Grandes Écoles (85) or, potentially, Oxbridge universities, “fulfil[…] a function of legitimation which is more and more necessary to the perpetuation of the ‘social order’” (ibid. 84). According to Bourdieu, a factor which plays an essential role in maintaining social power structures is the concept of social, cultural, and economic capital. His examination of capital’s impact on social inequality and power structures highlights a crucial and rather pessimistic observation: Academic success cannot easily be converted into social mobility, even though (self-)representations of the educational system might suggest otherwise. Indeed, Bourdieu argues that the educational system works in a way which makes the reproduction of social hierarchies “appear to be based upon the hierarchy of ‘gifts,’ merits, or skills established and ratified by its [the educational system’s] sanctions, or, in a word, by converting social hierarchies into academic hierarchies” (84). Thus, the educational system pretends to take a person’s academic achievements into account when granting access to educational institutions. However, the system is designed so as to make it easier to succeed for learners who bring sufficient social and cultural capital with them. Social capital, as for instance membership in networks of beneficial social relations, and cultural capital, as the possession of cultural products and, significantly, the ability to “decipher” or “appropriat[e]” and thus use them properly, are transformed into academic success and economic capital, that is money (Bourdieu 73; 80). These different forms of capital and the practices related to them establish a particular habitus which, according to Bourdieu, might be “extremely profitable” for some (ibid. 98). The concept of habitus is highly influential because it remains rather implicit: For instance, pupils who share their teachers’ habitus might advance academically on the basis of “such diffuse and total criteria as ‘the right presentation,’ ‘general culture’, etc.” (Bourdieu 98). Thus, the structure of the educational system and the significance of a person’s habitus result in two related processes: The first one determines who is allowed access to the system in the first place. Bourdieu claims that the exclusionary mechanisms at work in the educational system “are concealed beneath the cloak of a perfectly democratic method of selection which takes into account only merit and talent” (Bourdieu 85). What is suggested here is that the talent and merit associated with academic selection processes serve as evidence of the objectivity the system pretends to possess. This is not to say that applicants with high degrees of social and cultural capital do not have talent or merit, but, following Bourdieu, those applicants are more likely to bring a habitus with them which allows them to present their talents and merits advantageously. According to Bourdieu, this also explains why for pupils without this particular habitus, their selection will always be considered “‘miraculous’” and “the best testimony of academic democracy” (85f.). Secondly, the impact of academic success is delimitated further when Bourdieu

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explains that economic and social capital ultimately overpower academic capital which he considers “a converted form of cultural capital” (Bourdieu 98). Graduating from a prestigious university might not be enough to achieve social mobility if the person in question is one of the ‘miraculously’ selected members of the dominated group who lacks social and economic capital. Bourdieu insists that “outside the specifically academic market, [the value of the diploma] depends on the economic and social values of the person who possesses it” (ibid.). Thus, for someone with a substantial financial background and influential social relations, a diploma is “an additional qualification” which legitimises this person’s professional advance (ibid.). Bourdieu’s observations therefore illustrate how educational institutions – particularly those which carry above‐average prestige – not simply reproduce existing social structures, but also naturalise social exclusion. What this emphasises is the system’s active role in shaping society. It is not simply a site of learning where existing structures are maintained, but also actively involved in extending boundaries, and perhaps even generating new ones. Bourdieu’s metaphor of a “cloak” which conceals exclusionary processes strongly emphasises the disguising and naturalising character of the system’s mechanisms (Bourdieu 85). It is perhaps even possible to go one step further and say that the system creates an illusion which promises that access to a high‐profile educational institution is based purely on merit – which implies that it is open to everyone who works hard enough – and that a diploma from one of those institutions can self‐evidently be transformed into social mobility and belonging. The second aspect just mentioned will be of particular importance in the context of this chapter, as it constitutes a central aspect of the Oxford Myth. A look back at the Elitist Britain? report suggests that universities like Oxford seem to play a significantly prominent role in the processes illustrated above. Not only the strong presence of alumni networks suggests that Oxbridge universities have a lasting impact on the lives of their graduates, but the report also shows that Oxbridge graduates are part of what is – nowadays rather negatively connoted – referred to as the establishment. According to the report, they form the centre of British society and shape the country through their influential roles in politics, journalism, and the media. It might well be said that Oxbridge graduates undoubtedly belong to society or even epitomise belonging. Keeping this in mind, it becomes clear that Oxbridge’s exclusivity also seems to contain inclusion for those who make it there and graduate. Interestingly though, this is not necessarily true for those who are not considered part of what is seen as dominant British society: male, white and middle class. Strikingly, apart from five personalised “My social mobility story” sections, the Elitist Britain? report does not take these factors into account (SMCPC 28f.; 39; 41; 45). Thus, while the report discloses Oxbridge’s role

4 The University of Oxford

in reproducing social structures, it appears to support the image of instant social belonging through an Oxbridge education. In contrast to that, this chapter will concentrate on literary representations of black British Oxford graduates. Both Dele, the protagonist of Diran Adebayo’s Some Kind of Black, and the unnamed narrator of The Intended by David Dabydeen, have a working‐class background, but the authors frequently point out that it is particularly the protagonists’ ethnicity which sets them apart from the typical Oxford students. In order to analyse their interaction with the University of Oxford’s promise of belonging, it is read as a heterotopic space. While both Oxford and Cambridge carry high degrees of prestige, it is particularly the University of Oxford which is generally seen as a ‘special space’. This is also illustrated by the fact that “it is indeed pervasively recognised that there is such a thing as an ‘Oxford myth’” (Tönnies, “Divergent Myths” 187). This myth not simply shapes the university’s perception in the public mind, but also contributes to the reproduction of its exclusivity. It is rather difficult to define the Oxford Myth, particularly because there is not just one single myth but rather “a bricolage of different versions which – though proceeding from one central point – often diverge from and conflict with each other” (Tönnies, “Divergent Myths” 187). A prominent – though controversial – example of this is Rachel Johnson’s 1988 collection of essays entitled The Oxford Myth. Written by then (under)graduates, the essays aim at showing readers the “real Oxford” (R. Johnson, “Introduction” viii), which, according to Johnson, is quite different from what the “un-Oxford educated public” think (ibid.). The publication received mostly negative reviews3 and in fact, many of the contributors later distanced themselves from the book. Sebastian Shakespeare for instance commented that “[t]he book is now mercifully out of print” (R. Johnson, “We were” par. 21), while Alexander Connock retrospectively thinks that the publication was “self‐satisfied”, and that the Oxford Myth is still real (Connock par. 4). Johnson herself is more vague when she admits that she failed “to see that the combination of contributors, treatment and subject matter” turned into “a toxic cocktail, spiking the pens of reviewers with poison” (R. Johnson, “We were” par. 22). It is perhaps valid to say that the contributors’ attempt to refute Oxford’s image as an elitist space not simply failed but actually confirmed the very aspect it wanted to eliminate. Still, the collection also emphasises the complexity of the Oxford Myth: The essays published by Johnson focus on topics such as class, town and gown, eccentrics, politics, women, work, and drugs – all of which illustrate the diverse range of images which constitute the myth. At the same time, it draws attention to the fact that the Oxford Myth is based on (and perpetuated by) a literary canon which consists of works like Max Beerbohm’s Zuleika Dobson, Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited (R. 3 For an overview, please see Toby Young’s essay “Status Anxiety” in The Spectator.

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Johnson, “Introduction” viii; Tönnies “Re-Evaluating” 37), or, more recently, Antonia Fraser’s Oxford Blood and “Colin Dexter’s Inspector Morse novels and TV-series” (Tönnies, “Re-Evaluating” 37). What they all share is “the fundamental conviction that Oxford is a special place” (Tönnies, “Divergent Myths” 188). Merle Tönnies identifies three especially prominent constituents of the Oxford Myth: Exclusiveness, tradition, and outstanding visual beauty (“Divergent Myths” 191; 194; 197). In this chapter, the sense of exclusiveness linked to Oxford, but also tradition, are particularly significant because they are most likely to guarantee the aspect of social belonging, which is at the centre of this work. It is especially the image of access to an exclusive community, of becoming an ‘insider’ and part of a small selective circle which creates the promise of belonging mentioned previously. Thus, the University of Oxford seems to be synonymous with “a generally recognisable standard of achievement” (Tönnies, “Divergent Myths” 191)4 . In some versions of the myth of exclusiveness, access to this community is based on “academic excellence”, in others it is linked to status – including one’s class, gender and ethnicity –, while still other versions see excellence and status combined (ibid. 199) in the form of sophistication and “the proverbial ‘Oxford manner’” (ibid. 194). The fact that according to the myth both academic excellence and status can be seen as pathways to an Oxford education recalls Bourdieu’s theory. In the context of the present chapter it is striking that access through status is out of the question for the protagonists because their ethnic (and class) background separates them from the dominant group5 . This implies that they must rely on academic excellence in order to be accepted at Oxford. This might explain why, as will be shown in the course of this chapter, both protagonists are intensely influenced by the myth of exclusiveness through academic excellence, while their status as black British men also shapes their interaction with the myth. While Oxford certainly seems to carry the promise – or perhaps even myth – of belonging and social mobility, Bourdieu’s theory raises doubts as to whether this promise is one that can be kept easily. Indeed, the term ‘Oxford Myth’ already hints at the somewhat illusory nature which Bourdieu alludes to as well. Roland Barthes’s concept of myth is relevant here in explaining the nature and function of myth, which is highly significant with regard to the upcoming analysis. According to Roland Barthes, myth is “a system of communication” and “a message” (107). As such, it is not limited to written or oral speech but also includes “photography, cinema, reporting, sport, shows, publicity” (Barthes 108). However, it is crucial to keep in mind that Barthes does not consider myth to contain a simple, literal meaning 4 The idea that Oxford represents a norm or standard is also reflected in the existence of an “‘Oxford English,’ [and] the Oxford English Dictionary” (Tönnies, “Divergent Myths” 191). 5 A recent study found that “more than one in four of its [Oxford’s] colleges failed to admit a single black British student each year between 2015 and 2017” (Adams and Barr par. 1).

4 The University of Oxford

but rather to follow particular intentions and purposes (ibid. 122). In this sense, he links myth to ideology. Indeed, in her highly insightful study Ambiguity in “Star Wars” and “Harry Potter”: A (Post)Structuralist Reading of Two Popular Myths, Christina Flotmann points out that for Barthes, myth is ideology (44). Myth’s ideological function is based on its structure. Barthes describes it as a “second‐order semiological system” (113, original emphasis) which is based on Ferdinand de Saussure’s linguistic semiological system. Saussure suggests that there are three elements which are used to create linguistic meaning: The signifier – as for instance the sound or written shape of a word – and the signified – as the mental concept which pops up in someone’s mind upon hearing or reading the word – form the sign, which Barthes describes as “the associative total of the first two terms” (ibid.). He refers to the first level as a “language‐object” which myth uses to “build its own system” (ibid. 114). Thus, myth is a “metalanguage” which uses language (in its broadest sense) to speak about language (ibid.). This becomes clear when looking at the second‐order semiological system mentioned above: It uses the sign of the first system or ‘language‐object’ as a new signifier. Once again, a signifier – in this case the linguistic sign – is linked to a signified, i.e. the associations with the signifier. Together, they form a new sign on the level of myth. Christina Flotmann explains that there is a “mental tendency not to separate mere language from its meanings and associations” (45). Associations with a signifier are usually based upon one’s cultural background and therefore potentially unconscious in nature. Consequently, as Christina Flotmann convincingly argues, “myth can be used to naturalise certain discourses” (45). Barthes suggests that “myth is experienced as innocent speech: not because its intentions are hidden – if they were hidden, they could not be efficacious – but because they are naturalized” (130). Myth’s ability to naturalise particular intentions is clearly a powerful mechanism and is reminiscent of the power of representation which was explored in Chapter One. Uncritically perceived, myth has the potential to create a specific form of reality, or social structure. Barthes explicitly places myth in a social context when he claims that “myth is depoliticized speech” and must be understood as an “instrument for the ideological conversion” of society (ibid. 142, original emphasis). He points out that in depoliticising (emphasis added), myth becomes an active force which “does not deny things, […] [but] purifies them, it makes them innocent, it gives them a natural and eternal justification, it gives them a clarity which is not that of an explanation but that of a statement of fact” (Barthes 143). The fact that myth makes ideologically charged messages appear ‘innocent’ and natural carries important implications for the Oxford Myth as well. ‘Oxford’ can clearly be used as a signifier on the level of myth. Together with associations of exclusiveness, tradition, academic excellence, or, indeed, social integration, it forms a sign which can be described as the Oxford Myth. Thus, just as other myths, this particular one is also likely to naturalise preferred meanings: it might for instance jus-

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tify the results of the Elitist Britain? report or downplay Bourdieu’s conviction that it is ultimately not academic achievement, but social relations and money which secure social and professional positions. Strikingly, the concept of myth is also highly relevant in the context of heterotopic spaces. As pointed out above, myth can function as a mechanism of power which maintains – but perhaps also challenges – existing hierarchies. What is essential to keep in mind is that a heterotopic space’s functions emerge from its relation to the rest of society. Thus, not only can myth shape power structures within a heterotopic space, but it might also influence this space’s heterotopic potential for destabilising or transforming those structures on the level of society. Indeed, myth can support the construction of a heterotopic space of compensation, but, because of its close ties with the rest of social space, a heterotopic space of illusion might also expose the illusory nature of myth. When it comes to the heterotopic space analysed in the present chapter, the University of Oxford, it is the Oxford Myth which contributes to its function as a space of compensation or illusion. While the sense of academic excellence conveyed by the Oxford Myth creates the illusion of equal opportunities based on criteria such as merit and talent, the idea of exclusiveness attached to the myth supports the promise of social belonging and privilege associated with the University. Significantly, exclusiveness does not only characterise the relationship between non‐members and members of the University but also “between those who have made it to the in‐circles and those who are left on the sidelines of Oxford life” (Tönnies, “Re-Evaluating” 38). This is highly reminiscent of Bourdieu’s criticism of the mechanisms of social and cultural reproduction employed by institutions like the University of Oxford. At the same time, the Oxford Myth’s sense of exclusiveness and academic excellence also draws attention to the University’s potential function as a heterotopic space of compensation which might, however, be turned into a space of illusion, thereby (re)structuring both the University and the remaining social space. The present chapter reads the University of Oxford as a heterotopic space in which the Oxford Myth contributes to the representation or perpetuation, destabilisation or overturning of societal structures. The upcoming analysis will examine the myths of Oxford which are constructed in the novels and concentrate on how they influence the protagonists’ sense of belonging. Special attention will be paid to the protagonists’ interaction with these myths as exclusionary mechanisms.

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4.2

Representations of the University of Oxford as a Heterotopic Space

Diran Adebyo’s novel Some Kind of Black6 and David Dabydeen’s The Intended7 both present their readers with two young black British men who struggle to create a sense of belonging for themselves in Britain. The University of Oxford constitutes a central element in this struggle. Interestingly, however, the University itself is only very marginally part of the novels’ settings. Adebayo’s Dele graduates rather early on in the novel and ultimately leaves Oxford for London. In fact, only one of the novel’s eleven chapters is set in Oxford, one is split between Oxford and London, and the remaining chapters all take place in London. This structure creates a significant contrast between “the white world of Oxford University” and “a Black world within London” (Oyedeji 349), thereby foregrounding the “self‐seclusion” typical of the Oxford Myth (Tönnies, “Postcolonial University Novel” 28). Dabydeen’s novel is less linear and rather an interplay of the unnamed autodiegetic narrator’s memories of his home in Guyana, his life in London, and a very brief episode in an Oxford library. However, Oxford’s impact on the protagonists’ lives remains constantly present throughout the narrative and significantly shapes their experiences of London and British society in general. At the beginning of Some Kind of Black, the reader is confronted with an image of Oxford which is highly reminiscent of the traditional Oxford Myth and its promise of belonging. Interestingly, this image is based on an indirect representation of Oxford and Dele’s experience of it. However, what is particularly striking is the fact that this early portrayal of the University already implies that the Myth might not remain uncontested. Thus, rather than presenting readers with a direct account of Dele’s Oxford days, the heterodiegetic narrator remarks that Dele “should be in Oxford studying” when he is spending time in London (SKB 3). This first reference to Oxford not only establishes a contrast between Oxford and London – representing the centre of a privileged elite and the centre of British society respectively —, but also alludes to the fact that Dele does not feel completely comfortable at Oxford. The use of the modal auxiliary ‘should’ creates a sense of obligation, expectation and duty, which has in fact been generated by the Oxford Myth: Dele’s parents put high hopes in him and his career prospects. Their perception of the University seems to be shaped by the image of a space which offers access to an exclusive community, prestige and professional success, all of which are evocative of the Oxford Myth. This becomes obvious when Dele’s father accidentally meets his son in London when he expects him to be in Oxford studying. Focalised through Dele, the narrator recounts how his father drags him home, beats him violently and warns him of serious consequences if he ever spends time in London while he should be 6 All subsequent references to Some Kind of Black will use the abbreviation SKB. 7 In the following referred to as I.

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in Oxford (SKB 5). For Dele’s father, London seems to be a dangerous place which is likely to make his son “fall” and “walk in the dark” (ibid). This conjures up the image of Oxford as a safe, secluded and special place, which forms part of the Oxford Myth. Dele’s mother shares his father’s perspective on Oxford. Like him, she wants to prevent Dele from crossing the boundaries that separate Oxford and London: Feeling awe and reverence for her son’s Oxford career, she is adamant in her effort not to “disturb you [Dele] from your [his] studies” (SKB 5), even when his sister is admitted to hospital. At the same time, she has high expectations of Dele’s time at Oxford: Referring to his final exams, she insists that “we will all shine in your [Dele’s] glory” (6) when he graduates from Oxford. Thus, Dele’s parents obviously equate his Oxford degree with privilege for the entire family. His sister Dapo is less reverent with regard to the University and realises that he is “unhappy” there (SKB 9), but she still acknowledges the Myth when she ironically asks her brother about “grand old Oxford” (ibid. 8). While he did not dare to correct his parents’ impression of Oxford, Dele is more open with his sister and admits that he is “just frying time there now. Anxious to get out” (ibid.). Thus, Dele’s family seem to have adopted the dominant perspective on Oxford which is based on the traditional Oxford Myth. Not only do they consider Oxford to be a special, exclusive and safe space, but they also trust that it will have a lasting and positive effect on Dele and his position in British society. His parents, particularly his father, seem to appreciate the boundaries between Oxford and London, probably because they guarantee the privilege and exclusiveness which his parents associate with the University. What this suggests is that from the perspective of the Oxford Myth – which has shaped the general public’s and particularly Dele’s parents’ opinion – the University functions as a heterotopic space of compensation. The Oxford Myth relies on boundaries: without them, the University would lose its exclusiveness and subsequently its justification for offering privileged social and professional positions. Consequently, Oxford counterbalances society’s deficiencies: For Dele’s parents, the University has the potential to compensate for their status as immigrants who are not necessarily considered part of Britain. In this sense, the Oxford Myth becomes constitutive of the space’s potential compensatory function. However, what must be kept in mind is the fact that the boundaries which preserve exclusiveness and prestige are also able to guard the University from external forces. This suggests that as a heterotopic space, Oxford might serve different, potentially diverging purposes which depend on the perspectives of those who make use of it. For instance, from the perspective of dominant groups of British society, the shortcomings which Oxford is to compensate for might consist in shifting class structures or a heterogeneous, multicultural population. At times when traditional notions of Britishness or, even more exclusively, Englishness are in decline, when

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national borders are rather unrestricted and open, Oxford seems to be the epitome of stability and tradition. What this implies is that for the dominant groups of society, too, Oxford seems to represent a space which is, recalling Michel Foucault’s definition of the heterotopia of compensation, “as perfect, meticulous and well‐arranged as ours [British society’s] is disordered, ill‐conceived and in a sketchy state” (“Other Spaces” 356). Interestingly, this observation discloses a crucial discrepancy: While dominant groups of British society consider Oxford a space which has the power to sustain existing boundaries and structures, members of minority groups such as Dele’s parents hope for access to the space beyond those very boundaries, as promoted by the Oxford Myth. This conflict therefore not only foregrounds the interplay between the University’s mythical structure and its construction as a heterotopic space, but also illustrates the fact that Dele is confronted with a space which is potentially both hostile and conducive towards his quest for belonging. Depending on whose claim to the University’s heterotopic potential is stronger and who is most aptly able to use the Oxford Myth to their advantage, Oxford can be a space where boundaries are not simply destabilised, but also transformed. In David Dabydeen’s The Intended, the unnamed narrator conveys a similar image of Oxford. The narrator himself, but also other protagonists like Mrs Khan, the mother of his friend Nasim, and his friend Shaz share the dominant perspective on Oxford as a heterotopic space of compensation, based on the Oxford Myth’s sense of excellence and its promise of belonging. Even though he cannot understand the narrator’s fascination with education and literature, Shaz sends him off to Oxford with 100 pounds and the promise of a monthly allowance “so long as I [the narrator] kept passing the exams” (I 150). Moreover, the narrator reports that “Mrs Khan was overjoyed that I was about to leave for Oxford, as if I had fulfilled all the trust she had placed in me. ‘Any mother proud to have you as son,’ she beamed in her broken English” (ibid. 151). This situation might remind readers of Dele’s mother, who also places trust in her son and hopes that his Oxford career will have positive effects on his own life and that of his family. While Mrs Khan is not related to the narrator, he still notices that she sometimes looks at him with “motherly pity” (I 21). Her remark that any mother would be proud of him suggests that she too considers his admittance to Oxford a privilege not only for himself, but also for those close or related to him. Still, the most pronounced trust in the Oxford Myth and its function as a heterotopic space of compensation is expressed by the narrator himself. For him, Oxford not simply represents belonging, but also identity and a sense of self: I wanted to be somebody and the only way to achieve this was to acquire a collection of good examination results and go to university. I would try for top grades in my three ‘A’ levels, then I’d do a B.A. Degree at Oxford or Cambridge and then a

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Ph.D. I would write books, and one day become a celebrity, or writer, or something. I was seventeen now, and nobody, but in ten years’ time I’d be somebody. (I 83) Education appears to be constitutive of his sense of self. The fact that he refers to himself now as ‘nobody’ but is convinced that he will be ‘somebody’ once he has received his PhD clearly indicates the strong link between education – particularly from a prestigious university like Oxford – and his identity. It is even possible to say that according to the narrator, it is only through his education that he becomes an individual. Moreover, the narrator seems to be aware of Oxford’s public reputation, and therefore also the Oxford Myth. In this sense, his reference to Oxford is most likely deliberate, since it is particularly this specific University which apparently has the power to create a sense of self and belonging. The narrator becomes even more explicit when he shares his resolve to impress his girlfriend’s parents after his return from Oxford with the reader: “I will have become somebody definite, my education compensating for my colour in the eyes of her parents” (I 173). Once again, education is portrayed as generating identity, but this time the narrator defines his expectations of Oxford quite clearly. He seems to regard his ethnic background as an obstacle to social acceptance but trusts that Oxford will serve as a compensatory space which equips him with the prestige necessary to ‘belong’ in real space. Similarly to Some Kind of Black, Dabydeen’s narrative establishes a contrast between London and Oxford and, as will soon be illustrated, the narrator’s home country Guyana. Shortly before leaving for Oxford, the narrator explains that in London, he never really knew anyone and “was never in one secure place long enough to form perfect conclusions” (I 163). He states that “[a]ll I want is to escape from this dirt and shame called Balham, this coon condition, this ignorance that prevents me from knowing anything, not who we are, who they are” (ibid.). In contrast to Dele, the narrator never had a space in London where he felt comfortable. Left behind by his father, he first spends time in a home and then moves to a small room in the house of an Asian landlord. While for Dele London seems to represent a refuge during his Oxford days and is filled with friends and parties, the narrator continuously focuses on the future and Oxford. He expects Oxford to compensate for London’s shortcomings: “In the next three years, allocated my own room in college out of recognition of worth rather than need, I will make lasting friends” (I 163). This remark seems to reference his previous observation that he has not been able to make true friends in London, which might partly explain the feeling of isolation he experiences there. Also, his admittance to Oxford is interpreted as recognition of his worth, which contrasts sharply with his earlier conviction that he is nobody. In this sense, the narrator’s perspective on and expectations of Oxford appears to mirror Foucault’s definition of a heterotopic space of compensation.

4 The University of Oxford

Even though both novels contain representations of Oxford as a heterotopic space of compensation, this depiction does not remain unchallenged. In The Intended, it is not the narrator himself who questions the validity of the Oxford Myth. Instead, the protagonist who introduces elements of doubt to the narrative is the narrator’s friend Joseph. Indeed, it is argued here that Joseph serves as a foil character to the narrator. They meet at the home as teenagers who have both been abandoned by their fathers. The narrator displays unshakeable trust in institutionalised education and the standards linked to it. Quite significantly, meeting these standards is seen as a prerequisite for belonging. In contrast to that, Joseph is illiterate and represents non‐traditional ‘education’, untrained thinking, and the will to redefine standards in a way which is more accommodating. This becomes obvious for instance when the narrator is visibly proud of his skill in literary analysis. He asserts that he has “great skill not only in spotting an important image, but in connecting it up with other images in the text” and that he had been taught to do so by his English teacher (I 70). Thus, the narrator relies on his teacher’s instruction, whose opinion he clearly considers a normative standard to live up to. Joseph, on the other hand, “was not impressed” by the narrator’s skills (ibid.). He begins to ask questions about the book the narrator is reading, Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Indeed, Russell West-Pavlov argues convincingly that in this situation, “[t]he narrator takes on the pedagogic persona constantly performed in school, and by which he proleptically rehearses his own integration into, and thus reproduction of, the dominant cultural and economic system” (53)8 . Thus, the narrator gives answers which are based on his academic skills, whereas Joseph sometimes criticises the narrator’s answers and gives his own opinions on the book. The narrator notes that Joseph’s are “convoluted questions which my training in theme‐and-imagery spotting didn’t equip me to answer fully” (I 73). He dismisses them as mainly “daft questions” but then admits: This last question was intriguing. Why indeed had Conrad suddenly introduced a kaleidoscopic burst of colour in the novel, after a narrative of black, white and green? I began to glimpse some sense in Joseph’s enquiries and for the first time I turned to him with a question, dropping all pretence of being the teacher. (I 73) Joseph’s questions clearly seem to challenge the standards which the narrator has so far been geared to. He even declares that “out of all this banal introspection he [Joseph] emerged with a glimmer of ideas which made me reach for my notepad” (I 74). The narrator seems to realise that there are different forms of knowledge and education which lie beyond an institutional context. Joseph’s interaction with 8 Martina Ghosh-Schellhorn also observes that the narrator “set[s] himself up as the ‘professor’” (178).

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Conrad’s work results from his own thoughts and ideas, which seem to exceed the narrator’s skilled but still limited perspective. Still, the narrator insists on the value of formal education. He remarks that Joseph “was full of unrealistic, half‐formed ideas which he didn’t have the resources to develop. Everything was contained in books and he was handicapped by illiteracy” (I 79). While this passage implies that education can be considered a productive means to broaden one’s horizon, it also dismisses non‐standard forms of thinking. In fact, the narrator uses his education to exclude other points of view. This can be considered an attempt to draw boundaries which not only maintain his ‘superior’ status but also exclude Joseph’s perspective. The narrator’s use of the word ‘contained’ might imply that he considers knowledge and education to be exclusively reserved for those who meet a particular standard, in this case formal education. Thus, the incident described above not only emphasises the narrator’s continuous trust in the Oxford Myth and Oxford’s compensatory function but also defines Joseph as a foil whose perspective challenges the dominant view. In Some Kind of Black, on the other hand, it is the main protagonist himself who expresses doubts as to Oxford’s role and function. Dele’s reluctance to spend time at Oxford and his obvious preference for London suggest that he might not share his parents’ impression of the University, and that he does not unhesitatingly believe in the Oxford Myth. In fact, he displays a considerable degree of awareness with regard to the Oxford Myth, which becomes clear on a number of occasions (Tönnies, “Postcolonial University Novel” 27). On a rather passive, but still perceptive level, Dele appears to be conscious of the underlying structure of myth and its functions. Walking through Oxford at night, the narrator reports Dele’s thoughts as follows: “In the late April twilight, with some church bells banging away in the distance, and the streets free of Saturday night nastiness, this postcard town was doing a fine imitation of itself. Oxford, just like he pictured it” (SKB 27). Dele is obviously able to identify signifiers such as church bells or an idyllic spring twilight, and realises that the associations they elicit on the level of myth contribute to Oxford’s image as a ‘postcard town’. Alluding to the lack of ‘Saturday night nastiness’ proves that he knows another side of Oxford which is considered inappropriate for public representations of the city. The fact that he refers to Oxford producing ‘a fine impression of itself’ implies that Dele is aware of the effect of the signs created by signifiers such as the ones just mentioned: They construct a message which, using Roland Barthes’ terminology, “distort[s]” (Barthes 120) reality. ‘Imitating’ and ‘distorting’ both imply manipulation, which means that the Myth’s ideological function is clearly on his mind. A similar effect is achieved when the narrator talks about “the bloods who laboured at the British Leyland plant and lived in the big estates down Cowley way, on the east side, but they didn’t count in the student scheme of things” (SKB 18f.). On the one hand, this remark points out that the Oxford Myth is usually con-

4 The University of Oxford

fined to the University and the students attending it. The fact that Oxford’s population is not entirely made up of the academic ‘gown’ group of students or teachers, and that there are also non‐academic ‘town’ occupations and activities available, is frequently neglected. On the other hand, the narrator’s comment particularly addresses the situation of black people in Oxford, here referred to as ‘the bloods’, and illustrates their status as ‘outsiders’ in Oxford, both socially at the University and spatially within the city. Indeed, the position of black students within the Oxford community is an aspect which encourages him to leave the passive, observant level of interaction with the Oxford Myth behind and engage more productively with it. This becomes particularly clear when Dele reflects on other black students at Oxford. They come from highly privileged backgrounds: One student for instance is the Harrow‐educated son of Ghana’s Minister for Transport and already part of “English ‘Society’”, while another one, adopted by an English couple, tries to rediscover his Bajan roots by wearing braids but still comes across “like an English gentleman of the old school” (SKB 19). Dele concludes that they are “all too speaky‐spoky”, too obvious and eager in their attempts to fit in (ibid.). The only other black student to whom he can relate, at least initially, is Jonathan, who shares his background as a second‐generation, urban and state school‐educated young man with West African parentage (SKB 20). Even though Jonathan mocks Dele for his lack of interest and pride in his African heritage, they become friends and Dele supports Jonathan when he founds a Black Students Discussion Group (ibid.). Quite significantly though, it is this discussion group – which is supposed to bring black students together and support them – which causes Dele to rethink his role at Oxford and his interaction with the Oxford Myth. Noticing that the group’s members all have different attitudes towards their position as black students within the Oxford community, he realises that they still share one opinion: They felt that “whatever the problems had been out there, they had overcome them, they must be the crème de la crème” (SKB 21, original emphasis). He experiences similar dynamics when he is invited to the Afro-Caribbean Society, whose members, he thinks, believe that they are “playing the same high‐falutin’ game as the University Debating Society up the road” (ibid. 28). This conviction is again reminiscent of the Oxford Myth’s sense of exclusiveness and its promise of social mobility: They see their admittance to Oxford as proof of their success and consider the University a heterotopic space which compensates for problems related to their ethnic backgrounds. Dele, by contrast, notices “a certain wanky air of self‐satisfaction bubbling under the surface of these Black Chats” (SKB 21), which indicates that he has doubts about their status at Oxford. In fact, the narrator even remarks that Dele “could barely find a person in the room, himself included, who was truly sorted. Most of them were unreconciled either to their families or to their roles here, if any” (ibid.). What this implies is that Dele is aware of cracks on the surface of the Oxford Myth and does not self‐evidently trust that

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Oxford will guarantee his professional and social success. It is striking though that he refuses to think about his doubts in greater detail because “[t]he implications were too troublesome” (ibid.). As a result, the narrator admits that Dele “lost commitment to the place [Oxford]” (SKB 21). Instead, he seems to develop coping mechanisms – the narrator refers to them as “different hats” which Dele puts on in order to find a place for himself within the Oxford community (ibid.). In the context of the present chapter, it seems possible to describe them as counter myths which he uses in an attempt “to turn his ‘exclusive’ status itself into social capital” (Tönnies, “Postcolonial University Novel” 27). Dele’s awareness of the Oxford Myth and its structure seems to have made him realise that the implications communicated by the Myth are based on a few signifiers which are arranged in a way that makes them appear natural. This awareness is one which allows him to engage with the Myth productively9 . Consequently, he constructs myths which can perhaps be described as an ‘Ethnic Myth’ and a ‘London Myth’, both of which are supposed to help Dele develop a role, an image of himself, which he can rely on throughout his Oxford career. Dabydeen’s narrator, on the other hand, does not interact productively with the Oxford Myth. Instead, it is his unshakeable trust in the Oxford Myth and the University’s compensatory function which can be considered a coping mechanism with regard to his feeling of isolation. Dele’s ‘Ethnic Myth’ originates from his realisation that apparently, typical Oxford students do not want their fellow black students to be like them, but rather search for “danger, they wanted to play away just once in their lives” (SKB 19f.). As a result, he decides to “indulge their romance of the real nigga” (ibid. 20) and meet their expectations. The narrator’s use of the term ‘real nigga’ already alludes to the fact that this version of the myth is based on Dele’s ethnicity. While he came to Oxford with an open mind and ready to immerse himself in new experiences without paying special attention to his ethnic background, he notices that others appear to consider his ethnicity a defining factor. This is illustrated by the example of Josie, a white Oxford student who chooses her boyfriends on the basis of their ethnicity: She started with him [Dele], a Londoner yet to set foot in his home country. She had then moved on to John, who at least went back to Nigeria during the vacations. Then she had sacked Anglophone Africa and shacked up with a Senegalese folk 9 Mark Stein also points out that Dele “self‐consciously performs several different rôles” (19, emphasis added). While Stein links this observation to “the performative character of identity” (ibid.), it also illustrates the fact that Dele is actively involved in the construction of counter myths. Susanne Reichl also suggests that Dele “consciously tried various roles” and “shows remarkable introspection into his own behaviour, as when he considers his clothes and their function as tools in his identity construction” (124). What this implies is that Dele is aware of the signifiers which create his counter myths.

4 The University of Oxford

painter, a guy in Oxford as an artist in residence at Josie’s college. And now, to judge from the men she was introducing him to – whom she chatted with in a SwahiliEnglish mélange – she was close to sacking any brother with a manor‐born track on Europe at all. Like she was desperately seeking some dark continent concentrate. (SKB 29) The narrator explains how Dele would contribute “some choice Race facts” to conversations at dinner parties with “liberal friends” (ibid. 21). When the narrator goes on to describe his friends’ “worry and concern” and quotes their reaction, their response seems to be predictable. Dele’s presentation of himself as a victim of racism or the “history of slavery” (SKB 22) appears to reassure his liberal friends’ auto‐image of themselves as tolerant and open‐minded people, and at the same time confirms their opinion of black people and their experiences. Using Roland Barthes’ terminology it can be said that on the level of myth, Dele uses himself (as a young black British man) as a signifier and is highly aware of the associations his liberal Oxford friends are likely to have. His remarks about racism and slavery trigger and support those associations. Accordingly, they invest Dele’s presence in Oxford with a particular meaning. It is because Dele foregrounds his specifically ‘black’ or ‘ethnic’ experiences that they see him as a victim of racism and discrimination who is treated abominably despite his excellence and trustworthiness – proof of which is his admittance to Oxford – rather than as an individual person with strengths and weaknesses. This new sign – the ‘Ethnic Myth’ Dele has created deliberately – makes it easy for his fellow students to categorise him and at the same time offers him a role and position within the Oxford community. However, the narrator remarks that Dele is soon bored by his performance of the ‘Ethnic Myth’ and therefore starts developing new roles, or myths. One that is particularly foregrounded in the narrative is linked to Dele’s London background. According to the narrator, choosing the music at Oxford parties is “his inalienable prerogative” and the other guests treat him deferentially in this respect (SKB 17). When the hostess asks him about the music he would recommend for her party, he shows her a tape whose label suggests that it comes from a London club called The Basement. Explaining that this kind of music is “pure west London sounds”, Dele deliberately manipulates his hostess: He knows that The Basement is “her spiritual home, although, hailing from Tewkesbury, she had never been there” (ibid. 18). The narrator explains that this particular club is located in Ladbroke Grove, which suggests a creative-Bohemian to posh environment, and plays “to a Love Has No Colour crowd” (ibid.). This description once again evokes the ‘Ethnic Myth’ mentioned above, but links it to the image of a tolerant, multicultural London. However, it is soon revealed that Dele has attached the Basement label to a tape which contains “tunes altogether more hardcore and X-rated but this way you could slip them on and no one would complain” (SKB 18). What is striking here is that

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Dele seems to be highly aware of how his fellow students will react. He knows that in order to have his own way it is enough to attach a new signifier such as the Basement label and the positive associations it carries to the music that the people at the party would usually not listen to. The same effect is achieved with regard to Dele himself: By establishing a link between himself and that particular club, the Oxford party guests perceive him as a young urban man who is an expert in music, dancing and a relaxed lifestyle. This becomes particularly obvious when the narrator sums up the role Dele’s ‘London Myth’ has provided him with: Up here, Dele was what you’d call a Mr Mention. A player. X amount of invites to events and launches littered his college pigeon‐hole. After three years of sharing his sensi and flexing across the city, Dele was now the undisputed number one negro. (SKB 19) This description adds other signifiers such as ‘sensi’, or marijuana, to the existing ones and thereby intensifies the image created. Similarly to the ‘Ethnic Myth’, the ‘London Myth’ naturalises people’s expectations of young black British men like Dele. The myth allows them to present Dele with a place inside their community, while at the same time keeping their distance and constructing a particular auto‐image of tolerance and multiculturalism. The ‘Ethnic Myth’ and the ‘London Myth’ represent different roles which Dele has constructed for himself, but they also mirror his growing awareness of the Oxford Myth. He has realised that public representations of Oxford have been constructed for particular purposes, and this insight allows him to respond to the Myth productively. Not only is he able to appropriate the mechanisms which contribute to the construction of myths, but he also seems to know which aspects of the other students’ auto‐image he needs to address with his own myths. The fact that he constructs these myths himself bestows him with considerable power to control his position in Oxford. At the same time, it also reveals a degree of belief in the Oxford Myth: It is because Dele wants to become part of the Oxford community and find a place for himself there that he resorts to the two counter myths. His construction of the myths might be linked to his hope that once he has graduated, he might make use of the Oxford Myth in the public sphere, just as he has made use of the two other myths while still in University. The fact that he uses the myths as coping strategies to be accepted by the community – if not as himself, then at least as the person his fellow students expect him to be – indicates that he still hopes that Oxford might have benefits for him in the future, outside the University. In this sense, Dele’s development of the ‘Ethnic Myth’ and the ‘London Myth’ suggests that he, too, thinks of Oxford as a heterotopic space of compensation, or at least that he wants it to be such a space. However, in contrast to his parents, Dele does not simply believe in or trust the Oxford Myth, but uses it to influence how others might perceive him.

4 The University of Oxford

An early example of Dele’s conscious use of the Oxford Myth is his relationship with Cheryl, a young black woman his parents would approve of but whom he himself is not truly interested in. Still, he makes an effort to impress her, perhaps to prove to himself that “men like him liked girls like her” rather than because he really likes her (SKB 56). The narrator specifies that “on some unregistered level, Dele was trying to impress Dapo” because Cheryl is a friend of his sister (ibid.). This can be traced back to the Oxford Myth because Dapo is – though less strongly than his parents – someone who trusts in the University’s compensatory function. The unnamed autodiegetic narrator in The Intended also tries to impress a woman with his education. At the same time, his intention illustrates his hope for education’s compensatory function: “I wished I were important, somebody, instead of being drowned in a sense of orphaned neglect. I hoped she was suitably impressed by the array of books at least. In re‐arranging them in the shelves in preparation for her visit I had rehearsed a little speech” (I 88). What distinguishes the narrator from Dele is the fact that he is truly interested in Janet, the girl he wants to win over, whereas Dele has not really fallen for Cheryl. A member of the Seventh-Day Adventist Church, Cheryl disapproves of “the London scene” (SKB 54), alcohol, cigarettes and premarital sex, all of which form part of Dele’s ‘London Myth’ in Oxford. His relationship with Cheryl seems to be an attempt to transfer his link to the Oxford Myth to London or, using Foucault’s terminology, “real space” (“Real Spaces” 356). Once again, Dele quite deliberately seems to make use of a myth and the associations it is likely to provoke. Cheryl notices that “she’d never heard a brother so softly‐spoken and polysyllabic before”, which can be understood as a conscious contrast to his reliance on the two myths he employs in Oxford, because the narrator reveals that “[a]t college he [Dele] broke everything down with a little ragga blather” (SKB 53). His exploitation of the Oxford Myth becomes even more obvious when he uses Oxford University merchandise, such as a college scarf and a sweatshirt, and books from the college library as signifiers, and notices that “Cheryl ate it up” (ibid. 55). Thus, the products seem to trigger the rather typical associations which people are likely to have with regard to that particular University: Cheryl, for instance, says that “one day he [Dele] would be a solicitor and she his secretary, then, after passing her exams the two would set up their own firm and truly be partners” (ibid.). What is constructed here once again is the well‐known sign of Oxford as a guarantee for professional success and social mobility. Significantly, at the same time Dele is dating his fellow Oxford student Helena. The narrator notes that she comes “across starchy. Her tones were Home Counties clipped […] She was a bit of a luvvie, peppering her chat with hyperbole and dramatic stresses” (SKB 25). Dele soon learns that she has a rather traditional and conservative background (“She came from Southampton where her old man was a surgeon and her Mum, social evenings at the Women’s Institute aside, did very lit-

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tle, really”, SKB 26), which probably makes her a more conventional Oxford student than him. To Dele, she seems to represent stereotypical Englishness: “She made him think of jodhpurs, formally cut sports jackets, country hunts and empire; the living version of the shires” (ibid. 26). However, in his interactions with Helena, Dele represents himself through his ‘London Myth’, talking to her “in street condescension” and “dropping a little ghetto jive on her” (ibid. 25f.). Just like Cheryl, Helena develops an interest in him and the particular myth he has constructed. Having grown tired of her previous “bland, sturdy public‐school” boyfriends, she asks him about his family and background and seems curious about foreign cultures (SKB 36). Once again, it is Dele’s emphasis on contrast and the sense that he is restricted to performing a role in Oxford that confirms his fellow students’ auto‐image rather than being fully accepted as a member of the community which carves out his role in this relationship. However, the closer he gets to Helena, the more he feels that he “simply lost the will to meet her half‐way. Not in this space” (ibid.). He is aware that if he chose to open up to Helena, this would affect not only their relationship, but particularly the image he has constructed of himself: To have treated her right would have required a free and frank discussion about everything, only he was too frustrated with himself to be emotionally forthcoming to this woman who seemed to him emblematic of his experience there. He worried that if he told the whole truth, about his home life and the rest, it would lead to such a shift in the balance of power. It would have been an invitation to Helena to respond to him on the level of pity or sympathy, the way contrary black critics said that white people got off on Toni Morrison books. (SKB 37, original emphasis) The narrator’s reference to an (im)balance of power stresses the fact that Dele uses his myths as coping mechanisms to control his situation in Oxford. At the same time, it reveals that Oxford seems to be an altogether rather painful experience for Dele: He cannot open up to Helena ‘in this space’, and she appears to represent the standard which he has been unable to achieve, and which has therefore complicated his time ‘there’. He fears that admitting the trouble he has had at Oxford would make him a victim in Helena’s eyes, which constitutes a sharp contrast to his role as the self‐confident person he has constructed through his myths. This is also foregrounded by Dionei Mathias, who suggests that Dele’s lack of emotional commitment to Helena is a way of protecting himself (170). At the same time, Dele also realises that he is not entirely in control of his position in and beyond Oxford. This is alluded to in his angry response when Helena presses him to talk about his background: “I’ve got a younger sister and then two parents. They think I’m gonna become a lawyer but they’re very much mistaken. That’s about it” (SKB 38). Though only brief, this instant discloses his fear that he might not be able to use the Oxford Myth and its associations to his advantage after he has graduated, and that his position outside Oxford might be just as conflicted as it is inside.

4 The University of Oxford

The conflicting nature of Dele’s counter myths becomes more obvious when Cheryl and Helena meet. Their confrontation can be understood as a collision of the Oxford Myth, represented by Dele’s relationship with Cheryl, and the ‘Ethnic’ or particularly ‘London Myth’, represented by his relationship with Helena. Since he cheats on them, it should not come as a surprise that Dele not only feels uncomfortable when he interacts with each of them separately, but even more so when they meet. Tellingly, he ends up without either of the two women, and none of the myths proves to have been beneficial. Thus, the metaphorical encounter of the different myths, and particularly Dele’s attempt to transfer his association with the Oxford Myth to other spaces, seem to suggest that the myths might ultimately be unsuccessful with regard to Oxford’s construction as a heterotopic space of compensation. This is also insinuated by the narrative structure: the encounter of Helena and Cheryl is followed by a new chapter entitled “Babylon gets rude” (SKB 71). The title not only suggests a change for the worse, but also the involvement of a state institution, as the term Babylon is most frequently associated with the police (“Babylon” 2013). The reader learns that Dele has completed his studies at Oxford and is now back in London (SKB 72). From there on, the narrative never returns to Oxford but is rather concerned with Dele’s life in London after his graduation. It is particularly now that Dele has left Oxford behind that it will be possible to establish whether Oxford really functions as a heterotopic space of compensation for him and keeps the promise of social mobility and belonging communicated by the Oxford Myth. The first occasion to examine Oxford’s heterotopic potential and the Oxford Myth’s impact for Dele outside the University takes place when he, Dapo and his friend Concrete encounter two policemen after a night out in Brixton. Concrete’s car is towed away and he confronts the police officer overseeing the process. What ensues is a rather aggressive exchange between Concrete and PC Daniels, both of whom seem to know and dislike one another. The narrator points out that PC Daniels appears to have formed a judgement as soon as he recognises Concrete: The constable sarcastically remarks “What a surprise it is to see you parked illegally” and asks him “what’s a little delinquent like you doing with a nice vehicle like this” (SKB 73). When Concrete climbs up the tow truck to retrieve his car, Dapo tries to help him, only to be stopped by the constable. His rhetorical “Don’t your fucking sort ever learn?” (ibid. 74) can clearly be categorised as a generalising and racist remark. Dele announces that he will talk to the police officers’ boss, which “seemed to press Daniels’ buttons. He grabbed Dapo’s arms, yanked them behind her, used his other elbow to dig into her neck, and pushed her hard towards the Rover” (ibid.). The narrator describes a violent arrest by the police, with Dele and Concrete ending up handcuffed, violently beaten and deliberately humiliated in one car and Dapo in another (SKB 75-78). The constable’s racism is made even more explicit when he tells Concrete that he was “fucking around in my patch, in my neighbourhood. It’s

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not your patch, you black cunts, it’s mine” (ibid. 76, original emphasis). His choice of words clearly indicates that he draws strict boundaries to separate those who belong from those who do not, both spatially and more abstractly on the level of social affiliation. While the scenes mentioned above already serve as rather shocking examples of police violence and institutionalised racism (Upstone, “Postcolonial” 143), they are even more significant with regard to the Oxford Myth and Oxford’s potential as a heterotopic space of compensation. Dele feels that his friend expects him to use his Oxford skills to help him (“The look said ‘Help me! If you’re so very clever, do something!’”, SKB 75), while the police officers provocatively remark “‘Student by day, villain by night’” (ibid. 79), thereby explicitly linking his academic background to his current situation. Indeed, his education initially appears to be helpful because he is aware of his rights and knows a solicitor with whom he has worked before (ibid.). Even more so, Dele seems quite confident that his degree will put him in an advantageous position: He was quite looking forward to the Q and A session to follow. Let them try to test him, Daniels would see he was no fool. Later, the tables would turn, the radics would be in the dock, and Dele would kick a rousing court performance, grinding the Met and Daniels into the dust. Then he would be carried out on the arms of his friends, a hero of the people…it would be nice. (SKB 82) Once again, the narrative is structured in a way which juxtaposes Oxford – or rather, the Myth associated with it – with the remaining societal space. The moment of hope and optimism is interrupted by the news that Dapo has fallen seriously ill as the violent treatment has caused a sickle cell crisis. However, the narrator points out that she does not receive the help she needs because the police officers and the surgeon at hand interpret her reaction as a result of substance abuse (SKB 82). Thus, it is possible to say that Dele’s trust in the value of his Oxford degree is broken up by this incident which represents a complete loss of control: Dapo’s situation is worsened because of the police’s prejudices against her. What this implies is that the Oxford Myth, which Dele hopes to employ to influence people’s perception, is unable to overcome social bias. Thus, Modhumita Roy suggests that Dele’s encounter with the police has made him realise “that national belonging, even for him, is constituted through an illusion of inclusion and the reality of exclusion” (103). The narrative becomes more explicit when the narrator describes Dele’s response after the doctor has told him that Dapo might not survive her latest sickle cell crisis: There was a wrenching sense of dislocation. One moment he had been operating in a relatively innocent sphere and the next thing he’d been catapulted into

4 The University of Oxford

the bleakest territory imaginable: operating theatres and intensive‐care wards; of police cells and parental despair, of probable death. (SKB 85) What is striking here is the fact that Dele’s thoughts are characterised by a clear spatial dimension. Indeed, his feeling of hope and confidence has been replaced by a ‘sense of dislocation’, which illustrates just how insecure and threatened his position has become. Significantly, Dapo’s mistreatment by the police has not only challenged his trust in the Oxford Myth, but also changed his perception of London. It remains ambiguous whether the ‘relatively innocent sphere’ the narrator mentions refers to London or Oxford, but what has become clear is that he has left it behind and is now confronted with other spaces: a bleak ‘territory’, ‘operating theatres and intensive‐care wards’, and ‘police cells’. Moreover, there seems to be a shift from autonomy and agency to passivity and heteronomy: while he had previously been actively ‘operating’ in an innocent sphere, he now faces ‘operating theatres’, which imply a state of unconsciousness and being at someone else’s mercy10 . So far, his degree has not protected him from police violence, nor has it helped him in resolving that situation. As Merle Tönnies convincingly argues, “the university has not even prepared him well for ‘real’ life in academic terms” (“Postcolonial University Novel” 29). The observations described above intensify the impression that the University of Oxford might not necessarily be a space of compensation, at least not for Dele. In fact, as the narrative progresses, Dele increasingly thinks that his ethnic background might be a factor which excludes him from the Oxford Myth’s promises and the space’s heterotopic potential. The first, still rather tentative insight occurs when Dele admits that “[h]e had been so crazily casual; about Dapo’s health, about London, about life – where bad things happened to black people” (SKB 86). Once again, this quote reveals that Dele’s perception of London – which previously functioned as a refuge or retreat – has changed. At the same time, it links his attitude towards the British capital to the broader category of ‘life’. Moreover, what is emphasised here is the ethnic marker ‘black’. In secondary literature, Dele’s encounter with police violence and racism is frequently considered to instigate a change from a lack of acknowledgment of his ethnic background towards a more conscious preoccupation with and negotiation of his black British identity (Reichl 120; Sommer “Texts” 355; Oyedeji 360; Brancato 60; Mathias 153; Roy 103). This shift can be traced back to his interaction with the Oxford Myth, particularly with a growing sense of disillusionment. His newly developed insight influences Dele’s perception of both Oxford and London. In London, he gets involved with a number of organisations which want 10 Roy Sommer also notices the significance of the verb ‘to operate’ in the passage quoted above. However, he argues that it implies a military terminology which is taken up again on the London tube when Dele registers people’s hostile attitude towards him and his friends (“Texts” 361).

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to plan marches and events for Dapo. However, they all have different agendas and are more interested in promoting their “manifestos” than in supporting Dapo (SKB 89). Even though the narrative foregrounds the internal conflicts among the different (fictional) organisations, including the BFB movement (Blacks Fight Back, SKB 117), the AFA / SWP (Anti-Fascist Action and Socialist Workers Party, SKB 136) or the Yardcore Agency, a “fictional Black Muslim organization which appears in a particularly bad light in the novel” (Nowak 79), they make Dele realise for the first time that the black community represents a part of his background, which he has hitherto neglected11 . The narrator reports that at the first meeting of the Dapo Defence Campaign, Dele “got lost in the great sight of blackness. He felt brutally exposed on the podium, a virgin in front of this black gaze. […] He hadn’t paid his dues here at all. His only legitimacy lay in his being the brother of an unconscious woman” (SKB 87f.). He admits that he “had spent three years as a protected, privileged student outside London. I mean, er, I think I had got out of touch, or kind of cocooned —’” (ibid. 91). His remark seems to acknowledge Oxford as a secluded space and at the same time implies that it relies on other structures or perhaps even values than the rest of society, and that these structures have shaped Dele’s attitudes as well. The Intended presents its readers with a different situation. In contrast to Adebayo’s Dele, the unnamed narrator never expresses doubts about Oxford’s role and function. This might perhaps be due to the fact that the reader never learns about the narrator’s development after his graduation from Oxford. However, already the fact that he does not seem to feel the need for developing counter myths indicates that the narrator continues to trust the Oxford Myth. Even more strikingly though, the following passage reveals Oxford’s central and normative position in the narrator’s imagination. Sitting in Oxford’s University library he reflects: I suddenly long to be white, to be calm, to write with grace and clarity, to make words which have status, to shape them into the craftsmanship of English china, coaches, period furniture, harpsichords, wigs, English anything, for whatever they put their hands and minds to worked wonderfully. Everything they have produced was fine and lasted forever. We are mud, they the chiselled stone of Oxford that has survived centuries and will always be here. I sit in the library awed by the thousands of leather‐bound volumes, some as old as recorded time, all carefully kept, 11 Chris Weedon notes that “[t]he novel gives a largely critical picture of both Far Left politics and black activism, including a visit by a Black Nationalist from the United States. While some activists are depicted as having good intentions, others display corrupt practices, sectarianism, and self‐interest” (89). Indeed, as will soon be pointed out, one of the groups in particular causes Dele to question his position within London’s black community, thereby contributing to his overall insecure situation at the end of the narrative.

4 The University of Oxford

lovingly restored by skilled hands and protected behind glass cabinets from soiling and vandalism and the gaze of the ignorant. I begin to despise Joseph, his babbling, his lack of privilege, his stupid way of living and dying. I will grow strong in this library, this cocoon, I will absorb its nutrients of quiet scholarship, I will emerge from it and be somebody, some recognisable shape, not a lump of aborted, anonymous flesh. (I 141) What is emphasised here is the narrator’s lack of identification with his ethnic background as well as the representation of Oxford as an absolute standard. Again, the narrator’s remarks evoke the Oxford Myth. In this case, he links Oxford and his writing there to signifiers which represent Englishness (china, harpsichords etc.). Consequently, Oxford seems to be the only possible means to achieve this Englishness and subsequently belonging to British society. In this sense, the narrator’s thoughts reveal the extent to which the Oxford Myth has been naturalised in his mind12 . The quote also recalls previous occasions on which the narrator characterised his own status as a nobody and identified Oxford as an origin of identity: ‘We’, that is immigrants, are mud, which is associated with dirt and, even more significantly, an undefinable material which can be manipulated. ‘They’, that is the British, are ‘the chiselled stone of Oxford’, thereby evoking images of precision, clarity and constancy. The books which are ‘protected behind glass cabinets from […] the gaze of the ignorant’ are reminiscent of the narrator’s previous dismissal of Joseph’s opinion, which must be considered flawed because of his inability to access the books where knowledge is ‘contained’. The depiction of the books inside the glass cabinets conveys a similar sense of unattainability and exclusiveness, but for the narrator they serve as emphasis of Oxford’s compensatory function because they will provide him with the knowledge necessary for belonging. The most explicit contrast between Dele and the unnamed narrator is foregrounded by their diverging use of the word ‘cocoon’. Whereas Dele comes to see it as a reminder of his limited perspective at Oxford and the exclusionary boundaries between the University and London, Dabydeen’s narrator thinks of it as protective and nurturing. The unnamed narrator’s apparent reliance on boundaries and his wish to maintain them clashes with Dele’s unsuccessful resolution of those boundaries. What this emphasises is the fact that in The Intended, Oxford remains a centre and a standard. Tellingly, the quote above is preceded by memories of the narrator’s foil Joseph, who has killed himself. The narrator remarks that even though Joseph is dead, “he stalks me even here, within the guarded walls of the library 12 Indeed, the narrator’s internalisation of the norms and standards expressed by the Oxford Myth mirrors Stuart Hall’s remarks that the dominant group’s hegemonic practices “had the power to make us [marginalised people] see and experience ourselves [themselves] as ‘Other’” (“Cultural Identity” 225, original emphasis).

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where entry is strictly forbidden to all but a select few, where centuries of tradition, breeding and inter‐breeding conspire to keep people of his sort outside the doors” (I 139). He feels part of Oxford because he is now able to “decipher” the texts (ibid.), but still regrets that Joseph “keeps breaking in to the most burglar‐proof of institutions, reminding me of my dark shadow, drawing me back to my dark self” (140). What this discloses is that he does indeed experience moments of awareness in which he realises that academic knowledge, or the ability to ‘decipher’ academic texts, might not be sufficient. This is reminiscent of Bourdieu’s observation that social and economic capital tend to overpower academic capital (98). However, the instances of doubt introduced by Joseph or memories of him13 remain fleeting and without effect: the narrator “remains unable to proceed from here” (Tönnies, “Postcolonial University Novel” 25) and still maintains his naturalised trust in Oxford and its Myth, as illustrated in the library scene. Moreover, the fact that Joseph dies undermines his impact further. His attempts to challenge the standard and redefine boundaries ultimately fail and remove the elements of doubt from the narrative. Whereas readers are never presented with the narrator’s post-Oxford life in British society, which makes it impossible to examine Oxford’s impact on him, it seems necessary to distinguish between Dele’s interaction with the Oxford Myth inside Oxford and outside of it. As an Oxford student, his perspective seems to have been rather limited compared to his newly gained awareness, and he held on to the belief that the Oxford Myth might equip him with sufficient prestige to make him feel part of British society. However, outside the University and back in London, Dele seems to realise that his own myth‐making may have helped him find a position in Oxford, but that it was a marginal and rather transient one which kept the Oxford Myth alive. Thus, while Dele is at Oxford, the University serves as a heterotopic space of compensation in the sense that it provides him with a feeling of belonging as long as he performs the roles people are ready to accept him in. This feeling sustains the Oxford Myth’s promise of belonging and social mobility, and thus, compensation, outside the University. Outside Oxford, on the other hand, the University turns out to be a heterotopic space of illusion which reveals, according to Foucault, “how all of real space is even more illusory” (“Other Spaces” 356). This becomes particularly clear on two occasions which represent direct encounters with Oxford in London, after his graduation. The first incident takes place at the meeting of Dapo supporters when he meets Tamsin, a former fellow‐student who now works as a journalist. Dele recollects that her father is on the board of the Chronicle, the newspaper Tamsin now writes for. At 13 A further element of doubt which remains without consequences for the narrator’s trust in the Oxford Myth is the fact that he “is only ever seen in the university setting during the ‘solitary hours in Oxford University library’ (I, 195) or alone in his college room (I, 197)” (Tönnies, “Postcolonial University Novel” 25).

4 The University of Oxford

this point, readers might remember a previous encounter between Dele and Tamsin at a party in Oxford where Tamsin tells the others about her traineeship with the Chronicle. When she is asked whether she has actually written anything, (SKB 33), she replies: “‘Well, I’ve done bits and pieces […]. Anyway, it’s potential. They said I had fantastic potential and I’d travelled widely. They said my experience of other cultures was invaluable” (ibid.). Tamsin’s justification, too, recalls Pierre Bourdieu’s theory that social and cultural capital ultimately overpower academic capital (98). It is obviously her background – the narrator remarks that her father is “a big bod in Hong Kong, she [Tamsin], just another fair‐to-middling Chelsea girl” (SKB 33) – which has earned her the internship, and not her academic achievements. Her extensive travelling would not have been possible without her father’s job and money, and thus her ‘potential’ is a direct result of the capital passed on to her by her family. However, what is even more significant in this context is that Tamsin reveals Dele’s outsider status at Oxford. When he asks her to write about what happened to his sister, Tamsin vaguely replies that her newspaper is more interested in the speakers and their political positions (SKB 94). A couple of days later, he is disappointed to find out that Tamsin’s account of the meeting has been reduced to a “byline in the three columns the Chronicle reserved for humour amidst the oceans of dryness on its front pages” (ibid. 114). Her article claims that the black community is turning increasingly violent and only mentions Dapo as “a nineteen‐year-old girl, whose arrest on a drugs charge led to a deterioration of her sickle‐cell anaemia that has left her in a coma” (ibid.). Dele identifies a contrast between the days when Tamsin made him “frolic” with her at parties and today, when she does not even refer to Dapo by her name (SKB 115). He admits that he “thought we [they] were tight enough” (ibid.). This incident is essential because it emphasises Dele’s sense of disillusionment. Not only does it illustrate the Oxford Myth’s inability to keep its promise of social integration and belonging, but it also implies that he perhaps never really was part of the Oxford community. Thus, Dele’s encounter with Tamsin discloses the University and the Oxford Myth’s illusory and exclusionary function. On a second occasion, he meets another Oxford acquaintance, Nick, in Brixton. Even though Dele’s only reason for being in Brixton is a visit to his friend Concrete, Nick immediately assumes that Dele lives there. Upon hearing that Dele does not have a job at the moment he looks “at him with pity in his eyes” and lists a number of pubs and restaurants which Dele should visit (SKB 133). The narrator, however, reports that Dele “had never seen any black people” in those places (ibid.). Thus, while this incident does not draw attention to the Myth’s failure as explicitly as Dele’s encounter with Tamsin, it still reminds him that his life has developed rather negatively compared to his former fellow‐students. For graduates like Tamsin and Nick, the Oxford Myth seems to be true, whereas Dele seems to be excluded from the Myth’s promises. At the same time, Nick’s remarks also foreground a spatial separation within London, where some places are frequented by black or white

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people only. Brixton, first shaped by the arrival of the Windrush Generation and later also by gentrification, seems to represent what Dele has used as his ‘London’ or ‘Ethnic’ Myth in Oxford: A rather glamorous idea of multiculturalism, which allows people like Nick – described by the narrator as “the cool Jewish guy – little goatee, home in Hampstead, all the trimmings – who played keyboards in a multi‐culti groove band and imported classy black women from London” (SKB 133) – to feel tolerant and open, and which can be used to gloss over problems like racism. At this point however, Dele is aware of the rather clouding and imitating nature of London and the myths related to it: Not only has the police attack on Dapo, Concrete and him taken place in Brixton, but he also notices policemen who “clocked him closely as he came out of the exit, but let him pass” (SKB 132) and thereby reveal the distrust and suspicion which lie beneath the happily multicultural surface. Moreover, he also sees an image of Brixton’s town hall “prettied up to resemble Buckingham Palace”, a local magazine editor’s “boasts [which] made the place sound like a horse”, and the disturbing behaviour of some of its inhabitants (ibid.). Also, on previous occasions the narrator refers to “gang‐related” violence in Brixton (SBK 77), and Dele feels the need to take a knife with him when frequenting clubs in the area (ibid. 225). Consequently, the narrator remarks that “[n]o amount of fronting as a village is going to convince anyone. As if this place was Hampstead or Barnes” (ibid.). Thus, Dele seems to realise that the sense of belonging and acceptance he has associated with London is just as constructed and illusory as the one regarding Oxford, which has been generated by his use of the ‘London’ and the ‘Ethnic’ Myths. When one considers the two encounters with former Oxford students analysed above, it becomes obvious that for Dele the University of Oxford cannot serve as a heterotopic space of compensation anymore but must rather be seen as a space of illusion. This counters Dionei Mathias’ view on Some Kind of Black: He concludes that for Dele, Oxford functions as a space which allows him to develop important cultural resources and suggests that Dele is later able to use those resources effectively (177). However, already the fact that Dele needed to construct myths in order to be offered a position within the Oxford community alludes to his status as an outsider there. While he was unable, or, recalling his previous remark that admitting his contested position within the community was ‘too troublesome’, unwilling to see this clearly when he was at Oxford, the incidents analysed above, but also the internal conflict within the black community and racist responses to his relationship with his white girlfriend Andria all expose that exclusionary structures operate both in London and in Oxford. In both spaces, Dele’s ethnic background is seen as a defining factor which appears to invalidate the Oxford Myth for him: He is excluded from the Oxford Myth, just as the myth excludes certain parts of the city and relies on only a limited number of signifiers. What this implies is that the boundaries which separate dominant and marginalised groups, and also Ox-

4 The University of Oxford

ford and London, are stronger than expected. It is not possible for Dele to use the Oxford Myth productively and consciously, nor has the construction of his own myths brought him the acceptance he had hoped for. In fact, they seem to have naturalised the Oxford Myth: They provided Dele with an illusory sense of belonging which allowed him to maintain trust in the Oxford Myth’s impact outside the University. The fact that his fellow students seem to benefit from the Myth draws particular attention to the aspect which distinguishes them from Dele, and that is their respective ethnic backgrounds. Thus, the analysis confirms Bourdieu’s claim that academic capital is ultimately useless if it cannot be combined with sufficient social or economic capital (Bourdieu 98). It is interesting to observe that following the insight that Oxford is an illusory rather than a compensatory heterotopic space, and that the Oxford Myth therefore remains unreliable for him, Dele develops a rather defiant attitude. The narrator remarks that “[t]he white world increasingly seemed to represent a combination of indifference and hostility. It seemed right, as he settled securely in his seat, that your space should be guaranteed, one way or the other” (SKB 100). Apparently, Dele’s sense of dislocation and disillusion causes him to search for stability and clarity. A similar impression is conveyed when he wishes “there were clear‐cut people out there to blame” for what has happened to Dapo and admits that he “needed something he could make sense of in the fullness of his family’s life” (ibid: 114). He even breaks up with his girlfriend Andria because he “wanted no intimate connection with those [white] people anymore” (SKB 190). The incidents just mentioned lead Sabrina Brancato to conclude that Some Kind of Black “draws an iron curtain between blacks and whites” (59) and that Adebayo “remains adamant in his dichotomous stance” throughout the narrative14 (ibid. 64). Quite significantly however, such a reading “would be one‐dimensional”, given that “[t]here is another strand of narration” (Reichl 128): Dele’s view seems to be influenced by Sol, the representative of the Yardcore Agency. Sol and the other members of the Agency pretend to care about Dapo and Dele’s family, while in reality they embezzle the family’s money and use Dapo’s fate for their own purposes. Until Dele realises that and is left “disillusioned by the entire scene [of activists]” (Dawes 23), he feels that Sol can offer him a safe space, a “home and everything was in place for him there” 14 In contrast to this, Kwame Dawes suggests that “[t]he world of his [Adebayo’s] novel is peopled by a multiracial cast of characters, and he uses this work to explore the complexities of inter‐racial relationships in a manner that is never sentimental or romanticised” (22). Roy Sommer offers a similar reading when he points to a number of aspects which indicate that Dele is concerned with cultural community rather than segregation. These include for instance his thoughts on culture during a meeting of a black youth group in London, as well as intertextual references to J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye and Benedict Anderson’s seminal study Imagined Communities (“Texts” 359).

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(SKB 191). However, Dele seems to grow aware of differences within the black community, and his perspective becomes increasingly sober. Thus, towards the end of the narrative when Dele attends a benefit event for Dapo, the narrator reports Dele’s conviction that “out there was sometimes hostile, ignorant or indifferent, but you could come here and maybe grab a good dose of the oxygen that you needed to survive”, but also concludes that “[h]e could rely on events like these for the joy of them and nothing more. But the joy should be the start of it” (SKB 228). Ultimately, Dele seems to be left without a secure position, but it is the sense of development that can be identified within him which leaves room for hope in an otherwise rather pessimistic narrative. In contrast to that, Dabydeen’s unnamed autodiegetic narrator is unable to overcome the boundaries in his thinking and he does not relativise the different spaces he encounters. Oxford remains an unchallenged centre which is positively marked‐off from London. This is emphasised by a flashback to when he leaves for Oxford. He puts much effort in erasing all traces of his London life. When the shop owner near his London home gives him boxes to carry his belongings in, he rejects those which are likely to “associat[e] me with the lettering of corner‐shop trade” (I 149). He spends an enormous amount of money on the taxi fare to Oxford because he wants “to arrive with a dignity befitting the place”, which can be considered an approval and confirmation of the Oxford Myth’s sense of exclusiveness. When his friends Shaz generously provides him with money, the narrator thinks that he will “never return. […] And if I did I would be a different person, a new accent in my voice, bigger words for bigger ideas, all of which would be beyond him [Shaz]” (I 150). This once again recalls the image of Oxford as a transformative space, but also reveals arrogance towards and distance from his previous life. The narrator displays a similar attitude when he throws away the food Mrs Khan gave him shortly before he leaves London, but keeps the money and a copy of the Qur’an, “because a book is valuable and dignified” (ibid.). Tellingly, it is when he visits Mrs Khan that he realises that he does not know his sisters and has “forgotten what my [his] mother looks like” (I 152). Thus, a moment which he considers a triumph – his leaving for Oxford – can also be read as a rather sad one. It is probably no coincidence that his mother’s letter arrives at the same time as his acceptance letter from Oxford: “I hold both letters in my hand and stare into the mirror, wondering how I have changed, whether they would recognise me if I suddenly appeared in New Amsterdam, rattled the gate and called out in my English voice” (ibid. 152). Those two incidents suggest that his home country Guyana is presented as equally separated from Oxford as London. The narrative is sometimes interrupted by memories of his family and his life in Guyana like the one described above. They flash up briefly when he sees, learns or experiences something in London which reminds him of his home. However, these episodes remain transient and without any impact. This becomes particularly clear when

4 The University of Oxford

comparing his departure from Guyana to England with the one from London to Oxford: In Guyana, his Auntie Clarice gives him five pounds and tells him “‘you is we, remember you is we’” (I 32). The money is ultimately taken away from him by his grandfather, who spends it on alcohol. When the narrator leaves for Oxford, he seems to have forgotten his family, does not even want to be reminded of them and throws away the food Mrs Khan has given him. Thus, the use of space in the novel as well as Joseph’s death reveal that Dabydeen’s narrator maintains his trust in the Oxford Myth and in Oxford’s compensatory function, but he does so at great expense: He is unable to develop a sense of self, and a sense of belonging which is based on himself. Instead, he defines himself through an intensely ideologically charged hetero‐image which relies on the Oxford Myth’s promise of belonging and exclusiveness. The narrator’s attempt to remove all traces of his ethnic background from his life “amounts to self‐denial” (Tönnies, “Postcolonial University Novel” 24)15 and is reminiscent of Dele’s temporary defiant attitude when he dismisses ‘the white world’ and searches for a stable and unequivocal identity and a clear distinction between different people and backgrounds. However, Dabydeen’s narrator seems much more constrained within his perspective than Dele, who soon realises that both Oxford and London rely on exclusionary structures. The narrator in The Intended instead seems caught in his naturalised trust in the Oxford Myth and the University’s function as a space of compensation. To conclude, it can be said that whereas in Adebayo’s narrative London and Oxford and the myths they are linked to are both relativised, Dabydeen’s narrator is unable to adopt an equally measured attitude. Oxford, even though it hardly ever really forms the setting of the plot, remains the centre of the narrative, an immovable standard which is never really destabilised or ruptured, and which represents everything the unnamed narrator aspires to. Both London and Guyana remain transitory episodes which he cannot wait to leave behind (both spatially and metaphorically). In Adebayo’s novel, on the other hand, Oxford and London both change in Dele’s perception, and neither of the two spaces ultimately serves as a centre. On the plot level of Some Kind of Black, the Oxford Myth remains a powerful mechanism which ensures that existing social structures stay intact. Thus, the University’s heterotopic potential for change is unsuccessful. What is striking though is that for the reader, Dele has probably managed to destroy the Oxford Myth by disclosing the space’s illusory rather than compensatory nature. As a heterotopic space, the University of Oxford is not represented in a way which suggests that it might change social structures or facilitate social belonging. The Oxford Myth 15 Similarly, Russell West notes that the narrator’s quest for social mobility “involves the denial of his ethnic identity and the supportive Asian diaspora, and rejection of the Rasta aesthetics of his friend Joseph” (221).

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ultimately not simply secures the University’s exclusive character, but also communicates this exclusiveness to ‘real space’ so successfully that its promises remain reserved for a very limited number of people. In this sense, the Myth naturalises existing exclusionary mechanisms both inside and outside the heterotopic space Oxford. However, even though it is not possible for Dele to overcome the boundaries, this at the same time foregrounds the discrepancy between the Myth’s promises and its actual outcome for Dele from an overall perspective. It is therefore possible to say that the heterotopic potential for change might be realised in the interaction between reader and text16 , but not within the narrative or plot. In The Intended the Oxford Myth and the representation of Oxford as a heterotopic space of compensation are challenged far less directly than in Adebayo’s novel. On the level of the plot, the narrator actively holds on to the Oxford Myth and insists on its exclusionary boundaries. Significantly, however, readers do not learn anything about his life and progress after his graduation from Oxford, and it is therefore impossible to find out whether the Oxford Myth is actually true for him and the University indeed serves as a compensatory space. Still, what the narrative implies is that the narrator is extremely unreconciled with his own background, and even if he were able to succeed in the sense of the Oxford Myth’s promises, he would probably lose on a personal level, which might cause doubts in the reader’s perception of Oxford’s compensatory function, or heterotopic potential. Still, this impression remains rather vague and tentative.

16 This aspect will be explored in greater depth in Chapter Seven.

5 The Plantation

5.1

The Plantation and Colonial Britain

Compared to the other spaces discussed in this work, the plantation is the one which is perhaps the most typical heterotopia. Michel Foucault himself mentions the colonies as examples of heterotopias: Following his definition of the heterotopia of compensation, he declares that “I wonder if it is not somewhat in this manner that certain colonies have functioned” (“Other Spaces” 336). Indeed, the idea that the plantation might serve as a heterotopic space of compensation will soon be explored in greater detail. Like the mosque and the University of Oxford, the plantation exhibits close ties to the rest of society and can be understood as a site of struggle for change and transformation, but also for the perpetuation of structures and exclusionary boundaries. However, what distinguishes the plantation from these two other spaces is the fact that it is concerned with the most extreme forms of power. This circumstance is also mirrored in literature. While the boundaries established and contested in literary representations of the mosque and the University of Oxford are mainly defended by using indirect, ideological forms of power such as hegemonic practices (except for some isolated physical attacks by the police in Some Kind of Black and by Islamophobic racists in Minaret), power in Bernardine Evaristo’s Blonde Roots1 and Andrea Levy’s The Long Song2 is both ideological and physical: The planters use hegemonic practices to enforce exclusionary hierarchies, but they also use violence and commit murder. Still, just like the mosque and the University of Oxford, the plantation is represented as a space with a heterotopic potential for change, and it is this potential which is at the centre of the present chapter. The first British colonies were established in the 17th century, and slavery formed their basis right from the beginning until its abolition in 1833. In secondary literature, slavery is often linked to economic factors3 . Knick Harley for 1 In the following abbreviated as BR. 2 In the following abbreviated as LS. 3 Eric Williams’s Capitalism and Slavery (1944) is often considered a highly significant work in this respect. He argues that not only slavery itself, but also its abolition was based on economic reasons

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instance explains that the colonies “presented opportunities of exceptional profits” (162). Similarly, Brycchan Carey and Sara Salih maintain that “[s]lavery […] was the most profitable enterprise known to British commerce” (1). Significantly however, Carey and Salih also emphasise a social and cultural dimension when they state that “slavery and the slave trade were intimately bound up with British culture and society at every level” (ibid.). This observation not only justifies reading the plantation as a heterotopic space but also draws attention to the fact that the motivation behind Britain’s involvement in slavery was more than purely economic. In fact, this period in British history can be described as one which brought about many changes in Britain: The Industrial Revolution led to spatial movement as many people left the countryside to find employment in the cities. Evidently, those changes had enormous an impact on everyday life but also on social hierarchies and classes. With new professions and businesses emerging, the movement and change so typical of that period did not only have a spatial but also a social dimension. The middle class grew significantly, and it therefore does not come as a surprise that in 1834, one year after the Slavery Abolition Act, the passing of the Great Reform Act of 1832 confirmed that the middle classes had superseded the aristocracy as the chief power in the state, dominating the economy, politics, and ideology of the nineteenth century as surely and securely as the landowners had previously dominated the eighteenth. (Cannadine 5) The shifts and transformations shaping Britain at that time can be understood as a further incentive to Britain’s participation in slavery. Mancur Olson4 considers the growth of the middle class – both in number and wealth – a destabilising factor with regard to social structures and orders (533f.). Consequently, it is possible to assume that British slave owners established strict social hierarchies on their plantations in order to compensate for the increasingly blurred class divisions in Britain. In this sense, Britain’s activities in the colonies can be seen as a response to the developments taking place ‘at home’. To use Foucault’s words again, while in Britain itself, class structures and social hierarchies were “disordered, ill‐conceived and in a sketchy state” (“Other Spaces” 356), the plantation offered an opportunity to compensate for this state and re‐establish or even enforce those structures and hierarchies which appeared to be at stake in Britain. (e.g. 148f.; 169; 178f.). This questions the view that the abolition of slavery was a humanitarian and ethical act – an auto‐image which is ubiquitous in Britain. 4 Despite its publication in 1963, the present paper still makes use of Mancur Olson’s paper as he is generally seen as an author of “books considered seminal in the field of public choice” (Heckelman and Coates 1). Mancur Olson’s paper is highly relevant for the present analysis as it draws attention to the impact economic growth can have on society and politics, and therefore offers explanations for Britain’s involvement in slavery.

5 The Plantation

Evaristo’s and Levy’s novels present their readers with two women who suffer from the violence and inhumane conditions of slavery but also witness its abolition. What is striking is that Evaristo’s protagonist Doris and July, the autodiegetic narrator of Levy’s novel, respond differently to the hardships of slavery. Even though both women attempt to destabilise the power structures which form the basis of the exclusionary boundaries they encounter, they choose different ways of doing so, and they also vary in the extent to which they realise the plantation’s heterotopic potential for change.

5.2

Representations of the Plantation as a Heterotopic Space

It is argued here that in Bernardine Evaristo’s Blonde Roots and Andrea Levy’s The Long Song, the plantation functions as a heterotopic space of compensation for the planters from Great Britain. However, as a site of implicit or explicit power struggles, it can also be turned into a heterotopic space of illusion by the slaves5 . Michel Foucault explains that a heterotopic space’s compensatory function is based on the idea that it serves as “another real space, as perfect, meticulous and well‐arranged as ours is disordered, ill‐conceived and in a sketchy state” (“Other Spaces” 356). With regard to the plantation, the space referred to as ‘ours’ by Foucault is British society. Bernardine Evaristo and Andrea Levy quite clearly draw attention to the plantation’s existence as a heterotopic space. For instance, when observing the execution of her mother, Levy’s narrator July remarks that “[o]nce all in town had gathered with eagerness to witness the punishments of the slaves who had troubled not only white people with their fire and fuss, but also the King of England in that Baptist War” (LS 177). What is clearly expressed here is the link between Britain and the colonies. A war fought on Jamaica is considered ‘trouble’ for the King in England, which implies that the practices and actions taking place in one space have impact on other spaces as well. Doris, the protagonist of Bernardine Evaristo’s Blonde Roots, does not talk about Britain explicitly as the novel reverses time, space and history, but in its postscript she mentions the descendants of the slave owners who live in “the United Kingdom of Great Ambossa”, and links their wealth to the “cane workers, many of whom are descended from the original slaves” (BR 261). At other points, the narratives become even more explicit with regard to the plantation’s compensatory function pursued by the planters. For that purpose, 5 In her study of Michael Ondaatje’s Anil’s Ghost, Victoria Burrows also conceives of the colony as a heterotopic space of compensation for the coloniser, but she does not consider it a space of either compensation or illusion for the colonised, thereby overlooking the potential for transformation implied in heterotopic spaces (166).

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both novels present their readers with perspectives which differ distinctly from the main perspectives on display in the novels: While both narratives are, for the most part, focalised through their respective autodiegetic narrators Doris and July, they also offer glimpses into the minds and thoughts of the slave owners. In Blonde Roots, Doris’s narrative is interrupted by a pamphlet written by her owner Chief Kaga Konata Katamba. Entitled “The Flame” (109), the publication not only details his thoughts on the slave trade and the character of slaves (in the context of the novel’s reversal of time, space and history referred to as the ‘Europanes’), but also describes his response to Doris’s unsuccessful escape. Quite interestingly, Kaga Konata Katamba (whose initials are surely not just incidentally reminiscent of the racist Klu Klux Klan) emphasises that he underwent a “progression from inauspicious origins to the highest echelons of civilised society” (BR 109), which places the novel in a context of social mobility similar to the one characterising Britain during the Industrial Revolution. It soon becomes obvious that Kaga Konata Katamba’s involvement in the slave trade allowed him to rise to the rank of a captain (BR 117). Moreover, he explains that “I began to buy my own stock of slaves, and soon owned a modest plot of land in the central mountainous region of New Ambossa” (ibid. 148). This clearly references the financial and economic interests as one of the foundations of slavery. Moreover, other incidents described in his pamphlet point more directly to slavery’s compensatory function. Kaga Konata Katamba considers himself treated unfairly by his father, who apparently favours his brother Kwesan, as well as by his colleagues, who join him in his first steps in the slave trade (BR 113f.). Followed by descriptions of the slaves and their “savagery” (118), “nonsensical ‘language’” (124) and customs, ranging from absurd to violent (132-135), it becomes obvious that for him the slaves represent an opportunity to feel superior. This is emphasised further when he recounts the “classifications of humanity according to the exact science of Craniofaecia Anthropomentry” (BR 118) which say that “the Negro is biologically superior to the other two types” (119) – those other types referring to “[t]he Mongoloid, who is indigenous to the Asian territories” and “[t]he Caucasoinid, who is indigenous to the hell‐hole known as Europa” (118). What this account implies is a strict social hierarchy which is ultimately expressed and naturalised through slavery. Kaga Konata Katamba considers Doris’s first escape a disruption of the structures which strengthen his perceived superiority. Significantly, this disruption does not only refer to the fact that Doris, a member of the group he considers inferior, has tricked him, a member of what he perceives as the most superior group, but also to his position among the other Ambossans and slave holders. He recalls that “gossip spread around Mayfah” and that he “was greeted with such smug smiles from my [his] neighbours that I [he] felt the urge to slice off their lips and grind them into the sand” (BR 151). Even more explicitly, he sees no other way but to punish Doris severely in order “to recover my [his] self‐esteem and standing in the community”

5 The Plantation

(ibid. 151). Even though these remarks are expressed in Londolo and therefore not on the plantation, they still illustrate slavery’s compensatory function. At the same time, they foreground the plantation’s role in enforcing this function because the punishment announced by Kaga Konata Katamba is Doris’s relocation to the plantation. What this emphasises is the fact that it is easier to control the structures idealised by the slave owners on the plantation than in spaces which are less strictly separated from the rest of public space such as the capital Londolo. In The Long Song it is the perspective of July’s mistress Caroline Mortimer which reveals the plantation’s construction as a heterotopic space of compensation. July reports Caroline’s late husband’s envy of his brother‐in-law’s slaves: it had always been a source of great aggravation to Edmund Mortimer that his wife’s brother would boast, on his all‐too-frequent visits, how many slaves he possessed in the Caribbean and, of that number, how many of these slaves toiled round and about his great house. […] It would irritate Edmund Mortimer beyond torment when, upon observing their one slatternly, grubby, maid of‐all-work serving at table, Caroline’s brother would eye their situation with something like pity. (LS 30) The quote above contrasts the living standard of the slave owners on the plantation with that of Caroline’s family in Britain, and thus foregrounds the impact of the changes taking place in Britain at that time. The social background of Caroline’s family is never fully disclosed, but the narrative clearly implies that it must have occupied a rather high position of privilege in British society. Her late husband’s irritation proves that he considers their lack of servants an embarrassment, particularly compared to his brother‐in-law’s huge number of slaves. It is quite likely that he is used to a living standard similar to the one his brother‐in-law maintains on the plantation, but that the social and economic changes in Britain prevent him from keeping up this affluent way of life: People who used to work in service might turn to other jobs in factories or retail, and the remaining servants might claim higher wages than before. Thus, both narratives illustrate that for the slave owners, their slaves are not simply a ‘possession’ but also status symbols which form part of their habitus. The more slaves a planter owns, the higher his status and position in the social hierarchy. It is particularly Caroline’s or her late husband’s British perspective in The Long Song which foregrounds the public image of the plantation as an ideal space which might compensate for Britain’s deficiencies. As a heterotopic space of compensation, the plantation allows the planters to enforce a strict social system and assume positions of absolute control and power. The (British) public image of the plantation as such a space of compensation appears to be just as fixed as the power relationship between slaves and slave owners. However, it is important to keep in mind that according to Foucault, a heterotopic space’s compensatory function forms part of a continuum which also includes the

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possibility of disillusion. This is hinted at rather early on in The Long Song, when July remarks: After a few days upon the island, Caroline was moved to enquire of her brother whether all of his fabled upward of two hundred slaves did, in matter‐of-fact, reside around and about them in the great house. […] For there seemed to be no place in that mighty house where solitude was to be found. No corner where she did not find a negro lurking. No room that was free of a negro affecting some task. No window that, when looked through, saw a view that was other than these blackies about some mischief. Even the cupboards, when opened, seemed to contain little more than black boys who, like insects caught in a trap, peered out at her from the inside. (LS 33) Caroline’s observation points to the fact that the planters were clearly outnumbered by the slaves they owned. Ironically, the high number of slaves which guaranteed the plantation’s compensatory function was also a source of potential disillusionment or even upheaval. Quite strikingly, the passage above foregrounds the spatial dimension of power: The slaves literally take up space and thereby foreground the plantation’s existence as a contested space. Thus, the planters rely on the establishment and perpetuation of boundaries and exclusionary power structures in order to maintain the plantation’s compensatory function. At the same time, it also seems obvious that those power structures must be constructed in a way which not only shapes the relationship between slaves and slave owners but also the relationships among slaves. It is argued here that the planters’ efforts to establish and reinforce hierarchies and power structures among their slaves serve as hegemonic practices in order to avoid potential revolts. In this sense, those hegemonic practices ultimately support the existing power imbalance between slaves and planters, and guarantee the status quo. The key hegemonic practice employed by the planters to maintain the power structures operating on the plantation is the establishment of divisions and privilege. Both narratives illustrate a discrepancy between house slaves and field slaves which is supposed to divide the slave community and thereby minimise its power. In Blonde Roots, Doris admits that she is “the household’s most high‐status slave” because she can read and write (19). The term ‘high‐status’ indicates that the slaves are aware of the hierarchy which structures and separates them from each other. This is emphasised further when Doris talks about “while‐collar slave[s]” (BR 178) and “blue‐collar slaves” (ibid. 182), a distinction which references present‐day categories of different professional groups and the associations they carry. It soon becomes obvious that those divisions create a sense of privilege which is attached to the house slaves who live and work particularly close to the planters: Doris, for instance, reveals that the first family she worked for “bought me for their child because there were no Ambossan playmates within a thirty‐mile radius, and

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rather than have her rough‐housing with any of the louse‐ridden, booger‐nosed, scuff‐kneed ‘field rats’ on the plantation, they wanted one who could be turned into a little lady” (BR 96). What is illustrated here is that field slaves are constructed as an ‘Other’. Indeed, field labour and a life among the field slaves is used as a threat: Little Miracle, the girl Doris initially looks after, threatens “to have me [Doris] sent to the fields” (ibid. 98), and when Kaga Konata Katamba tells her that she will be forced to work as a field slave, his announcement is accompanied by the words “[t]hus will you know the difference” (BR 169, original emphasis). By equipping one group with a number of privileges, the planters hail and interpellate their house slaves by offering them an identity which is constructed against their fellow slaves in the fields. The lack of solidarity which results from the different identity positions offered to the slaves serves to stabilise power imbalances on the plantation. This becomes particularly clear when Doris arrives at Kaga Konata Katamba’s plantation and encounters the field slaves: “Little Miracle and I used to pass them in the fields when leaving the plantation by carriage. They were strangers to me. […] I remember feeling so removed from them – and thankful” (BR 175). Her words not only acknowledge the sense of privilege she used to feel but also express the divisions within a group which could otherwise have formed a powerful community. She becomes even more explicit when she realises that “I could not reach them, nor they me” (BR 175). What this implies is that as a hegemonic practice, the construction of privilege is meant to win the slaves’ consent with regard to their own suppression. The house slaves might feel loyalty towards those who grant them certain privileges, while the field slaves are likely to be aware of their apparent lower social status, which might make them feel powerless and dependent on the planters’ approval at the same time. Stuart Hall describes similar tendencies when he explains that as a result of “cultural power and normalisation”, oppressed groups are not only ‘othered’ by the dominant parts of society, but they are also made “to see and experience ourselves [themselves] as ‘Other’” (“Cultural Identity” 225, original emphasis). This is illustrated in The Long Song by the field slaves’ reaction to July’s separation from her mother Kitty as a young child. Caroline Mortimer thinks that July looks “‘adorable’” and therefore takes her away from Kitty (LS 44f.). After her daughter’s abduction, Kitty regularly comes to the house hoping to see July again but is intimidated by the building and the superiority it seems to represent: It is revealed that Kitty looks “in upon a room so sublime that she dared not take a breath for fear the air would prove too noble for her” (ibid. 49). These remarks indicate the extent to which field slaves like Kitty have internalised their apparent inferiority ― a process which places them in the rather passive position of the ‘Other’. Quite strikingly, the other field slaves do not share Kitty’s distress. Instead, they tell her that July will be in a much better place at the house (LS 48). Indeed, they think that the house is “where Miss July belong [sic]” (ibid.) because she is

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the daughter of Tam Dewar, the white overseer at Amity Plantation. Consequently, the field slaves’ reaction to July’s separation from her mother introduces another factor which defines a slave’s social position: skin‐colour. Privilege does not only consist of the house slaves’ spatial closeness to the planters, but also of an outward appearance which resembles that of the planters. Thus, the narrator suggests that “July had gone from being a filthy nigger child – used only to working in the fields – into the missus’s favoured lady’s maid, who boasted her papa to be a white man even though it was Molly that had the higher colour” (LS 57f.). Tellingly, Molly’s skin colour is described as ‘higher’ than July’s, rather than ‘lighter’ or ‘darker’. The adjective ‘higher’ contains an obvious value judgement which reaffirms the planters’ apparent superiority and foregrounds the privilege linked to any form of closeness to them. What has become clear so far is that the plantation’s compensatory function is based on power structures which not only influence the encounters between slaves and planters but also shape the relationships among slaves. It is particularly the construction of closeness to the planters as a privilege and the creation of divisions within the slave community which generate and sustain those structures, thereby supporting the plantation’s compensatory function. These dynamics have considerable impact on the plantation’s heterotopic potential for change: A divided slave community who internalises the hierarchies established by the planters will not be able to expose the plantation’s compensatory function as an illusion, which means that slavery’s exclusionary structures remain intact. Overcoming the boundaries within the slave community therefore seems indispensable in order to turn the plantation into a heterotopic space of illusion, which forms the basis of any form of social change and transformation. In order to realise the plantation’s heterotopic potential for change, the power structures which maintain the plantation’s compensatory function must be destabilised and transformed. Since those structures rely on separation and isolation among the slaves, the establishment of solidarity and community appears to be a powerful mechanism to counter them. Solidarity and community undermine the planters’ hegemonic practices and therefore challenge the hierarchies within the slave community which form the basis of the planters’ alleged superiority over the slaves. What the present chapter suggests is that the representation of the plantation in Blonde Roots constructs it as a heterotopic space of illusion which is generated by the slaves’ ability to create a sense of community. In The Long Song on the other hand, the plantation is not unequivocally represented as a heterotopic space of illusion because the slave community remains largely divided. In Blonde Roots, Doris’s failed escape causes significant changes in her life: She loses her apparent position of privilege as a house slave and is turned into a field slave. Consequently, it is not only Doris’s social position which changes but also her spatial position: She moves from her position as a house slave on a plantation

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on Little Londolo, one of the West Japanese islands close to Amarika, to Londolo, the capital of the United Kingdom of Great Ambossa, and from there to a position as a field slave on Kaga Konata Katamba’s plantation Home Sweet Home on the West Japanese islands. It is particularly the second move from Londolo to the plantation which can be considered most significant as it is linked to her transformation from house slave to field slave. However, what was intended as a punishment turns out to be an empowering experience for Doris which ultimately destabilises the power imbalance between the slave community and the planters. Indeed, the different spaces she inhabits shape her ability to challenge existing power structures. As a house slave, Doris is rather isolated. When she prepares for her first – unsuccessful – escape from Londolo, she keeps her plans secret from the two other house slaves with whom she shares a room, and does not even say goodbye to them (BR 16). Moreover, Doris does not only feel distanced from her fellow slaves, but also from herself. This becomes particularly clear when she recalls that [w]hen I lived on Little Londolo as a child I hadn’t mixed with the field slaves. There was no escape from the Ambossan world then, nor at Bwana’s [in Londolo]. Everywhere I turned my masters were breathing down my neck. So I diffused my resentment with downcast eyes, controlled my body language so that I never appeared sullen or threatening, monitored my speech so that my words never gave offence. (BR 191) At the same time, it becomes obvious that Doris has no trust in the slave owners and the sense of privilege they intend to convey. She mentions the “luxurious isolation in the claustrophobic Great House” which makes her “languid, my emotions dampened, the boundaries between who I was and what I had been blurred” (BR 101). Thus, she seems to be aware of the effects which the apparent privileges granted to house slaves have on her. Evidence of Doris’s distrust can be found in her relationship with Little Miracle, the girl she looks after on the plantation on Little Londolo and who tells her that “You-Me-Best-Friends” (ibid. 98, original emphasis). Little Miracle’s remarks about friendship can be considered an example of the closeness constructed by the planters as a hegemonic practice in order to prevent their slaves from turning against them. Doris however “soon realised I [she] wasn’t” Little Miracle’s friend, and thereby deprives the compensatory function pursued by the planters of its basis. It is perhaps for that reason that she is able to defend herself when Little Miracle threatens to send her to a brothel, a move that would mean “an early death” for Doris (BR 103). In an attempt to save her life, Doris pushes Little Miracle into the water where she drowns (ibid. 104). Interestingly, this incident not only reveals the link between the planters’ attempts to divide the slave community and the plantation’s compensatory function, but it also points to the importance of community and solidarity. This is illustrated when Doris relives the moment in which she kills Little Miracle: “I rushed at her with the amassed rage of all those

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people whose bones lay at the bottom of the ocean; all those people torn from their families and sentenced to labour for life without payment; all those people suffering unbelievable horrors at the hands of their masters” (BR 104). Quite strikingly, it is the thought of other people and their suffering which seems to give Doris the power and strength to push Little Miracle into the river, an act which can be seen as a transformation of the power structures which inform decisions about life or death. Once Doris has arrived on Kaga Konata Katamba’s plantation, the importance of community becomes more tangible and visible. In contrast to her life on the plantation of Little Miracle’s family, Doris now lives among other slaves in the slave village. Consequently, it is not only the thought of other slaves which seems to be a source of strength but instead an actual slave community which turns the plantation into a space of empowerment for Doris. The representation of the plantation’s slave village foregrounds community as a counter‐mechanism with regard to the divisions created by the planters. Contrasting the slave quarters to her previously isolated position, Doris realises that “[n]ow here I was in the all‐whyte world of the slaves’ quarter, where we ran tings [sic], more or less. Perhaps now I could be myself – whatever that was” (BR 191, original). The fact that the slaves are ‘running things’ in the slave village points to a sense of power and agency which is generated by the feeling of community6 . Quite strikingly, Doris seems to have overcome the sense of isolation and separation she used to feel as a house slave. Even though she did not accept the position of privilege constructed for her by the planters, she still saw the field slaves as “silent otherworldly people” (BR 175). As a resident of the slave village, the other women and particularly Ye Memé become her friends. Indeed, it is Ye Memé who protects her on her first day as a field slave and therefore “saved my [her] life” (ibid. 181). The slave women in the village support each other, for instance by raising each other’s children or teaching each other how to cook (BR 207). What this implies is “a feeling of mutual solidarity and even a degree of agency” (Newman 294). Significantly, solidarity does not only characterise the community of field slaves, but also extends to the relationship between house and field slaves. King Shaka, who is in charge of his fellow slaves at the house, has organised numerous escapes and, as will soon be discussed in greater detail, also facilitates the escape of Doris and her friends. In The Long Song on the other hand, July is not able to overcome the isolation which characterises her life on the plantation. In fact, she actively seems to maintain her distance from the field slaves and appears to be unable to counter the planters’ hegemonic practices. In contrast to Doris, July seems to have accepted the hierarchies between slaves and planters, and among the slaves. This becomes 6 Judie Newman reads Doris’s experience of the slave village in the context of gender and concludes that it is depicted “as a world in which women characters dominate” (294).

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particularly obvious when she meets Clara, a young female slave working on a different plantation. July notices Clara’s clothes and “felt as ragged as a half‐plucked turkey”, which causes her to lie about some white muslin she claims Caroline Mortimer has ordered for her (LS 92). What evolves between them is an argument which expresses the slaves’ loyalty to their planters: ‘You no tell me true,’ she [Clara] said, ‘Your massa have no money for white muslin for you.’ ‘Me massa have plenty money,’ July replied. ‘Me hear that not be so,’ Clara said. […] ‘You not be telling me true, for what your missus be wearing is bad. No worthy white missus be wearing cotton printed with stripes,’ Clara said, flicking her hand to shake July from her. ‘But your missus does have an ugly face,’ July retorted. ‘How dare you impudence me missus,’ Clara said. (LS 92f.) The quote above indicates that Clara’s and July’s loyalty results from the fact thatthey consider their own social position to be dependent on that of their owners. This observation clearly illustrates the impact of the planters’ hegemonic practices on July and Clara. This is further emphasised by July’s reaction to her son’s birth: She feels “disgust when first she saw that child of hers was as black as a nigger” (LS 186). Even after slavery has been abolished, July seems to reproduce thoughts and perspectives which express the planters’ apparent superiority and the slaves’ alleged inferiority. This becomes obvious when July finds out that the compensation money Caroline receives for July is the same as for Molly: She is upset that “high‐high bewhiskered white men in England believed her and Molly to be of the same value” (LS 209). July seems to have internalised the sense of privilege which is associated with closeness to the planters, and still derives her sense of self‐worth from the standards expressed by the (former) planters. On another encounter with Clara, who, after the abolition, organises dances where white men can meet Jamaican women, she is refused entry because of her appearance: Clara measures and inspects July’s hair, nose, lips and skin colour, and ultimately concludes that “‘You will not do. You is [sic] too full of negro’” (ibid. 243), which visibly hurts and embarrasses July. What this implies is that for July, closeness to the white standard still represents an ideal she strives for. The slave community appears to be deeply divided and the structures which established those divisions remain active even after the abolition of slavery. These observations point to a significant difference between Doris’s and July’s attempts to destabilise power structures on the plantation. While both certainly long for freedom, their motivation differs considerably. For July, freedom seems to be an ideal which characterises the lives of the planters, and gaining freedom appears to be necessary in order to rise within the social hierarchies on the plantation. In this sense, July apparently considers freedom a means to generate closeness to the ‘white’ standard of the planters. It is surely not a coincidence that the plot of The

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Long Song is to a large extent set after the abolition of slavery ― a time when freedom has already been achieved (at least on paper). Significantly though, July’s life does not change for the better but is still centred around the structures and standards expressed by the planters. Doris on the other hand wants freedom in order to reject the norms of the Ambossan slave owners and to be accepted for who she is. Interestingly, both novels use physical features and outward appearance to express the protagonists’ concepts of freedom. Such criteria foreground the fact that differences in appearance have frequently been used to justify racism and exclusion ― a process which slavery clearly epitomises. Thus, while July consistently foregrounds her status as a “mulatto” in order to rise in people’s opinion (LS 253), Doris tries to detach herself from the Ambossan standards of beauty which, presumably, affect her acceptance in Ambossan society. She admits that “the Ambossans considered me ugly as sin. And as it was their world I was living in, I had image issues, of course” (BR 31), but she still tries to defy the hetero‐image imposed upon her: Every morning I’d repeat an uplifting mantra to myself while looking in the mirror. I’d try not to see the ‘pinched nostrils, pasty skin, greasy hair, pale shifty eyes and flat bottom’ which the Ambossans labelled inferior. Instead I tried to say with confidence: ‘I may be fair and flaxen. I may have slim nostrils and slender lips. I may have oil‐rich hair and a non‐rotund bottom. I may blush easily, go rubicund in the sun and have covert yet mentally alert blue eyes. Yes, I may be whyte. But I am whyte and I am beautiful!’ (BR 31f.) Doris’s assertion of her beauty7 forms a clear contrast to July’s internalisation of the planters’ norms and standards. In this sense, Doris’s and July’s auto‐images represent their attitudes towards their oppressors, which points to the extent to which they are influenced by the latter’s hegemonic practices. Blonde Roots clearly constructs the plantation – particularly the slave quarters – as a space of empowerment for Doris. This is illustrated by the fact that it is portrayed as a space which offers her insights into her own power and the illusory nature of the power structures which operate on the plantation. A similar though isolated tendency could already be observed on the first plantation Doris worked on as a slave when she defended herself against Little Miracle’s threats. Among the other slaves on Kaga Konata Katamba’s plantation Home Sweet Home this effect is intensified when Doris participates in a religious service. Initially she is reluctant to join in as the service or “shrine” seems to be following the Ambossan voodoo rituals (BR 198): The other slaves dance and talk in tongues so loudly that “it must have 7 Sofía Muñoz-Valdivieso focuses on Evaristo’s depiction of beauty standards in the context of the novel’s reversal strategy and suggests that “Western body images are reversed, so that the assumptions about beauty that have become naturalised in predominantly white societies are turned around” (“Neo-Slave Narratives” 53).

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been heard all the way from the overseers’ quarters up to the Great House which, I quickly understood, was the whole point” (ibid.). After a while, the slaves close the door and start a service with Christian rituals which remind Doris and the others of their home countries. Thus, the vociferous celebration of the voodoo mass serves to distract the farmers from the slaves’ perpetuation of their own values and traditions. The slaves pretend to submit to the Ambossan traditions, thereby constructing an illusion for the planters. What this reveals is not only the slaves’ awareness of the illusory nature of fixed power structures, but also insight into their own power, which leads Sara Upstone to conclude that this occasion is “one of the most positively powerful moments in the novel” (“Some Kind of Black” 287). Consequently, power is not only exercised by exposing existing structures and boundaries as illusory, but also by creating new illusions which contribute to the destabilisation and potential transformation of power imbalances. This has enormous impact on Doris: She admits that she “got into the spirit too” and declares her happiness that “[a]fter all these years I found myself praying in a public place of worship to my own God” (BR 202). The fact that the service takes place in ‘public’ seems to emphasise the empowering effect it has on Doris and the other slaves as it expresses a considerable degree of rebellion and potential subversion. Moreover, Doris refers to the service as a “lively communal therapy session” (BR 198), which again references the importance of community. Still, what must be kept in mind is the fact that the service described above serves mainly to strengthen and empower the slave community. While it certainly makes the slaves realise that the power structures and exclusionary boundaries established by the planters are by no means fixed and unchangeable, the secrecy of the service does not yet destabilise the compensatory function which the plantation possesses in the eyes of the planters. Empowerment is portrayed as a process which contains phases of regeneration and also stagnation: Doris admits that the comfort she experiences as part of the slave community has led her to “acclimatise[…]to an alarming degree”, so that “freedom has become an abstract concept” (BR 211). However, the visibility and efficiency of the slaves’ resistance grow increasingly as the plot progresses and it is ultimately Doris’s concern for and hope to protect her friends which encourages her to turn her empowerment into open resistance and ultimately expose the plantation’s compensatory function as an illusion. Evidence of this can be found in Doris’s decision to teach her friend Ye Memé’s sons how to read and write. Indeed, literacy in general is represented as a powerful practice throughout the narrative. It is Little Miracle who teaches Doris to read and write in Ambossan so that she might do her homework for her. The fact that it is considered illegal for slaves emphasises the potential it holds in the eyes of the planters and in fact, Doris’s literacy plays an essential role in her two attempts to escape. Already at the beginning of her enslavement, literacy seems to represent empowerment. When Little Miracle is asleep, Doris starts writing “a diatribe

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against my mistress” and is shocked when she realises what her writing process has revealed: “Up to that point if you’d asked me what I thought of my boss I would have declared total devotion. There was never any doubt about what I was supposed to feel and I couldn’t distinguish otherwise” (BR 102). Writing is represented as an empowering means to clarify thoughts and counter the hegemonic practices used by the planters to prevent their slaves from revolt. As will be discussed in greater detail in Chapter Six, Doris’s narrative – and therefore the act of writing down her story – can be seen as a form of resistance, and this is also true for the text she produces as Little Miracle’s slave: Since writing helps her to reconnect with herself and provides her with insights into the illusory nature of the privilege offered by the planters, it can be seen as removing the basis for the power imbalances on the plantation. While Doris’s writing against Little Miracle serves as an illustration of literacy’s empowering potential, there are other instances which influence the power imbalance between slaves and planters more directly. When she is preparing for her first escape, Doris communicates with the “Resistance” through written notes (BR 5). The following passage describes the moment when Doris receives the message which contains details about her escape: In spite of myself, I’d just begun to flick through the latest godawful issue [of “The Flame”, the pro‐slavery pamphlet authored by her owner and referred to earlier in the present chapter], feeling my stomach constrict and my throat tighten, when a hand shoved a folded note through the open office window and vanished before I could see who it was attached to. (BR 4) The quote contains two essential aspects: It is because of Doris’s literacy that she is able to read both the pamphlet and the note. Moreover, the fact that the message announcing her escape reaches her when she is reading a publication which is supposed to strengthen and justify the planters’ involvement in slavery clearly positions the note as a means of resistance: It destabilises a power imbalance which includes the planters’ exclusive claim to literacy. Similarly, when she works as a field slave on Kaga Konata Katamba’s plantation, Doris’s literacy allows her to come to the house in order to organise the accounts. This occasion clearly reveals the planters’ dependency on their slaves, thereby exposing the plantation’s compensatory function as an illusion. Moreover, it also provides her with the opportunity to save her friend Ye Memé’s sons from being sold on to another plantation by removing their names from the list. At the same time, without access to the house, Doris would never have met her sister Sharon and King Shaka, both of whom help her to escape. In this sense, literacy facilitates resistance, a circumstance Doris seems to be aware of when she remarks that teaching Ye Memé’s sons to read and write “would be a rebellious act” (BR 196). Quite significantly, passing on her knowledge to the younger generation of slaves gen-

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erates the impression that literacy can have a lasting effect which shapes not only her own life but also that of others. By using her literacy to destabilise the planters’ power, Doris turns the plantation into a heterotopic space of illusion. For July in The Long Song on the other hand, the plantation does not function as a space of empowerment and its exposure as a heterotopic space of illusion remains ambiguous. Instead, Amity Plantation turns out to be a space of constant power struggles which consist of isolated and temporary acts of resistance. July’s and the other slaves’ attempts to transform power structures are usually countered by the planters and often cause their situation to deteriorate. This becomes particularly obvious on a number of occasions involving July and other house slaves, the first of which links back to Caroline’s arrival at Amity Plantation and her perception of the slaves described previously. In contrast to her expectations, the house slaves do not behave in a way which can be seen as compensating for her lack of servants in Britain: But Caroline, unperturbed by the glowering of these slaves, gazed upon them civilly, for she believed they would soon curtsey, then offer her some light refreshment perhaps. She was even unpinning her bonnet, for she was sure they would want to take it from her to set it upon some stand. But they did not. Instead their eyes, which Caroline thought appeared like shining marbles rolling in soot, commenced to peruse her slowly, from the bottom of her brown leather boots to the top of her fleshy blond head. Then, opening her arms wide, the tall gangly one said, ‘Come, see how broad she is!’ At which Caroline took a long step away from them – not on account of this impudent scorning, but in fear of the teeth in their heads that, as they laughed upon her, bared white and sharp as any savage beasts. (LS 31f.) Similarly, it is revealed that “[t]he negro girl, Molly, the one with the bruised, swollen eye, was charged by her brother to act as Caroline’s temporary lady’s maid. And act she did” (LS 34, emphasis added). Thus, the slaves clearly challenge the idealised image of the plantation which shapes the planters’ auto‐image and correspondingly also the plantation’s public perception in Britain. It is quite likely that the slaves’ behaviour on this occasion reveals the illusory nature of the plantation’s compensatory function and makes Caroline see the plantation as a heterotopic space of illusion. Nonetheless, it is ultimately the planters who remain in the more powerful position. This is already alluded to above in the reference to Molly’s ‘bruised, swollen eye’, which is indicative of the physical violence the planters were allowed to commit exempt from punishment. This is also true for Caroline: Even though the slaves initially make her feel rather uncomfortable and do not prove to be as helpful as imagined, her abduction of July can be seen as a reestablishment of the power imbalance between planters and slaves. She explains that she wants to “train her [July] for the house, or to be my lady’s maid” (LS 44), which can be

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understood as a response to the house slaves’ – and particularly Molly’s – refusal to act according to her expectations. In another potentially subversive move, the slaves manage to make Caroline’s sister‐in-law, Agnes, adapt to their own linguistic standards. July reports that Agnes was able to command these slaves in their own strange tongue. She could bellow at those negroes with the same force that the negroes did bellow at each other. […] Why, she jumped about as spiritedly as a mad hare – arms flailing, feet‐stamping, her thick red hair coming loose from its tie as she snapped, shouted, clapped and yelled to get her way. (LS 35) What the quote above indicates is that her efforts to force the slaves to obey her orders is not only tiring for Agnes but also makes her look rather ridiculous. Consequently, the power structures which shape the relationship between the planters and the slaves appear to be destabilised: It is not only the slaves who are forced to act in a particular way but also Agnes, who is made to revert to patois and act ‘madly’. However, it also becomes obvious that Agnes reasserts the boundaries between herself and the slaves when she tells Caroline that “‘[y]ou must show them who is master and who is slave’” (LS 35), and also expresses her attitude physically when she kicks and bruises Molly (36). For July, who longs for closeness to the white standard represented by the planters, such a reaffirmation of exclusionary distance must be particularly defeating. On another occasion July tries to snatch some rum from the planters for the slaves to drink but is found out by a planter who gropes her while July has no power to defend herself (LS 98): A small act of resistance is immediately countered by the planters and even puts July in a passive position. What the examples above indicate is that the slaves’ opposition has the potential to destabilise the plantation’s compensatory function and the boundaries between slaves and planters. However, their resistance ultimately remains not only isolated and temporary, but also brings about suffering for many of them. It is perhaps because the attempts at resistance lack organisation and are not supported by the slave community that it is ultimately the planters who remain in power. The isolated acts of resistance and the power struggle they are part of are interrupted by the Baptist War, the only organised but nonetheless unsuccessful form of resistance in the narrative. The fighting on the island is reflected on the plantation when Godfrey, the senior house slave, tells Caroline that he wants to be paid for driving her into safety and even stops her from striking him (LS 122f.). What the situation reveals is Caroline’s dependency on the slaves, a circumstance which again serves to expose the plantation’s compensatory function as an illusion: “Her [Caroline’s] mouth fell open in wordless agony as Godfrey raised himself from the chair. As he stood higher, he bore down upon the missus’s wrists until the pressure of the pain impelled her to kneel in front of him” (LS 123). Quite strikingly however,

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the Baptist War also discloses disagreements within the slave community as well as the effects of the planters’ hegemonic practices on the slaves. When July’s friend Nimrod tells the house slaves at Amity Plantation that the revolting slaves will expect them to join the fighting or else they will kill Caroline, Godfey is prepared to hand her over without reservation (ibid. 116). July and Nimrod on the other hand have qualms about leaving Caroline to her fate. Even though July admits that “if anyone was going push [sic] her missus into a sugar teache […] then it must be she and not some vengeful nigger” (LS 116), her remarks ultimately reference the internal hierarchy dividing the slave community and illustrate what she perceives to be her special relationship to Caroline. Following Nimrod’s advice, July tells Caroline to escape to a ship where she “will be safe” (ibid.). Thus, it becomes clear that the Baptist War is more organised than the isolated attempts at revolt examined previously, but still lacks large‐scale support among the slaves. Consequently, the planters ultimately put down the revolt. That the Baptist War’s exposure of the plantation as a heterotopic space of illusion will not last is revealed by the planters’ response to the revolting slaves. They decide to shoot those who participated in the fighting, “for who would want them back after this? When slaves turn wild, they are useless to all but worms. And there would be compensation for the owners for the loss of their property” (LS 145). Clearly, the word ‘compensation’ draws attention to the planters’ expectations from their slaves and the plantation itself. What is equally telling is that in the absence of the planters, it is only Godfrey who leaves the plantation for good, the other slaves stay there ― a circumstance which discloses the circularity of power discussed in Chapter One: July spends the time without her mistress putting herself in Caroline’s position, using her cosmetics and “[l]anding herself upon her missus’s daybed” (LS 129). Even though July’s detour into Caroline’s life is narrated with a comic undertone, the fact remains that July does not seize the opportunity for escape but chooses to dwell in the closeness to or even identification with her oppressors which she pursues. Her behaviour implies that July appears to have internalised the sense of privilege and closeness apparently offered by the planters to keep the slaves from standing up against them. What this illustrates is that power always depends on the inferior group’s consent, which foregrounds the circular nature of power. Thus, the hegemonic practices which are supposed to divide the slave community and create loyalty to the planters seem to have a lasting effect on the inhabitants of Amity Plantation and ultimately guarantee its compensatory function. Officially, the period following the Baptist War, the Apprenticeship, is supposed to prepare the slaves for life in freedom but ultimately turns out to bring only very few changes. This is illustrated by July’s reference to “the false‐free of apprenticeship” (LS 197). Consequently, the isolated acts of revolt and power struggles on the plantation continue once Caroline has returned there. It is particularly July’s re-

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lationship with Caroline’s husband Robert Goodwin which reveals the struggle for power and, in July’s case, the standard represented by her mistress. Initially, July seems to win this struggle, as is made clear in the following passage: For while Robert Goodwin’s new bride [Caroline] lay reclining upon her bed – the ribbons at the neck of her nightgown untied and the garment teased down low to reveal the ample mounds of her primped and scented breasts, as she eagerly waited for her new husband to finish his business in the negro village – he was in the room under the house, frenziedly dropping the clothes from off our July’s back. (LS 276) Thus, it is July who receives his attention. However, already the remark that July’s room is located below the house hints at the illusory nature of her relationship with Robert Goodwin and the continuity of the power imbalance between planters and slaves. The dynamics between July and Caroline are represented by a painting which includes all parties involved in that particular struggle: July, Caroline and Robert Goodwin. The painting is supposed to show Caroline and Robert as a happily married couple who are the owners of a prosperous plantation, while July’s presence in the painting is meant to add “a reliable touch of the exotic” (LS 285). The artist and Caroline agree that July should kneel in front of Caroline and offer her a tray of sweets (ibid. 287). However, after the painting’s completion, Caroline’s attitude towards it changes: While she is initially happy with it, she soon realises that it does not have the effect she had hoped for. The public display of the painting was supposed to cause her neighbours’ envy, but instead all they observe is that “Caroline looked strangely sad” and “that her husband, Robert, appears to be gazing firmly upon he nigger” (LS 291f.). It is argued here that the painting serves as Caroline’s personal heterotopic space of compensation within the larger space of the plantation. In this context, the painting serves to compensate for Caroline’s unhappy and childless marriage: By commissioning the creation of this particular piece of art, Caroline also tries to construct the image of a happy couple. Thus, July’s position in the painting as the centre of Robert Goodwin’s attention exposes both Caroline’s painting and the plantation as a heterotopic space of illusion as it challenges her centrality and authority in both spaces. This effect is emphasised further when Caroline realises that July is pregnant with her husband’s child. Susan Alice Fischer reads the painting as an object which “symbolizes how slavery must be similarly recognized as central to English culture and history” (111), and July’s presence in it in particular as an attempt to “upstage […] the mistress” (ibid. 110). However, it soon becomes obvious that July’s transformation of Caroline’s heterotopic space of compensation into one of illusion is once again only temporary. As a piece of art, the painting contains the possibility of both showing and hiding objects and people, and this is exactly what happens when Caroline finds out about

5 The Plantation

July’s pregnancy: “Caroline was forced to hang the picture within a room that was rarely used” (LS 292). Banishing the painting can be understood as a reestablishment of boundaries. Thus, even though July manages to make Caroline aware of the fact that her central position as mistress of the plantation is by no means fixed and stable, it is still Caroline who ultimately has authority about the painting and its dominant reading, and, in this sense, the plantation. Caroline’s demonstration of power and the fruitlessness of July’s attempts at transforming the exclusionary boundaries set up by the farmers are epitomised by Caroline’s abduction of July’s daughter Emily. It foregrounds the aspect which consistently impairs the slaves’ attempts to expose the plantation’s compensatory function as an illusion and destabilise the power imbalance between slaves and planters: the lack of community and solidarity among the slaves. It is Molly, a fellow house slave, who pretends to look after Emily while July is resting but instead takes her to Caroline and Robert Goodwin. The fact that Molly is subsequently allowed to go to Britain with them indicates that she is fully aware of the planters’ intentions, and that she possibly deceived July in return for the privilege of accompanying the Goodwins to Britain. This again illustrates the circularity of power and clearly shows that the planters’ hegemonic practices remain powerful mechanisms which support the plantation’s compensatory function8 . In fact, Emily’s abduction can be seen as a pattern which frames July’s life, as it repeats her own abduction from Kitty, thereby foregrounding the power imbalances during but also after slavery. The deceptions and internal divisions within the slave group seem to constitute the basis for the limited and short‐lived success of any form of revolt or resistance. Thus, the plantation can by no means be described as an empowering space. July in particular appears to be isolated. During the Baptist War she and Nimrod, the father of her first child, flee to the slave village in order to protect Nimrod from certain death at the hands of the overseer Tam Dewar. However, the slaves are not prepared to help her but instead debate “whether to chase these bad‐wind strangers upon their way, or take pity upon them” (LS 164). It is Kitty who saves her daughter but is then killed as a result of her decision to help July, as is Nimrod. Indeed, this is the only incident in the narrative in which July shows and receives solidarity, and its consequences imply that it is as fruitless as the other attempts 8 Jana Gohrisch comes to a similar conclusion when she suggests that “[t]he continued complicity with the racialist values of the fictional post‐emancipation Jamaica […] leaves the fictional power‐relations between the races, classes, and genders in place” (432). However, while Gohrisch argues that the representation of agency in Levy’s narrative “undermines the novel’s emancipatory agentive agenda” (ibid. 430) and thus “restricts opportunities for the reader to imagine alternative forms of cultural agency” (ibid. 432), this study maintains that the novel’s engagement with genre conventions and particularly July’s role as the narrator of her tale (illustrated in Section Three) creates an interactive heterotopic space which indeed challenges the reader to adopt a new outlook on slavery and former slaves’ agency.

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at resistance. Indeed, Jana Gohrisch remarks that Kitty’s revenge challenges “the image of the passive enslaved female […] albeit again only on the level of individual agency” (428). July’s isolation is emphasised further after slavery has been abolished. Her relationship with Robert Goodwin appears to position her on the side of the planters rather than the slaves: When the field slaves want time off for Christmas or demand proper payment for their work (LS 299f.), Goodwin takes July with him as a translator and ultimately rejects their requests. The field slaves seem to grow in confidence as well as in their sense of community: They realise that they can live off the money they earn through farming and fishing, and, when they are approached individually by Robert Goodwin, who promises them privileges in order to divide their group, none of them accepts his offer (ibid. 306f.). After he has raised their rents and forbids fishing in order to deprive them of their livelihood, they organise a “deputation that marched to the great house to request a parley with the massa Goodwin” (LS 309) and, once their efforts have failed, “within a solemn oath that was taken by all with joined hands, they agreed that not one person amongst them would work even a day for Robert Goodwin” (ibid. 313). This development clearly illustrates the changes taking place among the field slaves. July, however, is not part of that community. Her isolation becomes particularly clear when Robert Goodwin and some other planters violently evict the slaves from their houses, destroy their crops and belongings, and kill their animals (LS 316): She remains in the house where she can hear the sounds from the village: “Cries, yelling, shouts, banging, and screams were escaping the negro village in a furious squall that jolted through the thin glass of her window. That commotion did haunt the room” (LS 322). What becomes obvious here is a clear division which is also represented spatially: July and the farmers are positioned on one side in the house, whereas the (former) slaves are presented to occupy an opposing position in the village. Following the violent eviction, the (former) slaves move away and most of them settle on land which is described as a “woebegone place” (LS 336). Economically, their situation does not seem to improve, as they now reside on “a forlorn clearing in a wilderness where scruffy, hungry, tired and pitiful negro men, women and children laboured long, yet where not even one wall of a hut can be observed” (ibid. 337). This description is far removed from July’s concept of freedom, which is attached to the privileges associated with the farmers. In contrast to that, the (former) slaves appear poor but happy, and it is their freedom which defines their auto‐image and contentment: “But upon this rough, squatted land, ‘This is free,’ was cried hearty every morning by Dublin Hilton” (ibid.). Tellingly, the expression ‘this is free’ rather than ‘we are free’ or ‘I am free’ points to the fact that for the former slaves, their new living conditions define and constitute freedom, and not the approval of or closeness to their former oppressors. Thus, the ability to expose and reject the planters’ hegemonic practices seems essential to their establishment of

5 The Plantation

community and ultimately, to their defiance of the boundaries and power structures which used to exclude them. It is July’s failure to evade the impact of the planters’ hegemonic practices which isolates her from the group and turns her into a “half‐starved woman” who has to steal in order to survive (LS 363). In contrast to July’s destitution after the abolition of slavery, Doris’s life develops more positively. Even though her life is not completely happy – she never sees her children again and her former partner is married to someone else – she lives in a free and caring community. While July as a former house slave does not become part of the free slave community, King Shaka, the senior house slave in Blonde Roots, is met with “the goodwill of the slaves’ quarter – which was bountiful” (BR 259). The empowering potential of the plantation in Evaristo’s novel becomes particularly obvious after Doris and her friends have crossed its boundaries: Stunned, we sat there a few moments. A tight family unit now, relying on each other for survival. I expected Ndewele or Qwashee to take control, then realised it was I who should assume leadership. Ndewele knew the route and Qwashee was a strong male, but I had made this happen, for myself, for the boys, for the friends I’d left behind. I felt so calm, so level‐headed, so powerful. (BR 257) The quote above foregrounds the importance of community: Not only does it form part of Doris’s motivation, but it also shapes her attitude towards the future. While it is certainly true that at that point of the narrative slavery is not yet abolished and Doris and her friends are only a relatively small group, their escape still represents a successful and lasting transformation of the boundaries established by the planters: Not only have their lives changed, but their absence from the plantation certainly exposes it as a heterotopic space of illusion: The planters cannot ignore the fact that some of their slaves managed to escape. Their hegemonic practices failed, as did the more direct and physical forms of power which were supposed to maintain the power imbalance between planters and slaves. To conclude, it can be stated that the incidents examined in the present chapter clearly emphasise the importance of community and solidarity for the empowerment of slaves, and consequently also for the realisation of the plantation’s heterotopic potential for change. Neither of the two novels are unequivocally optimistic and create an idealised image of resistance and revolt: Both protagonists suffer immensely and are forced to sacrifice most of what they hold dear. However, it is only in Blonde Roots that the planters’ hegemonic practices can be overcome successfully, whereas they remain largely intact and shape the thoughts and actions of the slaves – and planters – in The Long Song. Even though the novels differ considerably in their representation of the plantation, it should also be noted that as a heterotopic space, the plantations’ heterotopic potential depends on the practices taking place there. Since July and Doris have different backgrounds and resources they can resort to it seems plausible that they vary in their ability to expose and

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reject the hegemonic practices which influence their lives: July has never truly experienced freedom, whereas Doris clearly remembers her life before slavery. This is foregrounded by the integration of Doris’s memories into the narrative, and by the perspective of other slaves, such as Ye Memé, who were born into slavery and therefore consider the plantation their home (BR 195). July’s rather unusual concept of freedom is based on the planters and the standard they represent ― a circumstance which might explain her dependency on the planters and their norms. Moreover, both novels emphasise the complexity and different forms power can take: both protagonists must overcome direct or physical forms as well as ideological forms of power. This is also mirrored in the representation of the plantation. Its heterotopic potential for transformation can only be realised if ideological forms of power such as for instance the planters’ hegemonic practices can be overcome. In fact, overcoming those forms of power can be seen as the basis for challenging the more direct or physical forms expressed in the relationship between planters and slaves, and thus for exposing the plantation as a heterotopic space of illusion. However, even though July remains unable to transform those power structures, she still challenges them: There are at least some instances in which the plantation’s compensatory function is revealed as illusory, and the power imbalance is destabilised. In addition to that it should also be noted that July seems to have overcome the ideological forms of power which shaped her thoughts and behaviour so significantly at least retrospectively. This is illustrated by her act of writing and her reflections on her past: She is insistent that her life was a happy one (LS 395), which implies that power might also lie in the ability to take on a positive or productive attitude towards the past, thereby taking control retroactively. The significance of writing will be explored in greater detail in the Chapter Six.

Section Three: Interactive Heterotopic Spaces

6 Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming Genres

The concept of an interactive heterotopic space relies on the assumption that literature and social context are not only closely related, but also actively shape each other. Such a space focuses on the interaction between reader and text, and explores textual strategies which might contribute to more tangible, social manifestations of a text’s heterotopic potential. Since interactive heterotopic spaces are concerned with creating a realm in which the reader is encouraged to reassess his/her understanding of accepted norms, ideas, and hierarchies, it seems plausible that such an examination is set into motion by divergences from the familiar (Iser 49f.). A category which seems to be particularly conducive to the creation of such a space is genre. In fact, it is genre’s reflection of changing social contexts as well as its own potential for instigating change which will be examined in the present chapter. Understanding it as something which is not pre‐existent but “invented by critics to specific explanatory ends”, Susan Fraiman suggests that genre is ideologically charged and therefore used to perform certain functions with regard to its readers (2). It is therefore not only a novel’s plot which creates meaning but also its association with a particular genre. Since interpretation in general takes place on a metalevel, it seems plausible that genre – as a form of “metacommunication” (Frow 17; 104) – plays a crucial role in the process of meaning making. This is also emphasised by John Frow, who argues that “generic structure both enables and restricts meaning, and is a basic condition for meaning to take place” (10). In order to illustrate the relationship between reader and text, Heather Dubrow introduces the metaphor of a “generic contract” (31). Such a contract raises expectations in the reader which might have an impact on the way s/he reads and interprets the text at hand. She refers to “signals” (ibid.) which encourage the reader to “follow at least some of the patterns and conventions we associate with the genre” (ibid.), thereby supporting the creation of meaning. Significantly however, Dubrow also foregrounds the possibility that “codes may be violated […] and contracts broken” (37). What this implies is that genres are not stable categories, but are constantly evolving and changing, as are the functions they perform.

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John Frow elaborates further on genre’s functions and its ability to guide interpretation. He identifies “structural dimensions” of genre, which include visible or “formal features” such as register or the arrangement of the text on the page (9), a preoccupation with particular topics (ibid.), or a specific “situation of address” (ibid.). In addition to these rather obvious and explicit dimensions, he also draws attention to “a more general structure of implication, which both invokes and presupposes a range of relevant background knowledges, and in so doing sets up a certain complicity with the reader” (Frow 9, emphasis in the original). What is foregrounded here is the relationship between reader and text: Frow’s concept of ‘complicity’ is reminiscent of Heather Dubrow’s generic contract. By linking genre and reader (or rather, the reading process), both Frow and Dubrow therefore highlight a central element of literature in general and genre in particular: their social implications. Frow refers to genre’s “rhetorical function” when he argues that texts are “structured in such a way as to achieve certain pragmatic effects”, which include for instance the promotion of specific “moral judgments” (9). He explains that readers “consciously or unconsciously [search] for those layers of background knowledges which texts evoke” (ibid. 101). As a result, genre “defines a set of expectations which guide our engagement with texts. It is oriented to the future” (Frow 104). The fact that genre operates as a framework establishes a link to the reader and thereby an interactional level: Not only does genre work “at a level of semiosis – that is, of meaning‐making – which is deeper and more forceful than that of the explicit ‘content’ of a text” (ibid. 19), but, as mentioned previously, it can also be seen as a form of ‘metacommunication’. It is particularly this conceptualisation of genre which foregrounds the link between literature and social context mentioned at the beginning of this chapter: Genre has the ability to create a bias with regard to a novel’s ideological position and might thereby potentially shape the reader’s perception. At the same time, its flexibility ensures its aptitude for appropriation from various perspectives, which might mirror processes of social transformation. In fact, Frow understands texts as “performances of or allusions to the norms and conventions which form them and which they may, in turn, transform” (25). What he suggests here is that texts make use of genre conventions – or, to use Dubrow’s terminology, ‘signals’ —, while at the same time appropriating and transforming them. Thus, genre seems to be a productive means of subverting familiar structures and meanings, and even of creating new ones. Its potentially destabilising and productive, or “reflexive” (Frow 25) nature rejects the idea of strict genre boundaries and unequivocal categorisation. Rather, Frow suggests that texts “may have membership in many genres” and borrows Dell Hymes’s term “relationship” to describe the intertextuality which links texts to genres (ibid. 23). That literary texts establish different ‘relationships’ to what Frow has referred to as “generic raw materials” (ibid.) will be illustrated in the following by using the Bildungsroman and the slave narrative as case studies.

6 Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming Genres

6.1

British Muslim Interactions with the Bildungsroman

The following section will explore the ways in which Leila Aboulela’s novel Minaret and Robin Yassin-Kassab’s The Road from Damascus engage with the Bildungsroman genre, thereby opening up an interactive heterotopic space in which exclusionary boundaries and Islamophobic tendencies in society might be addressed productively. After providing readers with insights into the development of the Bildungsroman genre and its ideological functions and concerns, the present chapter will then analyse how the novels by Aboulela and Yassin-Kassab interact with three particularly prominent characteristics of the Bildungsroman: reader identification, agency, and space. Tracing the Development of a Genre: The BildungsromanThe Bildungsroman is a genre which, in the most general sense, represents a protagonist’s development against the background of social structures and norms (Abel et al. 7). Interestingly, this process cannot only be observed with regard to the Bildungsroman protagonist but also the genre itself. Indeed, critics have repeatedly stressed the Bildungsroman’s proneness to appropriation and modification, while at the same time linking such transformations to changing social contexts (e.g. Buckley 18; Abel et al. 14; McWilliams 6f.). Since the Bildungsroman is also characterised by an “ideological frame of reference through which [it] works”, it must be assumed that changes in form are accompanied by new or altered ideological functions (Hoagland 2). This becomes obvious when charting the Bildungsroman’s development from its origins through to contemporary manifestations. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister’s Lehrjahre (1795/96) is generally seen as the first Bildungsroman (Maynard 279). Following the novel’s translation into English in the nineteenth century, British contributions to the genre began to emerge, such as Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations1 (1860/61), which throughout this chapter will be used as an example of the traditional Bildungsroman2 . The early Bildungsromane present “the traditional Bildungsroman’s core ideology of bourgeois, Christian, middle class, white values by offering up a white, male protagonist”, and in doing so transport dominant hegemonic perspectives3 (Hoagland 55, emphasis in the original). An aspect which strongly contributes to the perpetuation of these perspectives is the fact that the typical Bildungsroman plot sees the protagonist’s alienation from but eventual reintegration into society (Buckley 17f.; 1 In the following abbreviated as GE. 2 Marianne Hirsch has noted that British Bildungsromane focus more on “the social problems that impinge on [the protagonist’s] unfolding” than the German novels, which prioritise the individual’s development itself (309). This observation can be seen as an early indication of the genre’s dynamics and flexibility. 3 For a similar reading of the Bildungsroman’s ideological tradition see Felski (133f.).

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Abel et al. 7f.). What this implies is a sense of social conservatism, as the protagonist’s return to the fold seems to affirm existing social norms. The protagonist’s development is marked by a number of events: Frustrated by the formal education he receives at home, he senses that there are more options available to him than those offered by his familiar surroundings (Buckley 17f.; Abel et al. 7f.). Consequently, he moves away from his rural home, usually to the city (London), experiences love relationships, and ultimately returns home (ibid.) Rita Felski notes that the traditional Bildungsroman’s plot proceeds chronologically and teleologically towards a particular goal: the protagonist’s “self‐knowledge” (135). Elizabeth Abel et al. identify agency or the capability “to take care of himself” (8) as another objective. In the process of achieving these aims, the protagonist is supported by mentor or “guardian figures” (Frank 25) and travels in order to broaden his horizon and gain new experiences. Indeed, the concept of travelling or spatial movement is a significant one: his movement between and the successful navigation of new spaces reflects the protagonist’s personal and social development (ibid. 22). Thus, the representation of space functions as a productive and metaphorical characteristic of the Bildungsroman. The fact that the plot is directed towards the protagonist’s ‘self‐knowledge’ is reflected in the Bildungsroman’s narrative situation. Traditionally, Bildungsroman heroes show a profound degree of self‐awareness and share their thoughts and reflections with the reader (Frank 24f.). Thus, the narrative perspective “aims at strong reader involvement and identification with the protagonist (either first‐person narration or a third‐person perspective with frequent focalisation on the protagonist)”, which is likely to support the novel’s ideological framework (Tönnies, “Black British Bildungsroman”). The traditional Bildungsroman therefore seems to mirror conservative values and structures and tellingly concentrates on white, male protagonists who serve as the medium through which these values are communicated. Considering the original genre’s affirmative attitude towards patriarchal, hegemonic social structures, it is particularly striking that the Bildungsroman has since then been appropriated by less dominant groups as a means of potential subversion. An early example of this is the female Bildungsroman. Roughly simultaneously to the traditional male variety, female writers began to make use of the Bildungsroman’s typical patterns in order to highlight the particular obstacles to female development. Even though the term ‘female Bildungsroman’ is one which is not without controversy4 , it is widely used by critics (e.g. McWilliams’s monograph Margaret Atwood and the female Bildungsroman; Labovitz’s The Myth of the Heroine: The Female Bildungsroman in the Twentieth Century, and Gemmeke’s Frances Burney and the female Bil4 For a discussion of the term ‘female Bildungsroman’ see for instance Tönnies (“Black British Bildungsroman”) and Frank (14-28).

6 Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming Genres

dungsroman). Susan Fraiman addresses the theme of female appropriations of the Bildungsroman explicitly when she suggests that “it [the traditional Bildungsroman] is invoked by my women writers only to be broken up and dispersed” (13). Thus, it is generally agreed that the female protagonist’s sex has enormous impact on her development and shapes the narrative (Felski 137; Frank 22f.). To that effect, Elizabeth Abel et al. point out that “while male protagonists struggle to find a hospitable context in which to realize their aspirations, female protagonists must frequently struggle to voice any aspirations whatsoever. For a woman, social options are often so narrow that they preclude explorations of her milieu” (6f.). As a reaction to such gender‐related obstacles and limitations, female Bildungsromane tend to offer more critical perspectives on existing hierarchies and structures. In contrast to the traditional male Bildungsroman, female varieties do not necessarily share the former’s linear teleology. Instead, especially the early forms of the genre show a developmental course which is rather “conflicted” (Abel et al. 11). Other (often later) female Bildungsromane however display protagonists whose development runs similar to the male model (Abel et al. 13; Frank 26). Still, what clearly distinguishes the female Bildungsroman from the traditional male variety is the fact that it “embraces a much wider range of ages” (Felski 137). The female protagonist’s development usually starts later in life when she is already married. This shift can probably be traced back to contemporary gender roles, which placed much emphasis on marriage. These differences in plot development are also mirrored in the choice of protagonists. Susan Fraiman remarks that female Bildungsromane often feature a “‘major’ narrative” which is decentred “by alternative stories of female destiny” (10), thereby assuming the shape of what has been termed a ‘dual Bildungsroman’ (Tönnies, “Black British Bildungsroman”; Stein 26). What is characteristic of dual Bildungsromane is that they present the reader with two protagonists whose developmental journeys are linked but also contrasted. While one protagonist is likely to succeed at least to some extent, the other serves as a foil character and fails in her aspirations, or lacks aspiration at all (Abel et al. 12). The focus on more than one protagonist is also illustrated by the fact that female Bildungsromane often aim at “community and empathy” (ibid. 10). Thus, the scope of mentor figures, who are typical of the traditional Bildungsroman, is extended to include a “female community” or “sisterhood” (Frank 24, original emphasis) as a support network for female protagonists. It is probably also because of the greater number of protagonists that female Bildungsromane broaden the range of narrative perspectives. In addition to the homodiegetic perspectives usually employed in traditional Bildungsromane, the female variety also includes heterodiegetic narrators (ibid. 28). Gender‐related constraints are likely to be responsible for another characteristic of the female variety. Focusing on early female Bildungsromane, Susan Fraiman states that spatial movement was limited for the protagonists and links this ob-

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servation to contemporary gender roles and expectations (7). As stated previously with regard to plot development in the context of the genre’s evolution, it is likely that changed social circumstances in the late 20th century, which were more accommodating towards gender equality, had an impact on the protagonists’ scope of movement. Nonetheless, Merle Tönnies explains that “the correspondence between spatial and mental movement is often less clear‐cut in the female Bildungsroman” (“Black British Bildungsroman”). What seems to be of particular significance in terms of female mobility is the protagonist’s movement from the private or domestic sphere into public space (Felski 135-137). In contrast to the male Bildungsroman, the heroine in the female variety often only has limited access to the public sphere, which makes that particular step “far more liberating than is the case for the male Bildungsroman protagonist, who possesses from the start a more confident sense of self” (ibid., original emphasis). Thus, while spatial movement does not seem to be as broad and metaphorical as in the traditional variety, the female Bildungsroman still highlights the importance of mobility – possibly equated with increased public visibility – for the protagonist. When examining the characteristics of the female Bildungsroman as outlined above, one can observe a rather diverse and ambiguous form which highlights gender‐related constraints. This is also true for the ending of such novels. Tobias Frank remarks that particularly the female Bildungsromane of the 19th and early 20th century hardly ever reached a positive ending for the protagonist (25). Indeed, he points out that many of the female protagonists eventually turn hysterical or lunatic, or even die (ibid. 26). However, even though not all female Bildungsromane do necessarily take such a dramatic and fatal turn, their endings still remain “ambivalent” (Labovitz 6). While her male counterpart usually goes back home – signifying “an integration into society which necessitates a more or less resigned acceptance of the existing social order” – the female Bildungsroman protagonist does not simply return and subject herself to the status quo (Felski 137). Instead, her journey is likely to “constitute[…] the precondition for oppositional activity and engagement” (ibid.). In fact, the potentially subversive and critical function of the female Bildungsroman is stressed by numerous critics (e.g. Labovitz 7; McWilliams 34f.; Frank 26; Tönnies, “Black British Bildungsroman”). Rita Felski for instance – whose monograph on the female Bildungsroman is tellingly subtitled Feminist Literature and Social Change – emphasises the genre’s critical preoccupation with gender roles and identities (138). Some novels today categorised as female Bildungsromane caused protest and criticism when they were first published: Anne Brontë’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall5 (1848), which will serve as an example of the female Bildungsroman in the context of the upcoming analysis, was considered “‘coarse’, 5 In the following abbreviated as TWH.

6 Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming Genres

‘revolting’, and ‘vulgar’” by contemporary critics (Cox 30). These reactions can be seen as evidence of the female Bildungsroman’s subversive potential, which reaches beyond the text. Indeed, while the responses mentioned above do not directly seem to contribute to overcoming gender‐related obstacles, Rita Felski suggests that such novels can also have more positively productive effects when she remarks that “[t]he heroine’s new self‐knowledge creates a basis for future negotiation between the subject and society, the outcome of which is projected beyond the bounds of the text” (133). That these effects might also be true for other marginalised groups is indicated by the conceptualisation of personal growth and development as shaped “by many interrelated factors, including class, history, and gender” (Abel et al. 4). In this context, ethnicity can be seen as a new – additional – factor which not only shapes individual development and identity but also finds a literary manifestation in the appropriation of the Bildungsroman genre by black British writers. In contrast to the traditional form’s ideological conservatism and the female variety’s tentative move towards a critical interrogation of society, black British Bildungsromane pronounce their subversive intentions more openly. While Roy Sommer’s term ‘multicultural Bildungsroman’ (Fictions of Migration 110) highlights the fact that the genre has turned to ethnicity as a central concern, Mark Stein goes even further with his conceptualisation of black British Bildungsromane as ‘novels of transformation’ (xii‐xiii). Indeed, he does not simply foreground ethnicity, but links it to the novels’ “transformative potential” (ibid. xiii; 30; 36). Thus, the link between literature and society is particularly strong in black British Bildungsromane. Focusing on novels by black British authors from the late twentieth century,6 Mark Stein explains that such novels “not only describe[…] the protagonists’ formation but also exert[…] textual agency and reveal[…] the transformative potential held by the protagonists” (ibid. xiii). What this implies is that agency – as a typical objective of traditional Bildungsromane – is transferred to a textual level, which might influence readers’ perceptions of social structures and hierarchies. This also becomes obvious by Stein’s remark that such ‘novels of transformation’ are “uniquely suitable for the process of the redefining of Britishness” (ibid. 30). It alludes to the fact that redefinitions of Britishness necessarily take place on a social as opposed to a private level, and that black British Bildungsromane therefore potentially shape British society. These characteristics of the Bildungsroman form position the genre very close to the functions of an interactive heterotopic space. 6 Mark Stein stresses that earlier forms of black British writing such as slave narratives or Sam Selvon’s canonical The Lonely Londoners (1956) had similar functions and also “anticipated […] or were influenced by […] the bildungsroman‐genre” (xiii). With regard to later and contemporary forms however, it can probably be argued that they adopt and appropriate the Bildungsroman genre more consciously.

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Thus, the Bildungsroman – particularly in its black British variety – seems to be an obvious choice for the creation of such a space. It is perhaps due to these subversive or at least destabilising ideological functions that many black British Bildungsromane appear to favour narrative perspectives which create distance to the reader: The more detached the reader is from the protagonist, the more attention and thought will s/he have to invest in the reading process. Confronting readers with unfamiliar perspectives is more likely to support them in critically renegotiating their assumptions than for instance the traditional Bildungsroman’s comfortable representations of the familiar. Thus, many black British Bildungsromane produce distance through the frequent use of a third person narrator who might not necessarily be close to the reader (Tönnies, “Black British Bildungsroman”). A similar effect is achieved by the narrator’s rather ironic or sometimes almost arrogant commentary, which might add an additional level of distance. This can even be observed in black British Bildungsromane with a first‐person narrator, such as Karim, the main protagonist of Hanif Kureishi’s The Buddha of Suburbia7 (1990), which Roy Sommer has referred to as a “prototype”8 of the multicultural Bildungsroman (Fictions of Migration 114). That said, it does perhaps not come as a surprise that the protagonists of black British Bildungsromane do not follow a linear path towards agency, as it is the case in most examples of the traditional form. Similarly to the female form, the black British Bildungsroman plot foregrounds the obstacles which the protagonists face in Britain. This time however, these limitations are not based on gender, but on ethnicity and “racial hostility” (Stein 5). The protagonists – usually adolescent black British males – are concerned with the “need to find their place in a Britain which is not theirs in any straightforward way” (ibid. 35). Foregrounding the fact that their place in Britain is not self‐evident or unproblematic once again alludes to the marginalised social position of the protagonists and at the same time hints at an ending which is usually not unambiguous: They might well “chart their journey”, but in the end they may either “find footsteps in the snow which they follow – or pass over” (ibid.). In this sense, black British Bildungsromane are reminiscent the genre’s female variety. The frequent use of the terms ‘place’, ‘way’, ‘journey’, and ‘footsteps’ in Mark Stein’s theorisation of novels of transformation mentioned above highlights the importance of space and mobility for the black British Bildungsroman. Merle Tönnies points out that “there is a movement away from the protagonist’s original 7 In the following abbreviated as BS. 8 The respective chapter in Sommer’s monograph is entitled “‘But the individual voice is important too, isn’t it?’: Hanif Kureishis The Buddha of Suburbia (1990) und The Black Album (1995) als Prototypen des multikulturellen Bildungsromans”, which translates as “‘But the individual voice is important too, isn’t it?’: Hanif Kureishi’s The Buddha of Suburbia (1990) and The Black Album (1995) as prototypes of the multicultural Bildungsroman.”

6 Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming Genres

surroundings in the direction of the white establishment. Usually, he cannot position himself securely there but nevertheless has a certain destabilising effect on entrenched views and positions” (Tönnies, “Black British Bildungsroman”). Thus, readers can observe movement and development, but neither is sure to be successful. In contrast to traditional Bildungsromane, the protagonist’s mobility does not include his return home. Rather, many black British Bildungsroman plots see him move from the suburbs to London (Stein 25)9 . What is particularly significant in this context – and a distinctive characteristic of this form of the Bildungsroman genre – is the protagonist’s movement between different parts or spaces within the city rather than a linear journey (Tönnies, “Black British Bildungsroman”). These spaces “stand for different, often diametrically opposed worldviews and moral positions with which the protagonist is confronted and between which he is unable to decide, leaving him both spatially and ideologically ‘in transition’ throughout the plot” (ibid.). It can therefore be said that the protagonist’s journey mirrors his development metaphorically: Both his social position or identity, as well as his spatial position are insecure and ambiguous. Still, it is exactly this insecurity and the rejection of the comfortably affirmative ending of the traditional Bildungsroman which might shape the reading process and produce the desired ‘transformative effect’ on the reader. In a development which appears reminiscent of the emergence of the early female Bildungsromane, black British women started to employ typical Bildungsroman patterns and elements as well. Merle Tönnies refers to such novels as ‘female Black British Bildungsromane’ (“Feminizing” 60 and Tönnies, “Black British Bildungsroman”) and conceptualises them as works which share certain characteristics which can be seen to draw upon, interweave and modify the patterns of the (more) established varieties. The novels combine a focus on gender with profound attention to ethnicity, as their protagonists are always at least potentially at a disadvantage in both respects. (“Black British Bildungsroman”) What is striking with regard to female Black British Bildungsromane is the fact that they foreground the particular situation of ‘black’ women in Britain. Not only do they face challenges because of their ethnicity (a problem they share with the protagonists of male black British Bildungsromane) but also because of their gender (which was also the centre of the Bildungsromane by white female authors). It is probably no coincidence that female Black British Bildungsromane began to 9 However, Stein also points out that there are other models of spatial mobility, such as a move from the country to London or a move away from London to another country (25), as well as two centres of equal importance (ibid. 43). Once again, these circumstances can be seen as examples of the genre’s diversity.

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manifest themselves in the literary landscape in the aftermath of two central cultural developments: Stuart Hall’s ‘politics of representation’ and the third wave of feminism. Rather than insisting on one homogeneous ‘black’ group, Stuart Hall emphasises that black British cultural politics have moved towards an understanding of identity and ethnicity which is based on difference and diversity among non‐white people (“New Ethnicities” 449). Similarly, the third wave of feminism stresses these values as well (Budgeon 4f.). Someone who has highlighted the specific obstacles arising from the interplay of ethnic and gender‐related limitations is Kimberlé Crenshaw10 . Criticising the “failure to attend to the various ‘differences’ that characterize the problems and predicaments of different groups of women” (4), she introduces the metaphor of an intersection of factors such as gender and ethnicity: “traffic flows simultaneously from many directions”, which puts non‐white women in a particularly dangerous situation because they are often positioned at intersections where “racism or xenophobia, class and gender meet. They are consequently subject to injury by the heavy flow of traffic traveling along all these roads” (Crenshaw 8, original emphasis)11 . Thus, non‐white women are likely to face multiple forms of discrimination. Indeed, this observation can also be made with regard to female Black British Bildungsromane. Multiplicity is not only introduced on a thematic level, but also in terms of plot and narrative perspective. Merle Tönnies notes that the female Black British varieties tend to share the (earlier) white female Bildungsromane’s dual plots (“Black British Bildungsroman”). The impact of intersecting forces such as gender, ethnicity, and sometimes also others such as class, is foregrounded by the fact that the two protagonists appear to move in opposite directions: They “regularly start off in very similar conditions, as members of the same family or of a circle of friends, but then embark on diametrically opposed paths” (Tönnies, “Black British Bildungsroman”). The fact that only one of them progresses successfully while the other one fails or stagnates draws particular attention to the social (or personal) factors which might influence their development. Similarly to the male black British protagonist, the female protagonist does not return home either (ibid.). However, she concludes her journey in a position which suggests a positive outcome and can be seen as altogether less ambiguous than in the male black British variety (Sommer, Fictions of Migration 130; Tönnies, “Black British Bildungsroman”). However, regardless of the profound (but not complete) degree of optimism in the novels, they still share 10 Kimberlé Crenshaw writes from a judicial and an African-American perspective. Nonetheless, her intersectionality approach has become an internationally established (though not uncriticised) concept in sociology. 11 Virginia Woolf’s essay A Room of One's Own (1929) might probably be read as an earlier, well‐known example of how intersectionality can influence women’s position in society: her focus on material independence draws attention to both gender and class (e.g. 10f.).

6 Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming Genres

the transformative potential typical of male black British Bildungsromane (Tönnies, “Black British Bildungsroman”). The reasons for the unsuccessful protagonist’s lack of positive development as well as questions regarding the price of the other woman’s success remain prevalent. It is probably exactly this openness to different readings which encourages and thereby potentially instigates processes of transformation beyond the text. Since female Black British Bildungsromane often contain two plots and highlight multiple constraints to successful female development, it does perhaps not come as a surprise that they present readers with more diverse narrative perspectives which potentially establish closeness to the reader (Tönnies, “Feminizing” 54; Tönnies, “Black British Bildungsroman”). In fact, “the recipient usually has a direct insight into both women’s minds” (Tönnies, “Black British Bildungsroman”). Interestingly however, the narrative appears to favour the successful protagonist’s perspective so that she is closer to the reader than the other woman (Tönnies, “Black British Bildungsroman”). This is also true for Vivien and Olive, the protagonists of Andrea Levy’s Never Far From Nowhere12 (1996), an example of the female Black British Bildungsroman which will be used as a background against which the novels at the centre of this chapter will be compared. Multiplicity can also be found with regard to the use of space. Unlike the male black British form, the female variety does not necessarily prioritise London as a centre. Rather, the female protagonists’ movements are more diverse (Tönnies, “Black British Bildungsroman”). However, a feature it shares with the male black British Bildungsroman is the fact that space once again serves as an indicator of the protagonists’ development (ibid.). Thus, the female Black British Bildungsroman seems to be an excellent example of a dynamic which Dell Hymes has referred to as the “relationship” of a particular text to a genre (qtd. in Frow 23): the process in which a text employs and combines different genre characteristics. It establishes similarities to but also differences from previous forms of the genre and therefore represents the Bildungsroman’s inherent potential for productivity. Merle Tönnies emphasises that especially young authors use the Bildungsroman form to highlight concerns which they deem important (“Black British Bildungsroman”). Considering the increasing Islamophobic rhetoric in Britain and other parts of the world, it might therefore seem only natural that British Muslim writers make use of the Bildungsroman to highlight religion‐related obstacles and discrimination.

Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming the Bildungsroman There are a number of features which link Leila Aboulela’s novel Minaret and The Road from Damascus by Robin Yassin-Kassab to the Bildungsroman genre, and in12 In the following abbreviated as NFFN.

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deed, both have been read as Bildungsromane by critics (Moore 68; Rashid 94; Rettberg 184; Ilott 27). What sets them apart from previous examples of the genre is the fact that they communicate ideological implications which are linked to the role of Islam in British society. As such, they do not simply use the Bildungsroman to convey a perspective which is potentially unfamiliar to many readers, but they do so by interacting creatively and productively with that particular genre. Because of their generic structure and signals, the novels first of all provide the reader with a sense of orientation and familiarity. However, this familiarity is frequently destabilised by transformations of the genre’s typical patterns and structures, which encourage an active reading process. In fact, creating unfamiliar familiarity is of utmost significance with regard to the formation of an interactive heterotopic space, and in this case, it is the form of the Bildungsroman genre which facilitates this creation. Mark Stein’s emphasis on the Bildungsroman’s transformative effect on both the protagonist and British society in general is reminiscent of what Wolfgang Iser has defined as a central element in the process of interaction between reader and text: “the reader is to acquire a sense of discernment 13 , and this evidently requires the ability to abstract oneself from one’s own attitudes – an ability brought about by stepping back from one’s own governing forms of orientation” (187, original emphasis). Approaching the concept of an interactive heterotopic space from the perspectives of Stein and Iser illustrates why the Bildungsroman genre with its ideological functions and social implications is highly suitable for the creation of such a space. The present chapter aims at investigating the textual strategies which establish unfamiliar familiarity and thereby open up an interactive heterotopic space in which the novels’ heterotopic potential for transformation might be realised in the reader. Reader Identification Revisited: Narrative Perspective and Character Representation When it comes to the Bildungsroman genre’s shifting ideological functions, the degree of reader identification plays a significant role. While the traditional form prioritises closeness between reader and protagonist in order to promote social conservatism, the black British variety often includes distance, which is likely to increase the intricacy of the reading process and potentially challenges the reader to renegotiate preconceived structures. This is achieved through narrative perspectives – particularly focalisation – which either support or prevent the reader’s access to the protagonist. Besides, closeness or distance also depend on the (self-) representation of the protagonist, because the reader’s sympathy and identification are likely to be reduced if the protagonist appears unlikeable. The Road from 13 Iser’s ‘sense of discernment’ recalls the didactic function which critics have in the past frequently associated with the Bildungsroman genre (e.g. Felski 137 and Tönnies, “Black British Bildungsroman”).

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Damascus engages with these familiar patterns in a complex way, which ultimately introduces an additional and potentially broadened perspective on processes of exclusion and integration. In Robin Yassin-Kassab’s novel, the reader is confronted with a protagonist who shares some of the features of other traditional Bildungsroman characters like Pip in Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations: Like him, Sami embarks on a process of self‐discovery which challenges him in many ways, and he becomes entangled in conflict with authorities in the widest sense. Already on the first page, the narrator explains that Sami has travelled to Damascus to “reconnect with his roots; remember who he was; find an idea” (RD 1). Thus, the reader is made aware of the fact that Sami is in an identity crisis, with the verb ‘remember’ specifying that he has apparently lost his identity. Before that, his identity is described to have been rather stable and the result of careful consideration: “Black music, Arabism and poetry: these were what he considered himself to be made of” (ibid. 15). Thus, the reader initially recognises a number of familiar patterns which might raise particular expectations as to plot development and outcome. However, even though Sami’s journey continues to contain typical or familiar elements, this familiarity is broken up soon afterwards so as to engage the reader in an active reception process. Divergence from previous Bildungsromane is introduced on a meta‐level early on in the novel. The narrator remarks that Sami had expected his life to develop similarly to that of a typical film protagonist. More generally, Sami’s expectations can also be read as the plot of a traditional Bildungsroman such as Dickens’s Great Expectations: Each film followed a particular pattern. We find our hero in a mysterious, problematic world. Conscious of his weakness, he grows in strength and knowledge, winning love and admiration along the way, until he forces an explosive climax. Victory is his (and therefore ours). The death star is destroyed. The world set to rights. (RD 32) Becoming more specific, the narrator reports Sami’s thoughts as follows: “he’d travel around the world, learn to speak the major languages, have all manner of tropical adventures” and he would become “better than his father. Leaping forth from the giant’s shoulders, he’d go further” (RD 32)14 . This account is highly reminiscent of the traditional (white/male) Bildungsroman and alludes to both its typical plot development as well as the genre’s ideological function (‘Victory is his [and 14 Interestingly, this illustration is reminiscent of Jerome Buckley’s well‐known conceptualisation of the traditional Bildungsroman, which stresses an initial “hostile” environment, the protagonist’s awareness of the “options not available to him”, “love affairs”, an important decision “after painful soul‐searching”, and a return home “to demonstrate by his presence the degree of his success or the wisdom of his choice” (17f.).

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therefore ours]’). Significantly, however, soon afterwards the narrator reveals that “[t]his little Sami felt to the adult Sami like his dead, innocent child, buried in the blind years” (RD 33), which implies that Sami’s life has turned out differently. Thus, the novel appears to encourage a conscious preoccupation with the Bildungsroman format. Adding a metafictional level to the narrative is likely to remind readers of the familiar Bildungsroman genre and potentially instigates an investigation of Sami’s development against the background of this particular literary form. While Pip, for instance, returns home, is reconciled with his stepfather Joe and the lifestyle he represents, and has reason to hope for a future with Estella15 (GE 550-554), Sami moves away from his father’s values. Even though he returns to his wife spatially and makes up with his mother, his social and ideological position has changed profoundly. Thus, emphasising the fact that Sami’s life fails to mirror the typical patterns of other Bildungsromane destabilises the initial sense of familiarity and potentially questions the traditional Bildungsroman’s conservative ideological function. When one goes beyond the metafictional level described above, the narrative’s interaction with the Bildungsroman genre and particularly with the familiar pattern of closeness and identification through the representation of the protagonist and the narrative situation becomes still more pronounced. It is safe to say that Sami can be described as an anti-Bildungsroman‐hero and instead appears more reminiscent of black British Bildungsroman protagonists such as Hanif Kureishi’s Karim. Both Karim and Sami strive for social acceptance and integration by pursuing careers in areas which are usually considered part of the white middle‐class, such as the theatre and academia. However, irrespective of their (lack of) success – Karim moves on to work in a soap opera, which can be seen as a less prestigious acting career, while Sami fails in his professional endeavour and gives up academia –, both make dubious choices and compromise themselves and their loved ones. Karim, for instance, betrays his friend Changez when he cheats on the latter with his wife and uses him against his will as inspiration for the role of a stereotypical Indian immigrant in a London theatre production. Significantly, the fact that Changez afterwards interprets Karim’s performance as “fundamentally autobiographical” (BS 231) illustrates the ironic perspective on Karim which the narrative adopts. Sami displays a degree of immoral and selfish behaviour equal to Karim’s: Upon his arrival in London after a long trip to Syria, he does not go straight home to this wife Muntaha but instead spends the money she earned and deposited for 15 Interestingly, Dickens originally finished the novel on a rather pessimistic note which did not see Pip and Estella reconciled. His letters suggest that he changed the original ending to a happier one in order to meet the expectations of his Victorian readership (E. D. H. Johnson par. 28). Dickens’s decision illustrates the fact that genre conventions create a sense of familiarity which potentially reassures and guides readers during the reading process.

6 Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming Genres

him on drinks and visits to a strip bar (RD 25-29). Later on, he cheats on her with a woman whose name he does not even know (ibid. 165). The fact that Muntaha is probably the most likeable and positive character in the novel might make Sami’s treatment of his wife appear even more despicable and is likely to draw a negative image of him in the eyes of many readers. In addition to his adultery, Sami is presented as an irresponsible consumer of drugs (ibid. 157; 165) who lives off his wife’s money and refuses to add to the household income (47). Moreover, he behaves rudely towards others on a number of occasions (e.g. 178). The negative impression of Sami is supported by comments made by the narrator. In contrast to Pip, who also exhibits errors of judgement and moral failures but looks back at his younger self in the self‐reflexive manner which is typical of the traditional Bildungsroman hero, Sami’s level of self‐awareness is more ambiguous and resembles that of Karim. While Pip becomes aware of his “deficiencies” (GE 235) and, looking back, realises that he had “disguised [his newly gained money and position’s influence] from my [Pip’s] recognition as much as possible” (GE 312), access to Sami’s thoughts and feelings are always mediated by the narrator. Remarks like “[p]oor Sami felt very sick” (RD 177) appear ironic or sarcastic and expose Sami’s immaturity and self‐centredness. Once again using Muntaha as a foil, the narrator’s description of Sami’s crapulousness is accompanied by the comment “[p]oor suffering Sami” (RD 95) and then contrasted with an account of Muntaha’s preparations for breakfast and her concern for Sami (ibid.). Thus, it is not only his behaviour but also the narrative situation which shapes the reader’s perception of Sami and is likely to create distance from him. At the same time however, this distance is at least partly broken up, which will be illustrated in the following. A closer examination of the narrative situation reveals how closeness and distance are intercut in The Road from Damascus. While Sami serves as the main protagonist of the narrative and the heterodiegetic narrator concentrates mostly on him, there are frequent shifts in focalisation which present the reader with “often clashing views of Islam” (Chambers 121). This is a feature which is rather atypical of the Bildungsroman and distances Yassin-Kassab’s work from novels like Great Expectations or The Buddha of Suburbia and their focus on one particular protagonist. Even the number of perspectives in the female variety is usually limited to two or three. In this case however, the reader is not only presented with Sami’s point of view but also with those of various other protagonists, particularly Muntaha. Consequently, both identification with and closeness to one particular protagonist are reduced, which constitutes an effect that is pivotal for the entire narrative and its ideological function. In addition to Sami and – to a slighter degree – Muntaha, other perspectives include Muntaha’s father Marwan (who dies in Chapter 13), her colleague Gabor and, though only very briefly, her brother Ammar and stepmother Hasna. Significantly, each perspective represents a form of believing or Islam, and

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therefore a degree of multiperspectivity is established, which sets the novel apart from other Bildungsromane. For Hasna and particularly Marwan, religious belief is something pragmatic and related to community and social tradition, which leads Claire Chambers to conclude that “his [Marwan’s] faith develops into a conservative nostalgia” (“Sexy Identity-Assertion” 127). Marwan’s disappointment about his life in England (“He cast bitter glances at the imperial centre, at Buckingham Palace and Whitehall, the great museums and opera houses, at banks, theatres, department stores. Why don’t we live like this?”, RD 74, original emphasis) has developed into “a sense of perspective” (RD 74): The narrator remarks that [h]e attended the local mosque. He bowed like the others – the Turks, Indians, Nigerians – prayed as he’d been taught as a boy, before abstraction set in. His prayer was not meditation, but a habit establishing itself, a practice and a rhythm, the string attaching him to his place in the city. (RD 74f.) His second wife Hasna “was proposed to him” at Regent’s Park mosque (RD 80) – a circumstance which emphasises the social dimension of Islam. In fact, their social life is mostly centred around the mosque, while the rest of London is presented in a rather bleak light: Marwan retreats to one of the city’s parks in order to “excuse himself from the café’s frivolity or from the corruption of the streets” and read Arab newspapers (ibid. 80). “Then he would awake from kinder parallel worlds into a brief bitterness, sour and cramped, before he remembered himself, stood up, and limped towards the nearest mosque” (ibid.). In the subsequent chapter, this version of Islam, as represented by Marwan and, though less explicitly, Hasna, is contrasted to Muntaha’s version. She too “realized she fitted into a community” (RD 92) and is proud of her Muslim background. However, directly afterwards the narrator implies that Marwan’s attitude towards Islam is not inclusive enough: “But more than that, it [her faith] was the settling of her sense of wonder” (ibid. 93). Quoting from a prayer which emphasises the importance of worshipping only out of love for God rather than for other, external purposes, the narrator concludes: “Muntaha worships like that. Maybe there are Muslims who believe because they’re afraid, or because they want what they don’t have, but not her. For her, belief is only the expression of wonder” (ibid.). The fact that the chapter which depicts Marwan’s Islam explicitly references his reasons for believing and is then directly followed by one which focuses on Muntaha’s motives is significant: Not only are their perspectives contrasted, but the narrator’s judgemental remarks foreground Muntaha’s perspective. Marwan’s Islam is presented as justified and comforting, but also as passive and too simplified. A similar effect can be observed with regard to Muntaha’s brother Ammar. His Islam is portrayed as rather aggressive and, concluding from his enthusiastic reaction to the 9/11 attacks (e.g. 317), even extremist. While Ammar’s prayer is a “mili-

6 Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming Genres

tary delivery: a long sura barked fast” (RD 222), “Muntaha’s prayers are much more peaceful than those of the men in her life. When she prays, her heart is a shining mirror reflecting the light of God” (ibid. 232). A chapter which is fittingly called “Brother and Sister” contrasts Muntaha’s Islam to that of her brother Ammar even more explicitly. After Muntaha and Sami’s (temporary) breakup, Ammar comes to lecture her on her behaviour: He asks her not to meet her colleague Gabor and wants her to “[s]tick with your husband, with your Muslim man” (RD 227). Muntaha, on the other hand, contradicts his anti-Semitic rants and questions his extremist views: The narrator describes that Ammar “blindly, for the sake of his pride, down this doomed leaden road of contradiction” (ibid. 229) believes that Muslims have been divided by “‘[t]he English, the Jews, the Christians, America’” (ibid.). Muntaha feels pity for him, but also contradicts his line of argument: ‘I mean, the Jews invented the Shia? It’s ridiculous. You should read some history books.’ Which does the trick. ‘So you believe what they write in their books?’ he says. ‘Sister, they’re taking you for a ride.’ ‘For God’s sake.’ Relief breezes through her. ‘You read more than one book and make your own mind up. If you don’t want to read their books, improve your Arabic and read ours. For God’s sake.’ (RD 230) This conversation not only creates another bias towards Muntaha’s position, but also draws attention to the multiple and almost equally prominent perspectives which characterise the novel’s narrative situation in contrast to most other Bildungsromane16 . Another perspective is contributed by Muntaha’s teacher colleague Gabor. Even though he refers to himself as an “agnostic” in an encounter with Ammar (RD 237), Gabor appears intensely interested in Islam. The narrator reveals potential reasons for his interest: “he’d contracted a disease from the east. A disease called Muntaha” (ibid. 189). Mentioning both a ‘disease’ and the ‘east’ alludes to the fact that Gabor’s interests in Islam is not completely genuine. Seen from Gabor’s perspective, Islam serves as an inspiration for his art: He claims that the Islamic “doctrine of tawheed. Unity underlying variety” (RD 140) influences his paintings, and that Muntaha is his “muse” (ibid.). Thus, his interest in Islam seems to be closely linked to Muntaha. This is also emphasised when he admits that he “thought of saying he was a Muslim, in the true linguistic sense of ‘one who submits’. He’d been preparing to tell Muntaha that anyway. ‘One who accepts’ is better, one who accepts reality, because in Islam God is the Real, the True” (ibid. 237). Initially, Muntaha enjoys their conversations and even invites him to her late father’s wake while Sami is away on a drug‐fuelled trip through London. However, it soon becomes obvious that his obsession with Islam and Muntaha derives from a 16 Meera Syal’s 1999 novel Life Isn’t All Ha Ha Hee Hee is a notable exception as it presents the reader with the stories of three British-Asian friends.

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“predatory orientalism” (Jaggi par. 6). Gabor is convinced that Muntaha will spend the night with him once she has seen his Islam‐inspired paintings. Once again linking Muntaha to the ‘east’, the narrator reports Gabor’s thoughts as follows: “A woman like that, when she chooses to unlace herself, fireworks are expected. Fireworks from the east. There is nothing prudish in Islam. Gabor had thoroughly researched it” (RD 285). It becomes clear that Gabor’s interest in Muntaha – and in Islam – is based on what Meyda Yeǧenoǧlu has referred to as the “uniform association established” between the Orient and sexuality (Colonial Fantasies 25). When he suspects that she neither accepts nor encourages his advances, he puts this down to her “strangeness” which “was erotic, and it was terrible” (RD 291). He goes on: The thing about Arabs – they’re freakish. […] They’re like aliens wearing human masks. He feels affection for this […]. And Muntaha – she’s rich in freakishness, her nose, mouth, in particular her eyes, big like baby eyes, and bigger top to bottom than side to side. A Disney dream of eyes. And her eyebrows like fur, like things borrowed from a black cat’s back. (RD 291) He continues his description of her appearance in a similar style until the narrator concludes ironically: “If Gabor has exaggerated, it’s her Arab face that has made him do so” (RD 291). Once Muntaha has rejected him (“I like you as a colleague. I thought you were interested in Islam. That’s all”, RD 292), he walks home disappointed and reverts to common prejudices against Muslims: Gabor “[w]alked home, checking his shoulder for the deracinated Muslims who might spill up from Brick Lane” (ibid. 293). The narrator cynically summarises: “It was just him. Gabor and his imaginings” (ibid.), which might not only refer to the fact that he spends the night alone without Muntaha but also that his interest in Islam is not authentic and genuine. Rather, it was constructed and tailored according to what he imagined Muntaha would expect of him. Consequently, the reader is once again presented with a version of Islam which is ultimately discarded as insubstantial. At the same time, up to his unsuccessful advances, Gabor served as an interlocutor with whom Muntaha discussed her faith and understanding of Islam. Her remarks like for instance “doctrine is secondary to faith. And doctrine is open to interpretation” (RD 145), or “Muslims should read better. They should be less literal about everything” (ibid. 146) again foreground the importance and value of different perspectives. Thus, it has become clear that The Road from Damascus integrates a number of different perspectives which represent Islam in varying, often opposing ways17 . It is well possible that readers are more familiar with some of these perspectives than with others. However, regardless of individual agreement with or rejection of one of 17 Referring to The Road from Damascus as “a novel of ideas”, Claire Chambers also points to the fact that “its Muslim characters enunciate diverse and often clashing views of Islam” (“Sexy IdentityAssertion” 121).

6 Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming Genres

them, the reader is encouraged to adopt a comparative perspective. Using Muntaha as a central reference, the narrative interweaves her position with the other protagonists in the novel. Her point of view is contrasted to those of her father and stepmother, her brother and her colleague. Their versions of Islam appear evasive and simplified, aggressive and extremist, as well as uncommitted and patronising, while Muntaha’s is, quoting from Yassin-Kassab’s own commentary on his writing, “the most balanced” and “tolerant” one (Yassin-Kassab “Islam in the Writing Process” 141). Still, regardless of Muntaha’s central role in the narrative, it is Sami who serves as the novel’s main protagonist. In contrast to the other perspectives, Sami starts out as an atheist and rejects religion in general. While the others interact with Islam throughout the narrative, Sami only does so once he has lost everything – his academic career, his belief in his father’s ‘grand narrative’, as well as (though only temporarily) his wife and home. It is significant that his development and discovery of Islam takes place away from Muntaha, but that he returns to her in the end as a changed man, adopting a religious faith which is questioning and “trembling” (RD 348) but nonetheless close to his wife’s. In fact, the narrator states that Sami “claimed a doctrine of radical unknowing, and the beginning of acceptance” (ibid. 347). This remark mirrors the novel’s structure which favours pluralism and multiperspectivity. At the same time, his return home to Muntaha and her values – rather than his father’s atheism – carves out the novel’s ideological position. Readers who are familiar with the traditional Bildungsroman form will remember that the ultimate return to a particular location (and person) serves to reaffirm the values for which this space or individual stands. Thus, it is tempting to conclude that it is Muntaha’s perspective which defines the novel’s ‘didactic’ – or potentially transformative – function. It is probably for this reason that the familiar Bildungsroman pattern of closeness to and identification with the main protagonist is interrupted. Supported by the existence of familiar formal features such as the journey motif and Sami’s identity crisis, readers might expect a consistent and determined development towards a particular ideological position. Instead, the frequent shifts in focalisation divert attention away from Sami, whose representation as a rather ambiguous and potentially unappealing character might generally cause doubts about his reliability and world view. Creating distance from the main protagonist and his perspective opens up an interactional heterotopic space in which other perspectives, and particular different versions of Islam, can be explored. Without a prestructured closeness to the main protagonist, readers are encouraged to negotiate their identification with the various perspectives offered in the text. Significantly, these different positions appear to balance each other’s dominance, which means that readers cannot simply align themselves with one protagonist without actively comparing the different perspectives they are confronted with. However, the fact that Muntaha’s view appears to contradict or expand the other protagonists’ positions creates a slight bias

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towards her version of Islam, which foregrounds openness and a critical and reflective interaction with religion. Thus, by modifying the narrative situation with which readers are likely to be familiar from other Bildungsromane, the novel’s structure supports the genre’s ideological function. In Leila Aboulela’s Minaret, the representation of the main protagonist and the novel’s structure also establish a comparative perspective, even though it differs from the one which is created in Yassin-Kassab’s novel. One of the most prominent features of female (Black British) Bildungsromane like Andrea Levy’s Never Far From Nowhere (1996) is a focus on two protagonists whose respective developmental journeys diverge greatly in direction and outcome. A similar structure can be observed in Minaret. Reflecting on the difference between her life in Sudan and Britain respectively, the main protagonist Najwa remarks: “For a brief moment I am not sure who I am, the Najwa who danced at the American Club disco in Khartoum or Najwa, the maid Lamya hired by walking into the Central Mosque one afternoon” (M 110). Najwa seems to think of herself as two different personae: One who lived a secular life in Sudan and one who has embraced her religiousness in England. Significantly, this separation mirrors the secular and religious spheres which are represented as irreconcilable in the novel, while at the same time highlighting the exclusive focus on the individual and his/her relationship to God. Even though Minaret does not present the reader with two physically separate main protagonists and thus might not measure up to the reader’s expectations of a typical double Bildungsroman, the fact remains that Najwa’s ‘splitting’ follows the basic pattern of that particular genre: While one protagonist develops positively, the other stagnates or even falls behind. In Minaret, the religious Najwa, the maid, finds comfort and belonging in religion, which implies an upward movement in terms of spirituality, even though her social position decreases. At the end of the novel, she listens to her friend praying and describes how the words protect her from potential distractions around her: “and then the words come again, pulling me back. No matter what, I will return. This is my base and goal; everything else is variable” (M 275). Like the sound of the azan, the prayer seems to have an almost physical effect on her. Her religiousness not only provides her with grounding and stability but is at the same time contrasted to ‘everything else’, which is described as variable, thus insinuating a sense of transience and superficiality. The passage above indicates that Najwa has found a rather secure space or position for herself. In this sense, her development appears reminiscent of the rather successful Bildungsroman careers which can be found in many of the genre’s female Black British varieties. However, what destabilises this familiarity is the fact that this position is based on the avoidance or probably even renunciation of mainstream society. Unlike for instance Levy’s Vivien, Najwa does not seem to be interested in finding a position for herself in British society. Instead, all she wants is to “become a better Muslim” (M 104), which implies that success is

6 Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming Genres

measured on a completely different scale than in other Bildungsroman varieties. In contrast to Najwa’s preoccupation with her exclusively Muslim identity, Vivien, the positively developing protagonist of Never Far From Nowhere, defines her identity in social terms and therefore more conventionally: “‘My family are from Jamaica. […] But I am English’” (NFFN 282).18 Thus, while previous Bildungsromane constitute social belonging as the ultimate goal that is either achieved or at least longed for, Minaret promotes something else: society is replaced with religion, which implies that the success of the protagonist’s development is defined in terms of religious – as opposed to social – belonging19 . This evolution of the genre becomes even more pronounced when looking at the metaphorical ‘second’ protagonist in Minaret, the secular Najwa who ‘danced at the American Club disco’. In contrast to Najwa’s spiritual development, there is a stagnation or even downward movement in terms of her social position. This is for instance emphasised by the frequent references to the fall that has brought her “down in the world” (M 1). Even more explicitly, when she compares her life in London to that of a friend from the mosque who tells her about her plans to attend university, she admits that she is “touched by her [friend’s] life, how it moves forward, pulses and springs. […] I circle back, I regress; the past doesn’t let go. It might as well be a malfunction, a scene repeating itself, a scratched vinyl record, a stutter” (M 216). Once again, both form and content evoke a familiarity which makes the reader feel confident with regard to the plot’s outcome. However, this familiarity is then broken by a partial subversion of the established dual structure. In terms of structure, already the fact that the second plot contains the protagonist’s social descent focuses the reader’s attention on the patterns of the Bildungsroman. As they develop in diverging directions, the contrast between secular and religious Najwa forces the reader to compare the two of them, and it is only through a comparative perspective that the full potential of the strategy is realised. Comparing Najwa’s secular and religious development foregrounds the novel’s “didactic meaning” (Nash, Anglo-Arab Encounter 145), that is religion’s positive effect on Najwa and the comfort it offers her. At the same time, the reader is directed to what the socially descended Najwa seems to lack: religiousness and a life which observes the rules of Islam. Unlike Lindsey Moore, who suggests that the two versions of Najwa are ultimately reconciled (76), the present work argues that they are represented as 18 Dave Gunning reads Vivien’s answer rather negatively. In his eyes, it is not “a confident assertion of the unique individual she has become, but rather a further compromise in accepting a palatable narrative of her identity” (21f.). However, the fact remains that her remark justifies an outlook which is substantially more optimistic than the endings of male black British Bildungsromane, and at the same time it “remind[s] us that being English is by no means an unproblematic identity” (ibid. 22). 19 Sadia Abbas offers a similar reading when she states that in Minaret, “the only operative category of belonging is Islam” (84).

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mutually exclusive because those versions are linked with particular value judgements and create a bias towards religion. Thus, the dual structure is transformed in a way which foregrounds the novel’s ideological position. In The Road from Damascus on the other hand, the role of religion in society and its function in the context of the Bildungsroman genre is approached differently. Initially, the novel appears to confirm the importance of ‘Bildung’ or education in the widest sense, which is constitutive of other Bildungsromane. Sami firmly believes that “[a]s a proper academic, like his father before him, he’d be able to get it all back on course, his place in the world, his marriage, his mother” (RD 2). It can be seen as a divergent move though that the familiarity created by this quote is destabilised as the narrative continues: In the course of the novel, Sami’s professional aspirations fail and he gives up his plans to become an academic. Significantly however, he does indeed get ‘back on course’, even though not as securely as he had imagined and for a different reason: He finds a new position for himself (even if just a ‘trembling’ one), he is able to rekindle his marriage, and he improves his relationship with his mother after many years of suspended communication. More importantly, his ‘trembling’ position is linked to a careful acceptance of and commitment to religion (RD 348f.). Thus, the account described above puts emphasis on the role religion plays in Sami’s life. And while the novel does not deny or rule out the importance of education – Muntaha’s job as a teacher and Sami’s friendship with the professor Tom Field are evidence of this —, it nonetheless foregrounds religion as an alternative marker of identity. However, in contrast to Najwa, it is Sami’s continuous reflection on religion and particularly his questioning of dogma which becomes part of his sense of religiousness. Thus, the novel can be read as a contrast to Minaret, where religion is presented as the only solution, and education is linked to secularism to an extent which hinders religion. In The Road from Damascus, on the other hand, Sami fails because he has believed in his father and his dominant secular narrative too much, and because he has not constructed an identity which is independent from his father. He has only followed one perspective, rather than broadening his view beyond his father’s dogma. While both novels foreground the importance of religion for the individual protagonist and draw attention to its marginalisation in public discourse, they do so in different ways: In Minaret, society is replaced with religion as the only option available in order to develop successfully, whereas in Yassin-Kassab’s novel, religion is presented as a complementary option. Agency Religion as the only option and the profound impact which the lack thereof has on Najwa becomes a significant motif in Minaret. Najwa’s perceived lack of religion and her social position are represented as part of a chain of cause and effect: Already her remark in the quote above that ‘the past doesn’t let go’ appears to allude to a causal

6 Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming Genres

connection between her past behaviour and her present social situation. Not only does Najwa’s social decline appear to be a logical and necessary “punishment” (M 61) or sacrifice, but her contentment with it also creates the impression of a fatalistic world view. Linking past and present evokes questions of personal responsibility and agency, both of which are central elements to be found in other Bildungsromane and therefore likely to offer a sense of familiarity to the reader. Thus, the transformation of concepts of agency is another strategy which contributes to the creation of an interactive heterotopic space. In this context, a recurring dream becomes an important motif in the course of Najwa’s development: In her dreams, she frequently finds herself back home in Khartoum where she is “luxurious” (M 276) and in a position of “privilege” (M 132) with her parents looking after her while she is sick (M 132f. and 276). Before she turns religious, the dream does not continue but is interrupted from outside, leaving her feeling homesick and upset (ibid. 136f.). At the end of the novel when she is a devout Muslim and has given up her love for Tamer, the dream takes a new turn when Najwa realises that her possessions have been destroyed and are now “in ruins” (ibid. 276). However, she stays calm and considers this to be “a natural decay and I accept it” (ibid.). While the adjective ‘natural’ insinuates a sense of inevitability, Najwa’s remarks that “things that must not be seen, shameful things, are exposed” and that “the crumbling walls are smeared with guilt” (ibid.) recall the causal chain mentioned previously. In fact, what seems to be linked to her family’s social descent is their “possessions” and “valuables” (M 276). This becomes particularly significant when considering the fact that throughout the novel capitalism and materialism are linked to secularism and presented as opposed to a religious lifestyle. Najwa’s dream at the end of the novel may thus suggest that a preoccupation with material goods and a lack of religion lead to a social downfall or might even result in punishment from God. At the same time, this punishment is portrayed as necessary and leading to contentment: It is only when she looks at herself through the eyes of her family and her secular self that she appears to regret her social decline. More significantly, however, she appreciates her fall for religious reasons as it allows her to see more clearly: To the religious Najwa, falling is “comfortable, painless”, and at the bottom she ultimately finds “the truth” (M 240). Thus, Sadia Abbas identifies a “consensually self‐subordinating womanhood” as a central element of Aboulela’s narrative (85). The aspect of punishment is brought up on several other occasions as well: When her father shares his dream of owning a private jet – considering it the ultimate proof of his social and financial success – Najwa remarks retrospectively that “everything started to fall that night” (M 52). In fact, her father is arrested that same night and ultimately executed not long after. She becomes even more explicit when she visits her brother in prison. Najwa observes that “our house was a house where only the servants prayed” (95) and regrets that her family had not behaved

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more religiously: “‘If Baba and Mama had prayed, […] if you and I had prayed, all of this wouldn’t have happened to us. We would have stayed a normal family. […] Allah would have protected us, if we had wanted Him to, if we had asked Him to but we didn’t. So we were punished” (M 95). While this quote once again suggests that her own behaviour and that of her family made God punish them, it is even more significant that this view is in stark contrast to other Bildungsromane. In Minaret, responsibility is transferred to God and it is difficult to perceive Najwa as an active agent. Indeed, in contrast to other female Bildungsromane, Minaret pointedly does not seem to rely on agency as an indicator of the protagonist’s successful development. Najwa remains “passive and naïve” (Hunter 92) most of the time and becomes active only when praying, while earlier Bildungsroman protagonists like Anne Brontë’s Helen on the other hand foreground the importance of agency for successful development. Married to an abusive husband, Helen starts out as “a slave, a prisoner” (TWH 312) but then grows increasingly active and ultimately leaves her husband and works to provide for her son and herself. Even her decision to go back and nurse her dying husband takes place on her terms and serves to illustrate her agency: “‘Nothing persuaded her but her own sense of duty’” (ibid. 359). In this context, Minaret appears to be the direct opposite of the early female Bildungsromane which called for an increase in women’s agency (Felski 133). At the same time, Aboulela’s novel cannot be reconciled with the female Black British varieties either, where social criticism might not be as pronounced as in the earlier female Bildungsromane, but which still consider female agency pivotal in securing a strong social position for the protagonist. Even Olive, the unsuccessful protagonist of Levy’s dual Bildungsroman, attempts to become active and independent by learning how to drive (NFFN 243f.) Although her quest is to no avail – she is wrongfully assaulted by the police (ibid. 258f.) – her aspirations still highlight the significance of agency and responsibility for women’s successful development and integration into society. Consequently, the representation of responsibility and agency in Minaret emphasises the prioritisation of religion over society which could be observed previously: it is the protagonist’s relation to God, and not her engagement or interaction with society that is at the centre of Minaret. Najwa renounces personal agency and instead seems to adopt a perspective which considers the individual unable to define his/her life without relying on divine powers: According to Waïl S. Hassan20 , there is a “complete disavowal of personal liberty as incompatible with Islam, of feminism as a secular and godless ideology, of individual agency in favor of an all‐encompassing notion of predetermination and of political agency as well” (313)21 . Thus, the novel’s modification of the double Bildungsroman structure, 20 Esra Mirze Santesso comes to a similar conclusion (91). 21 Similarly, Eva Hunter argues that Minaret implies that a lack of “outward action” is necessary in order to develop spiritually (96, original emphasis).

6 Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming Genres

its substitution of social with religious belonging as a defining plot element, and its representation of agency all contribute to the overall strategy of defamiliarising the familiar. As a result, the reader is drawn into an active reading process within an interactive heterotopic space. In The Road from Damascus, the reader is confronted with a rather different perspective on agency and personal responsibility. Initially, Sami displays neither agency nor personal responsibility. The narrator foregrounds his father as the reason for his rather passive behaviour. This becomes particularly clear when examining Sami’s response to his academic difficulties: In truth, Sami was an academic only because his father had been. Professor Mustafa Traifi, renowned (to an unheard‐of coterie) author of The Secular Arab Consciousness, the great formulator and compartmentalist of Sami’s youth. Sami following a map that had been drawn for him years before, but not arriving anywhere, floundering in libraries and lecture halls, failing to produce a doctoral thesis. Making him, in his own eyes, not much of a man – unsettled, out of place, unexplained. And he had the feeling that there was a core of truth and direction nearly visible yet decisively hidden, frustratingly, something only noticed in its absence, a purpose for him, somewhere out of reach. And he thought it was his failing, his lack of clear sight, that stopped him from grasping it. He began to despise himself, and his behaviour degenerated. (RD 35, original emphasis) The remark that Sami’s developmental journey was drawn out for him by his father, ‘the great formulator’, suggests that the decision for his career path was not an independent one. Still, rather than broadening his perspective and following the advice offered to him like traditional Bildungsroman protagonists would have done, he blames others, such as his supervisor (RD 34), and, in another ironic turn, even reality: “reality wouldn’t quite submit to his vision” (ibid. 33). However, what has also become clear is that Sami grows in agency and takes responsibility for his own actions once he leaves the ‘path’ set out for him. It is particularly this aspect, the fact that Sami’s agency develops, which can be described as a familiar Bildungsroman pattern known to many readers. When Sarah Ilott emphasises the importance of the absence of Sami’s father for his development of agency, she distinguishes the novel from the black British Bildungsroman. Rejecting the conception of hybrid identities as “a problematically celebrated term for the negotiation of affiliations and identities” (30), she argues instead that particularly Muslim protagonists seek “stable modes of affiliation and identification” (ibid.). With regard to The Road from Damascus, she remarks that Yassin-Kassab draws “on the motif of the absent father to signify the end of a certain form of authority” and emphasises that the representation of Sami’s father is “also symbolic of God, meaning that the moment of death simultaneously signifies the death of grand narratives and meaning” (Ilott 32). However, while Ilott reads

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this as an incentive for Sami to search for a “stable sense of identity” (ibid. 38) rather than a hybrid one (ibid. 30), it is argued here that it is in fact not the search for any form of identity which is foregrounded in The Road from Damascus. Rather, the novel as a whole promotes the questioning of dogma and uncritical acceptance of ‘grand’ or ‘master’ narratives. Agency and responsibility are not presented as means to a particular end, but as an end in themselves. Ilott reads this process of emancipation as a painful one, regardless of its carefully positive outcome (38 and 41). However, what must also be taken into account is the fact that Sami’s ‘painful’ state began long before he lost his belief in his father’s narrative. For many years after his father’s death, Sami held on to his father’s “official version” (RD 334), and throughout this time he felt unhappy and lost, without direction or (academic) success. It is thus not simply his conversion which is painful but – and even more so, it is argued here – the time before that. From the moment when Sami realises that his father’s belief is too simplistic and narrow (and not from the moment of his father’s death, which in fact even strengthens his belief in his father’s secular narrative as a display of loyalty to him), he develops in a positive direction. Once he realises that there are more options available to him than just his father’s position, he prays without the influence of other people’s perspectives for the first time and feels that there is now “something spacious in him” (RD 330). While Ilott sees the moment of Sami’s first independent prayer as one which “figures him as variously dead, fragmented and displaced” (41), this very moment can in fact be read as a positive experience. When the narrator remarks that “he [Sami] speaks from below or above his reason” (RD 330), this is reminiscent of many other instances in the novel when religion is represented productively. Particularly with regard to Muntaha the narrator stresses repeatedly that she transcends her immediate surroundings during prayer and detaches herself from her physical existence. This is presented as a comforting and positive experience. The instance of “splitting” mentioned by Ilott (41) is combined in the novel with the following description: “As many bits of him [Sami] as stars. And a sky containing the stars. He has only a hint of it. Something overarching and complete. […] And afterwards [he] kneels for five minutes, returning to himself. It has made him calm and peaceful. It has opened up something spacious in him” (RD 330). In fact, considering these additional passages, which are not mentioned in Ilott’s reading of that particular occasion, his ‘splintering’ or ‘splitting’ can also be read as a release from the narrow views he has held previously. In this sense, Sami’s conversion is a journey with both setbacks and progress rather than just being a painful process. It is Sami’s previous narrow outlook and his lack of agency which are painful, so that his conversion is a form of liberation and emancipation. What this ultimately suggests is not a search for a stable identity but rather a celebration of multiple perspectives and the importance of questioning dogma, as the end of the novel stresses again:

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For what is he, now? Not much any more. Not Mustafa’s son, nor Marwan’s son‐inlaw. Not the child of corpse dust. Not an academic. Not a member of the eternal Arab nation. So what, then? He’s Nur’s son. Muntaha’s husband. These are facts. But to define himself as other people’s attributes – it isn’t much. Even his name was given to him by other people. In the dead past. So what else? He’s a bit more of a man now. Meaning, a moment of consciousness. Awe and dread. For now, that’s all he can manage. Perhaps it’s enough. (RD 348f.) Even though Sami does not yet have a definite answer to the question ‘So what else?’, the quote suggests that an awareness of his own religiousness and the willingness to interact with it can be seen as a tentative measure of success. In this sense, the novel is reminiscent of the black British Bildungsroman. Kureishi’s The Buddha of Suburbia for instance favours equivocal and complex social positions and identities as well: Like Yassin-Kassab’s narrative, Karim’s story “closes ambiguously with Karim both ‘happy and miserable’” (Ranasinha 62). However, it might perhaps also be possible to observe a subtle divergence from the black British variety: The reference to both happiness and misery not simply implies ambiguity but also judgement: Karim is not yet in a position which can be considered positive. Instead, there is a sense of both incompletion and hope for a more secure identity in the time to come, which is probably why Karim focuses on what might lie ahead: “Perhaps in the future I would live more deeply”, and “it wouldn’t always be that way” (BS 284). The ending in The Road from Damascus on the other hand appears to suggest something else: ‘For what is he, now?’ and ‘For now, that’s all he can manage’ point towards the present rather than the future, and the very last sentence of the quote above even suggests that Sami’s position, instable and unresolved as it is, might actually be sufficient. Significantly, the narrator defines Sami in terms of what he is not – reducing his identity to “a moment of consciousness. Awe and dread” (RD 249). This definition seems to be ‘enough’ for Sami, which implies that the ending might probably even be described as positive. There is no need to create a particular identity, but rather to be in the present moment. Thus, in both Minaret and The Road from Damascus, agency and personal responsibility (and the lack thereof) play a crucial role. Even though they provide the reader with a sense of familiarity, they do not lead to the results many readers might anticipate. Minaret takes a rather radical approach where agency and responsibility are discarded and do not really form part of the narrative. The Road from Damascus, on the other hand, is more subtle in its modification of this particular Bildungsroman pattern: in using the protagonist’s growing agency to question the stability and unchallenged authority of particular perspectives, the narrative creates strong links to the black British variety of the Bildungsroman genre. However, the novel then goes on to slightly intensify the effect which is achieved by the representations of agency in those novels. Sami’s agency allows him to develop in a new direction, but what

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might surprise readers is the fact that his sense of belonging is even more blurred and vaguer than in other black British Bildungsromane: Not only is it defined negatively through what he is not, but it even rejects the national, cultural, or ethnic markers which readers might remember from black British Bildungsromane. Instead, his identity is based on his consciousness, his mere existence, and the feeling of ‘awe and dread’ which characterises his religious experience. At the same time, this ambiguity is portrayed as a positive outcome. It is therefore particularly the unresolved and intangible nature of his final position which might activate the reader to think. What is supported by this is the tendency towards multiperspectivity and critical interaction which can be identified throughout the novel. Thus, both novels are likely to generate readers’ attention and evoke a response which might be shaped by the confrontation with the diverging biases represented in the two narratives: on the one hand, the exclusive focus on one particular form or religion which is promoted in Minaret, and on the other hand The Road from Damascus’s insistence on the importance of questions and multiple perspectives. By integrating agency into the narrative in unfamiliar ways, both novels set out to encourage an active reading process which potentially destabilises exclusionary boundaries within the interactive heterotopic space created by readers’ expectations and the novels’ actual realisation of familiar structures. Space So far it has become clear that religion plays a central role in both novels. In Minaret this role is also mirrored by the selection and representation of spaces in the novel, which – as a typical Bildungsroman technique – represents another strategy to facilitate the creation of an interactive heterotopic space. Already the novel’s very first sentence directs the reader’s attention to this aspect. Najwa’s remark that she has “come down in the world” (M 1, emphasis added) highlights the plot‐defining contrast between a secular or ‘worldly’ lifestyle and a religious one. Besides, her development is located in particular spaces, thereby not simply revealing its nature but also indicating its direction, both of which serve as important elements in conveying a potential ideological function. Thus, as in other Bildungsromane, space is given meaning so as to structure the reader’s perception of the protagonist’s development. This becomes obvious when considering the fact that Najwa’s developmental journey is (involuntarily) set in motion by her move to London – a pattern which might again remind readers of the Bildungsroman. Interestingly, moving from Khartoum to London represents an exchange of one capital for another and therefore does not follow the patterns of a relocation from the countryside to the city or from suburban areas to the centre which can typically be found in black British Bildungsromane. Detaching her development from the new proximity to the centre of society, which would generally be implied in the move to a capital, foregrounds

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that the focus has shifted compared to other Bildungsromane and now lies on religion rather than society. It is however the mere fact that a move away from familiar surroundings has taken place which is likely to remind readers of the Bildungsroman genre and raises expectations with regard to Najwa’s development once she has arrived in London. The Road from Damascus makes use of the familiar journey motif as well: Similarly to other black British Bildungsroman protagonists like Kureishi’s Karim, Sami travels a lot within the city of London. Moreover, he also travels beyond Britain and spends a year visiting Morocco, Bulgaria and Turkey (RD 36), as well as going to Paris on a sabbatical (37). Most significantly, he journeys to Syria, a trip which retrospectively turns out to be revealing with regard to his father’s past and substantially alters Sami’s opinion of him. The significance of this voyage is already alluded to at the beginning of the novel. As stated previously, the narrator provides readers with frequent commentaries on Sami’s actions and thoughts. These include instances of foreshadowing: After he has paid a visit to his mother’s family, who indirectly confront him with the revelation that his father betrayed his mother’s brother to the secret service because of the latter’s affiliation with the Muslim Brotherhood, the narrator phrases the following question: “So nothing wrong in the father‐son relationship. Not until now. Bubbles were rising – marsh gas, deadly methane – from the trowelled‐up earth of Sami’s brain. What could it mean?” (RD 10). What is implied here is that change is about to take place, and that Sami has made an important discovery during his trip, both of which are elements which many readers are likely to identify as Bildungsroman patterns. However, while other Bildungsromane usually contain a plot whose outcome is revealed at the end of the protagonist’s journey, The Road from Damascus reveals the result early on in the novel. Thus, a few lines later this result – a change of Sami’s attitude towards religion – is specified so that readers are able to anticipate the plot’s outcome: There were paths other than the one his father had trodden. Other, but not necessarily mistaken. Paths taken, for instance, by his wife, or by his mother. Other, valid paths. He conceded it just for a few moments. It would take a summertime for the realization to sink into his core, corrosively, like salt into snow. (RD 10f.) The quote above appears to draw readers’ attention towards the bias created throughout the narrative and discloses the direction of Sami’s development: There is not only one particular path to walk on, but rather a multitude of different paths. In fact, the path which Sami’s ‘father had trodden’ represents the exclusively secular world view which he has installed in his son. Since this perspective is relativised so early in the novel and Muntaha’s position is then highlighted instead, the reader is likely to read the novel with these remarks in mind. At the same time, the quote frequently features the noun ‘path’, which appears to be linked to Sami’s development and can be seen as indicative of the novel’s intense concern with

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process rather than result. As pointed out previously, The Road from Damascus – with the title obviously alluding to the motif of movement and development as well – favours a reflexive and critical interaction with questions of faith rather than the strict adherence to rules and dogma. Thus, the representation of movement in the novel is closely linked to its ideological function. Besides, the concept of movement rejects the idea of locating religion or, more specifically, Islam, in particular spaces, which constitutes a contrast to Minaret. When one examines the different spaces to which Najwa is linked, it soon becomes obvious that they do not simply carry meaning but serve as means of fixing religion or secularism in specific locations. In this context, the mosque serves as a central structuring device which provides Najwa with “a sense of security, well‐being and locatedness” (Chambers, “Recent Literary Representations” 184). What is particularly striking is the geographical arrangement of the different London spaces to which Najwa is connected. The novel presents its readers with very specific details such as street names and tube stations, which make it possible to locate the different spaces more or less exactly on a map. Such a map would see Regent’s Park mosque at its centre, with the other spaces either in its immediate surroundings or at least still within the City of Westminster and therefore close by. Najwa’s own flat is in Maida Vale, Paddington, but it is the flat of her employer Lamya where she spends most of her time and meets her love interest Tamer. Lamya’s flat is located on St John’s Wood High Street, which leads directly to Regent’s Park and is thus very close to the mosque. In fact, one of the first things Najwa notices about the flat is that she can see Regent’s Park from the living room window, which means that the mosque is not far away (M 66). Interestingly, her perception of the flat and her new job seems to be intensely shaped by her faith: She is happy that the flat is so close to Regent’s Park because this will give her the opportunity to take Mai, Lamya’s daughter, with her to the mosque so that she can pray there (M 4). Also, she points out Arabic news channels, which might not necessarily be related to Islam but still represent her preoccupation with a culture associated with Islam. What is particularly striking is the fact that Najwa leaves behind all spaces which carry no religious associations. These for instance include the flat and office of her Aunty Eva and Uncle Nabeel who are friends of her late parents. She briefly works in her Uncle’s travel agency near Hyde Park but quits because she does not like it there. Instead, she helps her Aunty, a Syrian Christian, with domestic chores in their house in Pimlico and receives a modest salary. When her Aunty and Uncle move away from London, Najwa is sad but their relocation also constitutes an important step towards her religious development. On the one hand, without their financial support, Najwa has to find work as a maid, which brings her close to Tamer but also to the realisation that her religious development is more important to her than for instance her relationship with Tamer or the other factors which she

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previously described as ‘variable’ (M 275). On the other hand, with her Aunty and Uncle gone her only friend in London is Anwar – and it is not before she has broken up with him that her religious development begins. While her Aunty and Uncle’s flat can be seen as a space which neither actively encourages nor hinders her religiousness, Anwar’s flat in the Borough of Kensington and Chelsea represents an obstacle to it. He is a convinced atheist who refers to religiously dressed women as “disgusting” and “a depressive sight” (M 167), which illustrates that his values are opposed to those of the religious Najwa. Since the reader knows right from the beginning of the novel that Najwa will at some point of the narrative become a devout Muslim, s/he is fully aware of their incompatibility even while Najwa still needs time to see it herself. What she experiences in Anwar’s flat when she asks him about the state of their relationship is almost a moment of epiphany. Not only does he ridicule her for being shocked when she realises that she has forgotten about Ramadan, but he also refuses her when she asks him about their engagement. Following his command to “[g]row up” (M 234), which recalls the traditional Bildungsroman rhetoric of the move away from one’s familiar surroundings in order to find one’s place in society, she picks up her things and goes home (ibid.). Breaking up with Anwar can be seen as metaphorically detaching herself from a secular lifestyle. She is now completely without friends – a circumstance which is represented as being conducive to her religious development: “Slowly, surely I was settling at the bottom. It felt oddly comfortable, painless. It felt like the worst was over. And there, buried below, was the truth” (M 240). What seems to be suggested here is the need to leave everything secular behind in order to adopt a truly religious lifestyle. Besides, the image of settling at the bottom once again evokes the concept of punishment and represents her development in a spatial dimension. The only secular or non-Muslim space which Najwa does not leave behind is the prison where her brother Omar is held. It is located on the outskirts of London at the end of a train journey where “more people get out and hardly anyone boards” (M 91). Najwa wishes she could visit her brother more often but has to rely on him sending her an invitation. It is significant that a prison is a space which is very closely linked to the norms, values and structures of the society it forms a part of. Najwa observes that the prison cannot bring “catharsis” or “purge” (M 193) but is instead convinced that Omar would have been protected from himself if he had been punished “according to the Shariah” (ibid.). Recalling previous references to punishment, she considers her brother’s incarceration a result of their mother’s curse and ultimately a divine intervention: “A son shouldn’t hurt his mother. She cursed you with bad luck and Allah listens to a mother’s prayer” (ibid. 196). What this seems to imply is a priorisation of religious norms and structures over secular ones as for instance in Britain. Besides, hoping for change in a state institution such as a prison or the justice system testifies to her wish to make public space

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in general more religious, as well as to her conviction that everyone would benefit from this transformation. This can be seen as a first, unassertive – and eventually Najwa’s only – move towards calling for social change. Even though she does not become active, her thoughts on the British justice system and the possible effects of Shariah law represent a perspective beyond the very limited personal realm she is usually concerned with. The fact that Najwa appears to move towards society evokes reminiscences of other Bildungsromane but at the same time defamiliarises this familiarity by once again replacing the social with the religious. Similarly to the adaptation of the female Bildungsroman’s double structure, this is achieved through contrast: Omar rejects her call on him to become more religious, telling her that her religious lifestyle is “your business. But I am fine as I am” (M 96). Thus, Najwa and Omar serve as contrastive elements which invite the reader again to adopt a comparative perspective. It is Omar who is in prison, the epitome of social exclusion and punishment, a space which realises or performs the regulative functions of society (Foucault, Discipline 200f.), while Najwa has found belonging in Islam. Linking Omar’s circumstances not simply to secularism but more significantly to his rejection of religion foregrounds Najwa’s perspective. Regardless of whether the reader follows her logic and considers Omar’s imprisonment a result of his lack of religiousness, the text is likely to provoke a response in the reader. Foregrounding her spiritual contentment while also highlighting her brother’s diametrically opposed assessment of his situation can be seen as an attempt to direct the reader’s empathy towards Najwa rather than Omar. The prison is a space which appears in The Road from Damascus as well. While Najwa rules out the possibility that the prison might have any positive effect on her brother, Sami, drugged and drunk, experiences a moment of religious epiphany in it. The narrator remarks that “[f]or the first time in this summer’s story, Sami had come to rest” (RD 181) and emphasises that Sami can now see clearly: “No more of those sensations that he usually employed as a hijab to drape around things‐asthey‐are” (ibid.). The prison seems to be a space which forces him to slow down and reflect: “He’d stopped running. Easier just to sit, in this silence, in this stillness. He slipped behind his breath, but not into oblivion. His silence was warm, not icy. […] He felt he was on the verge of something. The lifting of a veil” (ibid.). Possibly because of the drugs he has taken, Sami hallucinates and sees his late father appearing until he asks him to go away and realises that “[n]othing was left of Mustafa Traifi, it was time to admit that. Time to stop behaving as if his father was still here. And time, therefore, to examine all the superstitions he’d built around his father’s ghost” (RD 183). He identifies those superstitions as a “God fiction” (ibid.) and comes to the conclusion that believing in God would not be wrong, “[p]erhaps not right either. But not wrong” (ibid.). Thus, it can be said that the prison is the place which sets Sami’s interaction with religion in motion. Once again, religious belief is presented as one possibility, which contrasts with Minaret, where Islam is

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the only option. However, an even more significant contrast is established by the fact that Yassin-Kassab’s novel apparently refuses to link religion or secularism to particular spaces. A prison is not necessarily a space which is associated with religion. The choice of space for Sami’s moment of epiphany seems even more unusual when considering the fact that, as an institution, it represents the norms and rules of British society. As pointed out previously in Chapter Three, this society is one which tends to consider Islam a ‘threat’ and is said to establish boundaries which marginalise or even exclude Muslims. Thus, the function ascribed to the prison destabilises these boundaries and is likely to surprise readers so as to provoke a response. Detaching presupposed meaning from particular spaces is a process which can be observed in other cases as well throughout The Road from Damascus. In fact, meaning appears to be shifting. The previous analysis has shown that the different mosques Sami encounters along his journey all represent different stages of his religiousness, and that most of them are too transitory or too conventional for him to develop a positive attitude towards faith. Interestingly however, Sami notices that “[o]ut in nature, prayer felt easy” (RD 347). Consequently, praying and religious commitment are not limited to typically religious spaces like the mosque throughout the novel but can also take place in more or less unusual spaces. Muntaha, for instance, who is generally presented as the most positively religious protagonist, is never seen praying at the mosque but instead feels comfortable doing so at home (e.g. 48; 109; 232). In fact, Sami and Muntaha’s home is an essential space with regard to Sami’s development and the representation of religion in general. Initially the house is divided into separate “spheres of influence” (RD 41) which represent the strict boundaries he has set up for himself and which ultimately not only estrange him from his wife but also prevent him from developing a more positive attitude towards other people’s perspectives. While it is never mentioned whether this spatial separation is resolved after Sami and Muntaha have made up, it becomes clear that they are now much closer to each other and pray together (RD 347), and that Sami has given up his exclusively secular world view which formed an integral part in the spatial division. Thus, it seems justified to assume that the dissolution of the boundaries on the level of their relationship has also changed the spatial divisions in their home. The representation of spaces therefore mirrors the bias towards openness and the ongoing process of negotiating different perspectives which can also be found in the novel’s other strategies used to create an interactive heterotopic space. Minaret, on the other hand, contains spatial representations which tend to promote fixed and stable meanings rather than shifting ones, as well as a narrow scope of movements within these spaces. This scope becomes even more limited once Najwa has left secular or nonMuslim spaces behind. In contrast to the linear movement and development to be observed in traditional Bildungsromane, her movement seems to be circular, which

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is reminiscent of her circling back and regressing mentioned earlier (M 216). What is striking is that even Najwa’s movements between this very restricted number of spaces is represented as potentially dangerous. While previously the reader could encounter Najwa in coffee shops, restaurants and shopping centres, public space does not really seem to exist anymore once she has become religious. It is not only an attack on Najwa during her bus ride home which creates the impression of a potentially dangerous and unsafe public realm, but also Najwa’s own perception of London’s secular values. Reflecting on her relationship with Anwar and the possibility of an illegitimate child, she remarks that it “would have shocked Khartoum’s society” (M 175), whereas nobody in London would consider it a scandal. She comes to the conclusion that the lack of concern and absence of religious rules guiding people’s behaviour constitute an “empty space […] called freedom” (ibid.) which, as stated previously in Chapter Three, represents her negative understanding of freedom. Thus, from Najwa’s perspective, British public space – as representing society’s values – is furnished with negative connotations and “a sense of lack” (Moore 78). A similar effect is achieved by Najwa’s comment on safe and unsafe spaces in London: “He [Tamer] might not know it but it is safe for us in playgrounds, safe among children. There are other places in London that aren’t safe” (M 111). It is probably no coincidence that the playground she refers to is the one in Regent’s Park near the mosque. In this sense, the division of London into safe and unsafe spaces, with safety exclusively assigned to spaces which are directly or indirectly linked to the mosque, mirrors the strategy of contrasting the religious and the secular22 . On a structural level, this division mirrors the existence of a religious and a secular Najwa, both of whom carry particular positive or negative associations. The fact that Najwa does not simply leave secular or non-Muslim spaces behind, but senses danger in public spaces once again foregrounds her perspective. Even though rather limited movement within London can also be found in other black British Bildungsromane, the movement on to new spaces itself usually implies a positive development or at least a quest for change. This becomes obvious when looking at male protagonists of black British Bildungsromane whose movements might not result in the change they had hoped for, but whose development still implies a call for recognition. Karim for instance ends his narrative by pointing out that he ended up “in the centre of this old city that I [Karim] loved”, which suggests that his hopes for a better life might be fulfilled there (BS 284). Similarly, 22 Marta Cariello suggests that the novel includes a “translation of London – into a religious space” (349). It is certainly true that Najwa’s outlook is intensely shaped by her newly developed religiousness and she therefore experiences the city in religious terms. However, Cariello’s remark that the novel’s Muslim protagonists’ existence “intrudes in the urban fabric of the city” (ibid. 344) does not seem entirely convincing given that London is mostly represented as a dangerous space which is hostile towards Muslims.

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regardless of the scope of their movement, the successful protagonists of female Black British Bildungsromane – such as Never Far From Nowhere’s Vivien – actively open up new spaces for themselves, while those who do not succeed in their development, like Olive, are confined to a limited number of spaces such as the council flat, and their longing for movement is rejected (NFFN 276-279). Thus, positive representations of (the pursuit of) development and movement seem to be normative elements in many Bildungsroman varieties. Movement and mobility not only appear to support independence but also a better social position. This becomes particularly obvious when examining Olive more closely: After she has passed her driving test, she is very optimistic and makes plans for the future, including typical middle‐class activities such as trips to the country (NFFN 255). Even though she fails in her endeavour – or rather, is prevented from succeeding – her attempts and the associations of hope and optimism linked to them draw attention to the spatial motif’s significance with regard to the Bildungsroman. Najwa however actively refuses to move. Her relocation from Khartoum to London is a forced one – thus, already the first step which in other Bildungsromane can often be seen as initiating development is in her case associated with threat and insecurity. When her Uncle Saleh asks her to accompany him to Canada where she could continue her education and be part of her relatives’ social circles, she refuses. Moreover, she briefly moves to Wales to do her A-levels, which might be another opportunity for her to find friends and pave the way for further education that could bring her closer to the centre of society. However, soon after her arrival in Wales she returns back to London. Her refusal to move therefore positions Minaret in opposition to other Bildungsromane. The familiar motif of movement and the implication of a positive development attached to it is interrupted by representations of voluntary spatial restrictions and movement’s inherent danger. The extent to which Najwa’s limited movement is linked to her growing religiousness becomes obvious by the following remark: “We never get lost because we can see the minaret of the mosque and head home towards it” (M 208). Even though Najwa is speaking of her navigation of Regent’s Park together with Lamya’s daughter Mai, this statement is charged with meaning on a metaphorical level: It is significant that she refers to the mosque as ‘home’ rather than to her own or Lamya’s flat. Besides, the quote epitomises the mosque’s role as a structuring device: The mosque guides Najwa’s thoughts and actions both literally and spiritually. Her movement centres around the mosque, as does her development. The reader is presented with a different situation in The Road from Damascus. Even though Sami’s movements are circular rather than linear as well, they have a broader scope than Najwa’s narrow navigation between religious spaces. Sami’s journeys abroad are voluntary, even though they might also be seen as diversions and attempts to avoid reality. However, the idea of travelling in order to develop new insights and ideas – and this is what Sami claims to do on all of his trips

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abroad – is one that readers will be familiar with from other Bildungsromane. The protagonists of traditional Bildungsromane travel in order to develop an identity and a social position which conform to contemporary social norms and structures, thereby implying a confirmation and perpetuation of the values linked to these very norms and structures. Sami appears to do the same and travels in order to find ideas which confirm his academic thesis that is based on loyalty to his father’s secular narrative. However, as on previous occasions, this familiarity is immediately broken up: Sami fails in his endeavour, which forms an essential contrast to traditional Bildungsromane. His journeys pointedly do not lead him towards a secured position but rather cause his situation to deteriorate further, as the narrator aptly notices (RD 35). Even though his trip to Syria foreshadows the direction of his development, the developmental process itself is instigated in a British prison and, as pointed out previously, does not result in a secure sense of identity. In this sense, the novel makes use of a traditional pattern in order to expose not only Sami’s personal failure, but also the unfitness of traditional Bildungsromane’s conservative function for representing the position of British Muslims in contemporary British society. In this sense, the representation of Sami’s journeys ties in with the effect produced by the metafictional depiction of the traditional (white/male) Bildungsroman illustrated previously. The motif of the journey beyond the protagonist’s immediate surroundings does not lead to success in the traditional sense anymore, and neither is the promotion of social conservatism – which is typical of traditional Bildungsromane – represented as contributing to society’s and the protagonist’s wellbeing. By transforming this familiar pattern, the novel points out social and cultural conservatism’s failure and simultaneously stresses the need for destabilising and transforming structures. Thus, The Road from Damascus quotes a traditional pattern in order to promote change. Interestingly, such a call for change is reminiscent of the black British Bildungsroman again. In The Road from Damascus this change is achieved on a personal level, and then the reader’s attention is directed towards contemporary society. This transfer is encouraged even more explicitly when the narrator comments – although rather generally – on society’s avoidance of ‘mystery’: “That’s how it’s meant to be in the society we’ve built. Busyness keeps our noses out of mystery” (RD 39). This quote apparently summarises Sami’s behaviour, who travels far and wide and keeps busy in order to avoid “universal questions” (ibid.) which would prompt him to assess his own beliefs as well as other alternatives. The narrator therefore creates a potential bias towards an attitude of openness and critical questioning of dogma, and the representation of movement between spaces, particularly the journey motif, here serves to evoke this very attitude. Analysing the representation of and movement between spaces in YassinKassab’s and Aboulela’s work, it can certainly be said that this representation is as metaphorical as in other examples of the genre. However, the novels use the

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familiarity provided by this pattern to promote ideological implications which diverge from other Bildungsromane as well as from each other. Minaret is probably the novel whose ideological function differs most dramatically from the Bildungsromane readers might be familiar with. It does not display the cautious optimism which can be found in female Black British Bildungsromane, nor does it feature the disillusioned but still demanding call for change that is part of the male black British variety (Tönnies, “Black British Bildungsroman”). Instead, Najwa’s perception is narrowed down to a religious lifestyle which discards anything beyond it as ‘variable’ – it is her spiritual development that is of central importance, whereas her position in and interaction with society are portrayed in a way which suggests that they either interfere with her religiousness, or pose a threat to it. Eva Hunter therefore suggests that the novel presents the reader with protagonists who “subsume, within a life of pious quietism, the social, political, and economic aspects of their existence” (93). Similarly, Tamar Steinitz identifies “an Islamic ideology of singleness and separation” in Aboulela’s writing (367). Thus, Minaret plays with the reader’s expectations and engages him/her in an active reading process. The Road from Damascus, on the other hand, negates the search for fixed forms of identity as a prime concern of the Bildungsroman and instead prioritises the continuous process of questioning preconceived conceptions and authorities as a positive state of being. In this sense, it uses the pattern of negating familiar norms and structures as a means of facilitating negation on a different level, namely the negation of fixed meanings and beliefs, which is also mirrored in the representation of space. Concluding Remarks Like other forms of the Bildungsroman – such as the black British ‘novels of transformation’ (Stein xii‐xiii) –, the novels examined here comment on society and have an ideological function. However, by foregrounding the importance of religion they both promote new identity markers and ultimately challenge society to renegotiate questions of belonging and social exclusion on the basis of an openly displayed Muslim affiliation. With regard to the question of how the novels pre‐structure the reading process, it seems indeed possible to contextualise them as creating the interactive heterotopic space illustrated in Chapter Two. In the case of both The Road from Damascus and Minaret, the use of specific genre markers or signals creates a framework within which the novel is read: Familiar patterns and structures guide the reader’s attention to particular plot elements and motifs which contain a potential ideological function. Significantly however, those very elements are then transformed by a number of strategies. Consequently, what these strategies produce is an unfamiliar familiarity which requires the reader to carefully compare his/her expectations to the actual realisation. The result of this comparison – whether it causes agreement with or rejection of the plot’s ideological implication – is ob-

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viously dependent on the individual reader, even though the text seems to direct him/her in one direction more than in another. Thus, the transformation of the female Bildungsroman’s typical double structure as well as the foregrounding of multiple and shifting perspectives which create distance from the main protagonist force the reader to adopt a comparative view. Considering the contrasting norms and principles represented by ‘different’ protagonists, the reader enters a process of active reading which calls structures and values usually associated with the Bildungsroman into question and promotes new ones. A similar effect is achieved by the portrayal of agency in the novels. It is significant that agency is not simply one of the values mentioned above but constitutes a plot‐defining element of both the Bildungsroman genre in general and the two novels discussed here. In this sense, Najwa’s lack of agency – and the normative way in which this lack is legitimised – makes her an unusual Bildungsroman protagonist. Sami on the other hand is an unusual protagonist because of his representation as a rather unlikable character. When one considers the emphasis the Bildungsroman typically places on agency and personal responsibility, Sami indeed develops these traits but only to disappoint the reader’s expectations in the end: Agency and responsibility are not developed to achieve a form of identity – neither a hybrid nor a stable one –, but rather to structure, encourage and support a constant and positively connoted state of consciousness which enables critical investigation. As a result, the appreciation of the unresolved rather than a longing for completion might incite the reader to question preconceived notions. In this sense, the strategy fits in with the novel’s ideological function, and that is the prioritisation of process over result with regard to both identity and meaning. The interactive reading process thus facilitated by the texts is intensified by the third strategy operating in the novel: the representation of and movement between space(s). In Minaret it directs the reader towards the religious elements in the novel, thereby potentially creating a bias which might cause the reader to either agree with or draw back from what s/he is confronted with. In The Road from Damascus the strategy draws attention to the value of shifting rather than fixing, which once again stresses the slight bias towards multiperspectivity and openness in the widest sense. In this sense, both novels develop a considerable degree of textual agency which, depending on the reader’s attitudes, might open up an interactive heterotopic space in which exclusionary boundaries might potentially be destabilised and transformed.

6.2

Black British Interactions with the Slave Narrative

The slave narrative genre is equally productive and diverse as the Bildungsroman and may therefore also serve as a framework which supports the creation of an interactive heterotopic space between reader and text. Just like the Bildungsroman,

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the slave narrative is a highly conventionalised and ideologically charged genre and therefore an excellent example of the “generic contract” which raises readers’ expectations (Dubrow 31). At the same time, it can be understood as a point of departure from which a number of varieties such as the neo‐slave narrative or palimpsest narratives have emerged. It is particularly the dynamics which result from the interplay of the (early) slave narrative’s easily recognisable and conventionalised form and its more diverse successors which is likely to defamiliarise familiar structures, thereby possibly realising the respective novels’ heterotopic potential for change in the reader. This section therefore first of all provides an overview of the slave narrative and its development to the present day.

Tracing the Development of a Genre: The Slave Narrative Philip Gould remarks that the first slave narratives were published during the last quarter of the eighteenth century, particularly in the 1770s and 1780s (11). A striking feature of slave narratives is the fact that they were produced for particular purposes: While the early narratives focused on abolishing the transatlantic slave trade, later forms which emerged during the 1830s and 1840s were more concerned with ending slavery altogether. The 1830s and 1840s saw not only the development of a more organised and resolute abolitionist movement but also the emergence of what is known today as the antebellum slave narrative. Gould foregrounds the importance of the American Anti-Slavery Society, which called for the liberation of all slaves and “created an expansive antislavery print culture” (18). This also shaped the form of the antebellum slave narrative, which became a standardized and ultimately “easily imitated – and sometimes forged – literary form” and “an increasingly popular and effective political means of fighting slavery” (Gould 12). The standardised and in fact conventionalised form of the antebellum slave narrative is summarised in a widely known article by James Olney23 . He concludes that there is a “master outline” which not only includes the narrative itself, but also, among others, “[a] title page that includes the claim, as an integral part of the title, ‘Written by Himself’”, “[a] handful of testimonials and/or one or more prefaces or introductions written either by a white abolitionist friend of the narrator […] or by a white amanuensis/editor/author actually responsible for the text” and “[a]n appendix or appendices composed of documentary material—bills of sale, details of 23 Sarah Meer is critical of Olney’s definition because he does not treat slave narratives as autobiography or literature as he considers them to lack creative imagination (71). Indeed, it can be argued that it is the later forms such as neo‐slave narratives rather than the antebellum variety which possess more of those features which Olney misses in the latter form. At the same time, however, Olney maintains that the antebellum slave narratives shaped its successors considerably and for that reason, his exploration of that particular form remains essential in the analysis of all varieties.

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purchase from slavery, newspaper items—, further reflections on slavery, sermons, anti‐slavery speeches, poems, appeals to the reader for funds and moral support in the battle against slavery” (50). Despite the genre’s conventionalised form critics observe that the antebellum slave narrative combines several established genres such as “travel writing, abolitionist and religious tracts, philosophical treatises, the early novel, and the spiritual autobiography” (Sinanan 64) but also “ethnography, political commentary […] as well as religious, sentimental, and gothic discourses” (Gould 21). This combination is quite significant: Both the antebellum slave narrative’s formal repetitive patterns and the integration of different genres create familiarity for the reader and address a broad readership, which is likely to intensify the slave narrative’s ideological impact. At the same time, the use and appropriation of different genres also points to a certain degree of flexibility and openness. Elaborating on his definition of the slave narrative, James Olney emphasises the genre’s primary concern with descriptions of slavery rather than the slave’s development or personal story24 (51). This references the abolitionist publishers’ preoccupation with narratives which contained a high degree of detail. In order to convince their readers of the horrors of slavery and the need to abolish it, the narrators had to express their stories as authentically and objectively as possible25 . At the same time, it should be noted that for the former slaves themselves, their narratives were more than political documents. Indeed, critics agree that the slave narratives also served as assertions of personal identity for the former slaves (Olney 52; Davis and Gates xxiii; Keizer 1). Jennifer Fleischner emphasises the coexistence of political and personal purposes which shape the traditional antebellum slave narratives (2). However, the authenticating documents which were supposed to guarantee the slave narratives’ credibility also expose the genre’s limitations: That the former slaves were seen to be in need of white patronage in order to be taken seriously points to the fact that they were to some extent objectified, regardless of the significance their narratives held for themselves (Gould 20 and S. Meer 75). Abolitionist publishers had an enormous impact on the form and content of the antebellum slave narratives, and it is particularly this circumstance which raises doubts about the genre’s adequacy for black self‐representation. Thus, generally speaking, the antebellum slave narrative is characterised by its dependency on context. As both personal and political documents, slave narratives’ ideological functions are rather clear but potentially conflicting. At the same time, 24 According to Olney, Frederick Douglass’s narrative is a notable exception. 25 In this context, Teresa A. Goddu conceptualises the antebellum slave narrative as “literature of fact and appeal” which wants to convince the reader of the slave narrator’s reliability and create empathy (36).

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this dependency also illustrates the flexible and dynamic nature of the slave narrative, a feature which is also emphasised by its fusion of different genres: As external circumstances change, so does the form of the slave narrative. Thus, just like the Bildungsroman, the slave narrative is a genre which is open to appropriation from shifting perspectives. This tendency is illustrated by the emergence of the neo‐slave narrative and related forms such as the postmodern slave narrative. Charles Davis and Henry Louis Gates observe an intense shift in the slave narrative genre, which occurred after the abolition of slavery. Again emphasising the importance of context, they explain that the very structure of the narratives, their rhetorical strategies as a genre, altered drastically once the milieu in which they were written and read altered drastically. Once slavery was formally abolished, no need existed for the slave to write himself in to the human community through the action of first‐person narration. (xii‐xiii, original emphasis) Thus, David and Gates point to the fact that the rather conventionalised and repetitive form of the slave narrative was broken up in the years following abolition. The most prominent examples of the transformation the genre has undergone are neo‐slave narratives. According to Valerie Smith, it is generally agreed that Margaret Walker’s Jubilee (published in 1966)26 is the first neo‐slave narrative so that consequently, the years following the mid-1970s can be considered the period in which neo‐slave narratives began to be published (170). When it comes to theorising those new forms of slave narratives, critics usually suggest that it was Bernard W. Bell who, in 1987, coined the term neo‐slave narrative27 (Smith 168; McCorkle 57; Tucker 250; and H. Thomas 387). He defined neo‐slave narratives as “residually oral, modern narratives of escape from bondage to freedom” (Bell 289), thereby revisiting the familiar thematic pattern which foregrounds the liberation of the (former) slave. Bell’s definition was followed by a number of other, sometimes different conceptions of neo‐slave narratives. Ashraf Rushdy, for instance, uses the term more restrictively when he suggests that neo‐slave narratives are “contemporary novels that assume the form, adopt the conventions, and take on the first‐person voice of the antebellum slave narrative” (Neo-Slave Narratives 3). A definition which is particularly comprehensive is Valerie Smith’s. She argues that neo‐slave narratives include texts which are set before and after the aboli26 Smith remarks that Arna Bontemps’s 1936 novel Black Thunder is a notable exception of an earlier work which already contains many of the elements that characterise the later works of the 1960s such as, among others, drawing attention to “the diversity of black male experiences and identities within the institution of slavery” and “a subtle conversation between stories based in slavery and contemporary cultural politics” (Smith 171). 27 It should be noted, however, that Bell uses the term “neoslave narratives” – today, the hyphenated version “neo‐slave narratives” is more common.

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tion of slavery, “at any time from the era of Reconstruction until the present” (168). Moreover, neo‐slave narratives present slavery from a variety of perspectives and make use of a number of diverse styles: “from realist novels grounded in historical research to speculative fiction, postmodern experiments, satire, and works that combine these diverse modes” (ibid.)28 . Thus, neo‐slave narratives are literary works which are inherently multifaceted and flexible, a characteristic which was already part of the antebellum slave narratives and developed further in the new, contemporary varieties of the genre29 . Consequently, it seems almost impossible to find a term which expresses and incorporates the enormous diversity which characterises contemporary varieties of the slave narrative, and thus, to define those works which fit Smith’s definition in terms of their form. For that reason, it appears useful to turn to an aspect which unites those varieties: their central concerns and ideological functions. There appear to be three elements which can be found – to varying degrees – across the different approaches illustrated above: Firstly, Valerie Smith observes that neo‐slave narratives in general tend to foreground the “centrality of the history and the memory of slavery to our individual, racial, gender, cultural, and national identities”, thereby linking past and present productively and foregrounding the ways in which slavery has shaped society and culture (168). She goes on to list a multitude of topics which are addressed in those works and are significant for “contemporary cultural, historical, critical, and literary discourses”, such as trauma, memory, agency, religion, the body and many others (ibid. 168f.). Timothy Spaulding also points to the genre’s continuing relevance when he states that those works ultimately express “persistent faith in the power and ability of narrative (if used oppositionally) to achieve liberation for both the enslaved and the postmodern black subject” (4, emphasis added). His remark points to the second element shared by most if not all representatives of contemporary varieties of the antebellum slave narratives: The concern with the ‘black subject’, which is also expressed in Maria Helena Lima’s approach in which she foregrounds the complexity of black subjectivity and identity (136). The title of Arlene Keizer’s monograph, Black Subjects: Identity Formation in the Contemporary Narrative of Slavery, points to the fact that she shares Lima’s concerns. Also, Ashraf Rushdy finds that neo‐slave narratives were produced to “mark the moment 28 Particularly prominent examples of this development are for instance Charles Johnson’s Oxherding Tale (1982) and Toni Morrison’s Beloved (1987). 29 Numerous critics have tried to accommodate and give credit to the diversity of neo‐slave narratives by theorising them within different contexts and terms such as the “palimpsest narrative” (Rushdy, Remembering Generations 8), “contemporary narratives of slavery” (Keizer 3), or “liberatory narratives” (Mitchell 4). Timothy Spaulding reads a number of works by contemporary African American authors as postmodern slave‐narratives which turn to non‐realistic genres (4).

6 Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming Genres

of a newly emergent black political subject” (Neo-Slave Narratives 7). Thus, while previously the individual slave was a means to illustrate the importance of abolition, contemporary varieties portray the (former) slaves and their development in complex ways. The third element which seems to connect the different definitions presented above is a concern with history or, more precisely, the definition and redefinition of history. Thus, Timothy Spaulding’s approach – published in a monograph which is tellingly entitled Re‐forming the Past: History, the Fantastic and the Postmodern Slave Narrative – emphasises that postmodern slave narratives challenge established versions of history in order “to claim authority over the history of slavery and the historical record” (9). This is also foregrounded by Angelyn Mitchell when she maintains that slave narratives are “[p]reoccupied with reinterpreting the past by rewriting master narratives of slavery” (ibid. 7), thereby placing those works in the context of social and cultural hegemony and power and foregrounding the constructedness of history and (historical, literary, cultural and other forms of) representation30 . Consequently, the re‐writing or re‐forming of history can be considered an essential characteristic which creates a sense of unity or consistency with regard to the otherwise inherently diverse contemporary varieties of the antebellum slave narratives. Thus, the different definitions and concepts illustrated above all share a concern with the contemporary significance of slavery and aim at rewriting and redefining history in order to gain agency and facilitate the black subject’s and indeed the legacy of slavery’s social and cultural inclusion. The writing of narratives can therefore be considered a powerful act. In this context, Jean-François Lyotard’s concept of metanarratives provides important insights into the nature and potential functions of such narratives in the context of culture, society and history. Generally, metanarratives (sometimes also referred to as master narratives or grand narratives) are “the various narrative systems by which human society orders and gives meaning, unity, and ‘universality’ to its experience” (Hutcheon 186). In his seminal study The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge (1979), Lyotard analyses two particular metanarratives, the speculative narrative and the narrative of emancipation (37). In addition to that, critics generally agree that, among others, patriarchy (Hutcheon 187), “religion, the progress of modernism, the progress of science, and absolute political theories like Marxism” (Watson 58) are further examples of metaor grand narratives. Possible metanarratives which contributed to the establishment and maintenance of slavery are for instance white supremacy, racism, and imperialism. Of course, such narratives do not necessarily refer to actual stories written down which are tangible due to their publication in print. Rather, in Lyotard’s sense metanarratives can be considered forms of knowledge which organise 30 Arlene Keizer (10) and Maria Helena Lima (141) convey similar views.

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society in a way which is potentially exclusionary and hegemonic, for instance by foregrounding particular versions of history as a universal truth. This is where literature such as the slave narrative genre and Lyotard’s concept of metanarratives meet: literary stories or narratives can contribute to the circulation, production and legitimisation of knowledge and thus, metanarratives. Interestingly, Lyotard maintains that postmodernism is defined by an “incredulity towards metanarratives” (xxiv). Consequently, he suggests that meta- or grand narratives are destabilised by smaller narratives which challenge the fixed and naturalised narratives that organise society – a tendency which is reminiscent of the central concerns of contemporary varieties of the antebellum slave narratives. According to Linda Hutcheon, “postmodernity is characterized by no grand totalizing master narrative but by smaller and multiple narratives which do not seek (or obtain) any universalizing stabilization or legitimation” (186). It seems plausible to assume that literary texts like the slave narrative can contribute to the process of questioning or, as Lyotard puts it, to the “delegitimation” of metanarratives (39). These dynamics once again illustrate Foucault’s claim that “[w]here there is power, there is resistance” (History 95). With regard to contemporary varieties of the antebellum slave narrative, it is possible to say that they aim at rewriting exclusionary and stereotypical representations of slavery and former slaves promoted by the dominant metanarratives of slavery mentioned above. By doing so, they challenge those metanarratives and thus allow for a potential destabilisation of exclusionary boundaries. In this sense, those narratives seem to be ideally suited for creating interactive heterotopic spaces. Keeping these observations in mind, the question which arises is that of the specific nature of the metanarratives which contemporary varieties of the antebellum slave narrative are supposed to challenge. While slavery itself is based on structures which are inacceptable in whatever social or cultural context, the situation appears slightly different with regard to contemporary narratives. Since they point to the ways in which slavery has shaped contemporary societies, it seems necessary to focus on elements and circumstances which are culture‐specific. What is particularly striking in this regard is the fact that slave narratives are generally considered a genuinely African American genre. Philip Gould explains that the antebellum slave narratives were popular “beyond America. Most popular slave narratives were soon reprinted in Britain, and many were translated into other languages and published in Europe” (24). Influential personalities like Olaudah Equiano are inextricably linked to the slave narrative’s status as an African American genre31 : According to Vincent Carretta, “[i]t [Olaudah’s narrative] is universally accepted as 31 Vincent Carretta maintains that “[a]ttempts to pin Equiano down to either an American or a British identity are doomed to failure” (46) as he moved frequently and referred to himself as a “‘citizen of the world’” (ibid.).

6 Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming Genres

the fundamental text in the genre of the slave narrative” (45) and it “established all of the major conventions reproduced in the vast majority of nineteenth- and twentieth‐century factual and fictional African American slave narratives” (ibid. 44). There are only few voices which consider Equiano a British writer:32 Judith Bryan for instance suggests that the narratives of Equiano and The Letters of the Late Ignatius Sancho, an African (published in 1782) marked the “beginnings of black British literature” (66). Similarly, Mark Stein refers to Equiano as one of the “earlier black British writers” (xiii), and also includes the former slaves Ignatius Sancho and Mary Prince (ibid. 4). The tendency described above continues with regard to contemporary varieties of the antebellum slave narrative. The definitions and approaches by Arlene Keizer, Angelyn Mitchell, Bernard Bell or Ashraf Rushdy all originate from studies which theorise contemporary forms of the genre in an African American context. By including Derek Walcott, Keizer’s Black Subjects also takes Caribbean writers into account, and the fact that she explains her concern with African American and Caribbean contributions rather than British ones with “practical reasons” implicitly acknowledges the existence of British narratives (4). Caroline Rody’s The Daughter’s Return: African-American and Caribbean Women’s Fictions of History (2001) focuses on French writer Maryse Condé and Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea (1966), which is concerned with Britain’s (or, in the context of the novel, Mr Rochester and Antoinette’s) involvement in the slave trade, but reads both Condé and Rhys as Caribbean writers. While the expedience of categorising literary works in terms of their authors’ nationality is rather dubious, the fact remains that British contributions and the ways in which they might display similarities with or differences from African American slave narratives have rather been disregarded in the past. This seems somewhat surprising when keeping in mind that the antebellum slave narratives “had a direct effect on the abolition of the English slave trade in 1803” (A. Kelly 13). Moreover, the need to make sense of the past – including slavery – in order to understand the present is a central concern in black British literature. In his study of black British novels of transformation Mark Stein defines black British literature as follows: “This body of literature not only tells the story of the proliferation and change of British cultures. Beyond the thematic level, these 32 In May 2014, the British Library published an article by Brycchan Carey entitled “British slave narratives” on its website. The publication lists Olaudah Equiano, Phillis Wheatley, Ignatius Sanchez, Mary Prince, Briton Hammon and Quobna Ottobah Cugoano as authors of British slave narratives and draws attention to their links to Britain such as time spent in the UK or the British military. On the other hand, the University Library at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill refers to Phillis Wheatley as “The Pioneering Voice of African American Poetry” (Larson). What is foregrounded by those publications is the difficulty contained in attempts at unequivocally categorising slave narratives in terms of their authors’ nationality.

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changes are reflected—and indeed brought about—by the very production, circulation, and reception of cultural artifacts” (20). This means that he foregrounds black British literature’s contribution to social and cultural change. Consequently, slavery and in fact the slave narrative genre appear to be highly relevant for black British literature. Indeed, Sofía Muñoz-Valdivieso positions contemporary fiction about slavery in the context of black British literature and identifies Caryl Phillips’s Cambridge, David Dabydeen’s A Harlot’s Progress (“Neo-Slave Narratives” 43), Fred D’Aguiar’s Feeding Ghosts and The Longest Memory, Laura Fish’s Strange Music (“Revisiting” 62) and also Bernardine Evaristo’s Blonde Roots (“Neo-Slave Narratives” 43) and Andrea Levy’s The Long Song (“Revisiting” 62), the two novels concerned with slavery which are at the centre of the present work, as British varieties of the slave narrative. In her discussion of contemporary contributions to the slave narrative genre she proposes to use the term ‘neo‐slave narrative’ for those works which match Rushdy’s rather restricted definition and then goes on to introduce the term “slavery novels” to designate works which “deal with slavery in any other form” (“NeoSlave Narratives” 43). In a later study, she then makes use of the terms “British slavery fiction” (“This tale” 39), “slavery fictions in Britain” (ibid. 41), or “British Caribbean slavery novels” (ibid.). The fact that she employs so many different terms not only points to the heterogeneity of those new novels, but also at the difficulty of categorising them as a distinct genre. Assessing the status quo of British forms of the antebellum slave narrative, Muñoz-Valdivieso admits that “[t]he production of slavery novels in Britain is rather small in comparison with the proliferation of those texts in the US, and certainly they cannot claim the kind of cultural centrality they have in US society” (“NeoSlave Narratives” 44). Consequently, she describes the emergence of such novels in Britain as a “new tendency”33 (ibid. 43). Indeed, it is possible to observe a growing concern with the past in black British literature: Andrea Levy’s award‐winning novel Small Island (2004) investigates the arrival of the Empire Windrush and its impact on Britain, while the protagonist of her novel Fruit of the Lemon (1999) travels to her parents’ home, Jamaica, to learn about her past, including her slave ancestry. Similarly, the protagonist of Bernardine Evaristo’s eponymous novel‐in-verse Lara (1997/2009) goes on a journey to understand her past, and upon returning to Heathrow, she expresses a new understanding of herself and Britain: “I am baptised, resolved to paint slavery out of me […], I savour living in the world […], think of my island, the ‘Great’ Tippexed out of it” (188). Thus, Britain’s involvement in 33 A similar view is expressed in the summary of a 2015 panel called “Critical Explorations of Britain’s Slave Past in Contemporary Black British Women’s Neo-Slave Narratives” at the Collegium of African America Research conference at Liverpool Hope University: “the new millennium has witnessed a boom in ‘neo‐slave narratives’ (Bell 1987) produced by black British women writers” (“Critical Explorations” par. 1).

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Transatlantic slavery and the significance it holds for contemporary Britain has certainly been noticed by black British writers. Muñoz-Valdivieso suggests that the emergence of British contributions to the slave narrative genre developed following the bicentennial commemorations of the abolition of the slave trade in the British Empire which took place in 2007 (“NeoSlave Narratives” 44). This recalls the context in which contemporary African American varieties of the slave narrative genre began to be published, the Black Power and Civil Rights movements (Smith 169 and Dubey 333). At the same time, this observation points to the ways in which contemporary works about slavery respond to culturally specific events and tendencies. This is further emphasised by MuñozValdivieso. Quoting John Oldfield, she explains: Narratives of the British nation have traditionally managed to shift the focus away from the participation of Britain in the institution of slavery to highlight its role as a European leader in the movement to do away with the slave trade, so that for a long time “Britons—and Britain’s colonial subjects—were taught to view transatlantic slavery through the moral triumph of abolition, therefore substituting for the horrors of slavery and the slave trade a ‘culture of abolitionism’”[ Oldfield 2]. (“Neo-Slave Narratives” 56)34 What is significant here is Muñoz-Valdivieso’s use of the phrase ‘narratives of the British nation’, which is highly reminiscent of the concept of metanarratives presented above. It specifies the structure and nature of the distinctly British ‘grand narrative’ against which contemporary British appropriations of the antebellum slave narrative write (Muñoz-Valdivieso, “This tale” 40). Oldfield’s remark, too, illustrates Stuart Hall’s observation about the ways in which hegemonic practices contribute to the marginalised group’s experience of itself as ‘Other’ (“Cultural Identity” 225). Even though Muñoz-Valdivieso and Oldfield do not explicitly mention the colonial subjects’ marginalisation or exclusion, their observations still foreground the fact that the British ‘grand narrative of abolition’ rather than participation in the slave trade has shaped Britain’s auto‐image, which might have an impact on questions of belonging. Andrea Levy is more direct in her assessment of the situation. In an essay on the writing of The Long Song attached to the main narrative of her novel, she recalls an encounter which raised significant questions: At a conference in London several years ago, the topic for discussion was the legacy of slavery. A young woman stood up to ask a heartfelt question of the panel. How could she be proud of her Jamaican roots, she wanted to know, when her ancestors 34 In a 2016 study, Muñoz-Valdivieso iterates this observation (“This tale” 39), and J.R. Kerr-Ritchie expresses a similar view in his study of Britain’s commemorations of the abolition of slavery when he remarks that the events taking place in 2007 sometimes led to “exercises in national glorification” (541).

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had all been slaves? I cannot recall the panel’s response to the woman’s question but, as I sat silently in the audience, I do remember my own. Of Jamaican ancestry myself, I wondered why anyone would feel any ambivalence or shame at having a slave ancestry? […] It was at that moment that I felt something stirring in me. Could a novelist persuade this young woman to have pride in her slave ancestors through telling her a story? (LS 405) What this indicates is that contemporary works about slavery are not simply meant to destabilise the same grand narratives as their predecessors. In addition to the narratives of white supremacy or imperialism, they are also concerned with specifically British narratives which exclude or at least marginalise Britain’s legacy of slavery from public discourse and consciousness and promote rather limited concepts of national identity, thereby excluding and marginalising individuals who are linked to this legacy through their ancestors. Quite strikingly, Levy points to literature and its potential for shaping a person’s attitudes or countering what can be considered the effects of that particular British grand narrative35 . In this way, her question epitomises the central concerns and potential functions of interactive heterotopic spaces. The analysis of The Long Song and Blonde Roots in the present chapter will therefore build on that question and broaden its scope: It will examine the ways in which the two novels engage with traditional and contemporary forms of the African American slave narrative in order to create interactive heterotopic spaces in which the British grand narrative illustrated above might potentially be destabilised and transformed. In this sense, a transformation of those narratives might not only facilitate an integration of Britain’s past as a beneficiary of slavery into British cultural identity, but also more generally the renegotiation of the boundaries which exclude people with a slave ancestry from identifying as British and acknowledging their past with a positive attitude.

Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming the Slave Narrative Bernardine Evaristo’s Blonde Roots and Andrea Levy’s The Long Song both display links to the antebellum and contemporary varieties of the slave narrative genre (Burkitt 406; Lima 136; Muñoz-Valdivieso, “Neo-Slave Narratives” 44f.; Newman 286; Flajšarová 316; Gadpaille 9; Muñoz-Valdivieso, “This tale” 39; Öztabak-Avci 118). How35 Levy’s novel also contains a section with ‘bonus material’ (403-423) which includes her essay on the writing of The Long Song quoted above, as well as an interview and reading group questions. The questions suggested there encourage readers to think, among other topics, about hitherto unheard voices, history and about the relationship between slaves and planters on Jamaica. Clearly, this points to a particular agenda behind the novel, which is already implied in Levy’s essay and further foregrounds the slave narrative’s social function.

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ever, just like British Muslim interactions with the Bildungsroman, the two novels under discussion here interrupt the familiarity generated by those links or ‘signals’ in order to foreground particular perspectives and concerns, thereby creating an interactive heterotopic space. The following analysis will focus on three strategies which contribute to the creation of such a space in which the novels’ heterotopic potential for transformation might be realised: The use of authenticating or, more generally, additional material, the position of the individual, and the interweaving of slavery and (contemporary) Britain. Using and Appropriating Authenticating Material As outlined above, the use of additional material, usually for the purpose of proving the slave narrator’s authenticity and credibility, was a common feature of the antebellum slave narratives. For instance, one of the most popular slave narratives, the Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave (1845)36 is introduced by William Lloyd Garrison, leader of the American Anti-Slavery Society and publisher of The Liberator, a newspaper committed to the circulation of abolitionist literature (Gould 18). In his pamphlet, he describes Douglass as being “[c]apable of high attainments as an intellectual and moral being – needing nothing but a comparatively small amount of cultivation to make him an ornament to society and a blessing to his race” (Garrison 4). Regardless of Garrison’s good intentions, his remarks still seem somewhat patronising. Moreover, he explains that Douglass’s abolitionist work takes place “under the auspices either of the American or the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society” (Garrison 5), thereby foregrounding the existence of a mediating element which, according to critics, shaped the form and contents of the narrative (Gould 25 and S. Meer 75). Further remarks which can be found in other slave narratives as well aim at convincing the reader of Douglass’s reliability: Garrison foregrounds that the narrative is written “in his [Douglass’s] own style. […] It is, therefore, entirely his own production” (Garrison 6), and that he is “confident that it [the narrative] is essentially true in all its statements; that nothing has been set down in malice, nothing exaggerated, nothing drawn from the imagination” (ibid.). Another typical element of the authenticating material introducing the main narrative is Garrison’s criticism of slavery (“Oh, how accursed is that system”, ibid. 7), thereby potentially reinforcing and legitimising the slave narrator’s statements. Garrison’s preface is followed by a letter from Wendell Phillips to Douglass in which he praises the narrative and its author. In addition to the preface and letter, the narrative also contains an appendix in which Douglass asserts his Christianity and at the same time declares that slavery and Christianity are mutually 36 When referring to Douglass’s narrative itself, the abbreviation LFD will be used. References to the narrative’s preface by William Lloyd Garrison will be indicated by using Garrison’s last name.

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exclusive (LFD 85-87). Thus, Douglass’s narrative is framed by additional material which is meant to support his cause, but is also limiting37 . Andrea Levy’s The Long Song appropriates this typical feature of the antebellum slave narrative rather openly. The novel is framed by a fore- and afterword by July’s son, Thomas Kinsman, who is a printer and serves as her editor. Like in the antebellum variety, he introduces and concludes the main narrative by verifying and confirming July’s story. In the foreword for instance he declares that “[t]he tale herein is all my mama’s endeavour” and that even though “[s]ome scenes I [he] earnestly charged her not to write in the manner she had chosen […], she became quite insistent upon having her way” (LS 4). These remarks are quite striking as they introduce a subtle departure from the established antebellum pattern. While the traditional variety insisted on the truth of the accounts presented in the narrative, some of them still admitted that they made changes to the original text. Thus, Thomas Pringle, the editor of The History of Mary Prince, A West Indian Slave (published in 1831), confirms that he altered the text “to exclude redundances and gross grammatical errors, so as to render it clearly intelligible” (Pringle, Preface 55). Thomas Kinsman’s foreword on the other hand also references his wish to shape the narrative – a tendency which continues throughout the narrative when July admits that her son asked her not to write certain passages – but these potential interferences are rejected by July straight away. As will later be illustrated in greater detail, July’s son sometimes encourages her to recount events she would rather forget, but he is never shown to modify her narrative. This is also mirrored in July’s patois – an aspect which an editor like Thomas Pringle would probably have dismissed as one of the ‘gross grammatical errors’ he mentions in his preface. Thus, the foreword of the antebellum slave narrative is transformed in a way which characterises The Long Song as a contemporary variety of the genre. At the same time, it liberates this particular narrative from the traditional form’s associations with (well intended) patronage, mediation and limitation, thereby foregrounding July’s individual perspective rather than an abolitionist cause or slavery itself. The afterword is a direct address to the reader in which Thomas Kinsman asks for information regarding July’s daughter Emily, who was taken away from her and brought to England (LS 397f.). In this sense, the afterword clearly moves away from Douglass’s religious essay and the usual reflections on the evils of slavery which form part of the additional material in antebellum slave narratives. Instead, Thomas Kinsman creates a link to Britain: He remarks that Emily might be “in England, unaware of the strong family connection she has to this island of Jamaica” and that her children might “have no understanding that their grandmama was 37 As pointed out previously, Olaudah Equiano’s – and in fact many other – narratives contain similar elements.

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born a slave” (ibid. 398). What this emphasises is the continuous impact of slavery, which lasts until today. At the same time, the afterword constructs a distinctly British, or English, context in which the legacy of slavery unfolds. This is achieved by transforming the familiar pattern of the authenticating material to be found in antebellum slave narratives: Readers who are familiar with that particular variety know that the afterword was usually used to support the slave narrator’s reliability and make the public aware of the evils of slavery. The afterword in Levy’s novel foregrounds the fact that her appropriation of the slave narrative genre still has an agenda: Once again it puts July’s personal story centre stage, but at the same time it also draws attention to Britain’s involvement in slavery. By employing the familiar element of the afterword, Levy’s narrative is likely to remind readers of the profound functions of the antebellum slave narrative, which they might then transfer to the purpose expressed in Thomas Kinsman’s version. What this transformation possibly supports is the construction of an interactive heterotopic space in which readers might question the dominant grand narrative of abolition and instead acknowledge Britain’s involvement in slavery. Foregrounding slavery’s impact on the present is an approach which is reminiscent of the neo‐slave narrative. As Timothy Spaulding points out in his reading of contemporary postmodern slave narratives, those varieties tend to “critique traditional history’s reliance on objectivity, authenticity, and realism as a means of representing the past” (2). He goes on to emphasise that those varieties favour “non‐realistic genres” (ibid. 4) and intends to “dismantle the conventionalized representation of slavery that constrains our understanding of this vital dimension of our national [American] past” (ibid.). This implies that authenticating material is rather rejected by contemporary versions of the antebellum slave narratives. Indeed, prominent neo‐slave narratives like Toni Morrison’s Beloved do not contain any means of external authentication or legitimation. By contrast, a contemporary slave narrative which does indeed include additional material is Charles Johnson’s Oxherding Tale38 . The narrative is interrupted by two short essays on the slave narrative genre and on first‐person narration. Unlike the antebellum slave narratives, these additional documents do not intend to verify the narrator’s reliability. Rather, they reflect on the form of the genre, for instance by suggesting that the slave narrative’sstatus as a mixture of different genres and contexts might cause it to “surrender[…] its diverse secrets” (OT 119). The sense that the additional material in slave narratives does not necessarily have to be authenticating is revisited in Bernardine Evaristo’s Blonde Roots. It does not include a foreword but a postscript which reveals the development of the main protagonist Doris and her family and friends to the reader and points to the slaves’ and slave owners’ descendants in “the United Kingdom of Great Ambossa” (BR 261). Thus, similarly to Thomas Kinsman 38 In the following abbreviated as OT.

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in The Long Song, Doris attaches an additional document to the narrative in order to create a link to contemporary Britain – a tendency which might contribute to the overall strategy of defamiliarising the familiar. What is even more prominent in the novel is the integration of slave owners’ perspectives through pro‐slavery publications. This is a striking divergence from other varieties of the slave narrative, which usually contain anti‐slavery documents and present their readers with abolitionist perspectives. However, the slave owner Kaga Konata Katamba’s views are presented in a way which renders them irrational and even ridiculous. This effect is linked to the novel’s overall strategy of reversing time, space and history: In Blonde Roots, slaves are ‘whyte’ and come from ‘Europa’, while the slave holders have an ‘Aphrikan’ background and are black. Kaga Konata Katamba’s publication does not only serve as a means of public self‐praise but also as a justification for slavery: He argues that the whytes’ enslavement is an “Act of Mercy” which allows them “to adopt the manners and customs of civilised men” (BR 121) and frequently refers to a study of “Craniofaecia Anthropometry” which allegedly proves that the “Negro is biologically superior” (119) and the “Caucasoi is incapable of acute emotionality” (120). Thus, he recounts racist stereotypes and arguments in a way which leads Judie Newman to describe the respective passages as a “parody of scientific racism” (290)39 . However, such arguments have been disproved frequently, and the fact that they are embedded in the reversal of history discredits them further: by detaching well‐known stereotypes from clear ethnic classification, the narrative exposes their arbitrariness. Moreover, it is particularly the representation of Kaga Konata Katamba as a deliberately obnoxious protagonist and unreliable narrator40 which weakens his position: Boasting of his success, he explains that he is “described by others (I make no immodest claims myself) as: strong, yet sensitive, powerful yet peaceful, a money‐maker for the benefit of the nation and an extoller of high morals for the spirit of the Empire of GA” (BR 115). As pointed out in Chapter Five, he uses slavery to compensate for his lack of self‐esteem, which becomes apparent on various occasions in his pamphlet, for instance when he expresses how much Doris’s first attempt at escape hurt his pride (BR 151). Thus, the narrative clearly foregrounds aspects which invalidate and counter his perspective. The integration of a slave owner’s opinions in an abolitionist text can also be found in Mary Prince’s narrative. In the supplement attached to it, her editor Thomas Pringle defends Prince against Mr Wood, her owner. Following an increasing number of conflicts, Mr Wood provided her with a letter which allowed her to 39 Similarly, Sara Upstone concludes that Evaristo’s reversal strategy and particularly Kaga Konata Katamba’s repetition of “nineteenth‐century attitudes” serve to “illustrate[…] how ludicrous the racial prejudices on which slavery was founded were” (“Some Kind of Black” 287). 40 Kaga Konata Katamba’s status as an unreliable narrator will be analysed in Chapter Seven.

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leave his household but described her in a way which might prevent others from hiring her. Refusing to legally free her, Mr Wood made it impossible for her to reunite with her husband in Antigua without being forced back into slavery there. The supplement chronicles Pringle’s attempts to achieve Prince’s manumission, including a letter by Wood in which he questions her character and morality (Pringle, Supplement 100f.), as well as Pringle’s lengthy contradictions of those accusations. Thus, Mary Prince’s narrative refutes arguments in favour of slavery in the rather direct and open manner typical of the antebellum slave narrative, while Evaristo’s approach is more indirect and linked to a transformation of the well‐known additional documents: Her integration of additional material is reminiscent of other slave narratives, but by using it to present a pro‐slavery position she disrupts this familiarity and creates space for the interaction with racist ideas which formed the basis of slavery. What turns the pro‐slavery pamphlet into a document which might potentially challenge readers’ attitudes towards Britain’s slave ancestry is both the fact that Kaga Konata Katamba’s perspective is weakened, and that the other position offered to the reader, and that is Doris and her pursuit of freedom, is emphasised. On the whole, Levy’s and Evaristo’s integration of additional material thus references both the antebellum and neo‐slave narratives, thereby creating a sense of familiarity for the reader. However, by transforming those documents, both narratives challenge this familiarity and thus support an active reading process. In Blonde Roots, the pro‐slavery pamphlet creates closeness to the main protagonist. Since Chapter Five illustrated that Doris is presented as a rather active character who manages to destabilise existing boundaries and power structures, the creation of an interactive heterotopic space intensifies this effect. In The Long Song on the other hand, the defamiliarisation of the authenticating documents appears to balance July’s ultimate inability to challenge power relations as outlined in Chapter Five: Even though she did not manage to transform the boundaries which forced her into social exclusion, her narrative now allows her to create a text which challenges dominant grand narratives: In the foreword, her son remarks that July’s narrative “might gain a majesty to rival the legends told whilst pointing at the portraits or busts in any fancy great house upon this island of Jamaica” (LS 1), which refers to the grand narrative of slavery dominant in the more immediate aftermath of slavery in Jamaica. It is likely that in 1898, the grand narrative against which July writes was particularly concerned with stereotypical representations of slaves. This assumption is further supported as the narrative progresses and July announces that her story will differ from other stories available at the end of the nineteenth century, which consist of “the puff and twaddle of some white lady’s mind” (LS 8). However, the link to a more contemporary Britain established in the afterword also foregrounds Britain’s slave ancestry and can therefore be seen to combat and

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destabilise the grand narrative which excludes this legacy and the people personally affected by it from public consciousness. The Position of the Individual: Stereotypical, Idealised, and Authentic Representations of Slaves As explained in Chapter One, representation is inherently and productively linked to power. Stuart Hall notes that “[t]he circularity of power is especially important in the context of representation” (“Spectacle” 261). What his remark implies is that the production and circulation of particular representations can create consent in dominated groups, thereby potentially perpetuating power imbalances and exclusionary boundaries. At the same time, power’s circularity also draws attention to the fact that both the dominant and dominated groups form part of power’s circulation: power is productive, which also suggests that representations can be used in different ways and to different purposes. The development and appropriations of the antebellum slave narrative illustrate this observation. Indeed, especially the use of particular representations of the slave protagonists as well as their position within the narrative is a strategy which can contribute to the creation of interactive heterotopic spaces. Before abolition, slaves were usually portrayed in terms of stereotypes in order to legitimise slavery. Stuart Hall quotes George Marsh Fredrickson to illustrate assumptions which facilitated the construction of racist stereotypes in the antebellum era: Heavily emphasized was the historical case against the black man based on his supposed failure to develop a civilized way of life in Africa. As portrayed in pro‐slavery writing, Africa was and always had been the scene of unmitigated savagery, cannibalism, devil worship, and licentiousness. Also advanced was an early form of biological argument, based on real or imagined physiological and anatomical differences – especially in cranial characteristics and facial angles – which allegedly explained mental and physical inferiority. Finally there was the appeal to deep‐seated white fears of widespread miscegenation [sexual relations and interbreeding between the races], as pro‐slavery theorists sought to deepen white anxieties by claiming that the abolition of slavery would lead to inter‐marriage and the degeneracy of the race. (Fredrickson quoted in Hall, “Spectacle” 243) The construction of black individuals as dangerous and uncivilised was used to justify the slave holders’ violent and total control of the slaves, and even suggested that slavery might be beneficial for the latter – an argument which is also mirrored in Kaga Konata Katamba’s pro‐slavery publication in Blonde Roots (109-153). Stuart Hall explains that views like the one presented above led to the emergence of a “‘racialized regime of representation’” (“Spectacle” 249). Critics usually

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point to two stereotypes which were used to represent slave women:41 the Jezebel and the Mammy. Marsha J. Tyson Darling emphasises that while the Jezebel was “an evil seductress invoked from biblical teachings”, the Mammy was constructed as a counterpoint: “a dutiful, hard‐working, self‐sacrificing black woman who was committed to serving her white ‘family’ at the expense of her own children; even as that ‘family’ maintained its belief in her innate racial inferiority” (184). Thus, the Jezebel seems to represent the danger and threat which slave owners sensed in black individuals, whereas the Mammy is linked to the general idea of black inferiority and slavery’s apparent benefit for the enslaved. This is emphasised further by Tyson Darling’s description of the Mammy as “asexual, unattractive, and ‘ugly’ by white standards of beauty, […] sometimes fat or obese from eating well in the big house” (ibid.). Even though the Mammy stereotype does not necessarily portray black women in an openly negative way, the fact remains that it is still degrading for the individual concerned and serves to trivialise slavery, thereby maintaining its exclusionary structures. Abolitionists were concerned with changing those stereotypes and offering more positive representations of black individuals in the antebellum slave narrative. In her reading of female slave narratives, Jennifer Fleischner identifies the “tragic quadroon, the suffering slave mother, and the helpless slave girl” as some of “the most successful and appealing” portrayals of slave women (5). At the same time, she is quick to point out that those representations were not simply altruistic but “served to empower white women to activity on behalf of their powerless ‘sisters’, thereby fostering a conception of a white, female self that was not similarly debased” (ibid.). Thus, Fleischner’s remarks foreground the fact that those representations of slave women still had stereotypical elements: Focused on isolated traits such as slave women’s helplessness and suffering, they present readers with a generalised view. This is also emphasised by Stuart Hall, who maintains that those representations indeed mirrored a shift, though not without the marking of ‘difference’. Black people are still seen as childish, simple and dependent, though capable of, and on their way to (after a paternalist apprenticeship), something more like equality with whites. They were represented as either supplicants for freedom or full of gratitude for being freed – and consequently still shown kneeling to their white benefactors. (“Spectacle” 249) Hall’s remark recalls similar observations made for instance by Philip Gould who, as pointed out earlier, draws attention to the limitations put on black subjectiv41 Since the present chapter analyses female slaves, particular attention will be paid to female stereotypes. Fredrickson’s more general remarks about common views on slaves of course also apply to men.

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ity and expression by abolitionist influence (20). In fact, the term ‘limitation’ is of particular importance here as it foregrounds the fact that the tragic quadroon, the suffering mother and the helpless slave girl served as means to an end: the abolition of slavery. As illustrated previously, the antebellum slave narratives were primarily political documents about the cruelty of and the need to abandon slavery, and the slaves’ lives were employed to illustrate that cruelty and need. In this sense, the slaves themselves only occupied a rather limited and, compared to the overall abolitionist cause, peripheral position within the narrative. The antebellum slave narrative’s conventionalised form contributes further to the prioritisation of the overall purpose at the expense of individualised representations of (former) slaves. Of course, it has to be kept in mind that the functions of those limiting representations had changed profoundly: Stereotypes like the Mammy and the Jezebel, which were promoted before abolition, were meant to support slavery and exclude black individuals in every possible way. Representations of slave women as tragic quadroons, suffering mothers or helpless slave girls on the other hand were employed to end slavery – regardless of whether the abolitionists’ motives were purely altruistic or not. For this reason, the present chapter will refrain from referring to those figures as stereotypes. Instead, the term ‘stereotypical representations’ will be used in order to draw attention to the ways in which those categories are constructed – which is similar to stereotypes – and at the same time point to their more positive but ultimately still limiting content. Mary Prince’s narrative illustrates this tendency. The preface confirms that her narrative was written down and published based on her own wish, which proves the importance it has for her personally. At the same time, a look at her publication as a whole reveals more: The narrative itself consists of 38 pages, the preface and the supplement amount to 34 pages which detail the legal dispute between the abolitionist movement and Mary Prince’s former owner. The narratives of Olaudah Equiano and Frederick Douglass are longer compared to the authenticating material, but prefaces, letters, lists of subscribers and other documents still make up a considerable part of the publications. What moreover diminishes the slaves’ presence in all three narratives is the way in which they are represented. All narratives contain praise of their characters and respectability, which makes them seem flawless. Equinao even appears heroic when he saves the crew and slaves on board a ship. However, he comments that “I [Equiano] could not help looking on myself as the principal instrument in effecting our deliverance” (169), thereby once again stressing the slaves’ instrumental position within the narrative. Mary Prince’s narrative focuses on the suffering which shapes her life: It does not only evoke the stereotype of the helpless slave girl who is separated from her mother, forced to work and exposed to cruelty on a daily basis. More indirectly, her narrative also addresses the stereotype of the suffering slave mother: Her owner’s refusal to grant her manumission means that she will not be able to leave England and to

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reunite with her husband in Antigua without being enslaved again upon setting foot on Antiguan soil. Slavery thus denies her the possibility of starting a family with her husband. Thus, what is foregrounded in the antebellum slave narratives is the slaves’ suffering and their status as slaves, not as individuals with strengths and weaknesses. Andrea Levy’s The Long Song and Bernardine Evaristo’s Blonde Roots make use of different approaches in order to create interactive heterotopic spaces in which Britain’s slave ancestry might be reassessed. It should of course be noted that their approaches are linked to the circumstances surrounding their publication: Like other contemporary writers, Levy and Evaristo pursue ideological aims which differ greatly from the central aim of abolition in the previous varieties. In this sense, they are free to foreground other aspects of slavery and its legacy, and this freedom is certainly reflected in their works. For instance, both narratives briefly allude to common stereotypes of the antebellum slave narrative, but only to counter them straight away. As generalised and fixed representations of individuals, stereotypes offer a high degree of familiarity: They provide readers with the impression that they are able not only to categorise the protagonist, but also to anticipate the plot’s development. Blonde Roots alludes to the stereotype of the suffering slave mother by drawing attention to the fact that Doris’s three children were sold on to another plantation (21). However, the narrative then goes on to disrupt the familiarity created by evoking that stereotype in order to overcome the limiting tendencies in the antebellum slave narratives and direct the reader’s attention to the complexity and individuality of former slaves. As a protagonist with a high degree of agency, Doris undermines the stereotype of the suffering slave motherwhich often depicts the character as passive (Fleischner 43)42 . Doris is very open about her despair at the loss of her children. Her suffering is expressed quite explicitly: She recalls giving birth to them and admits that “[s]ometimes, when I place my hand over my stomach, I can still feel their little kicks” (BR 22), and that “I still dream that my children will come searching for me. Somehow – they will find their mother. Oh Lord” (23). Doris’s brief remark in the postscript “my three lost children – they never found me” (BR 260) reveals how painful the loss of her children remains. Still, as pointed out in Chapter Five, Doris can by no means be described as passive. Instead, the thought of her children and particularly the hope that she might see them again seems to energise and motivate her. Even though she is indeed a suffering mother, her suffering is not likely to define the reader’s perception of her. Instead, she describes herself as “powerful” (BR 257), and is also represented as a friend, sister, lover, and as intelligent and brave. Thus, the stereotype known from the antebellum slave narrative is employed to draw the reader’s attention to Doris’s personal 42 See for instance Jennifer Fleischner’s reading of Lydia Maria Child’s “The Quadroons” (33-60).

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life, but only to foreground her individuality and incompatibility with that very stereotype. This observation is also true for the stereotype of the helpless slave girl and the tragic quadroon. As a child, Doris survives the middle passage and in an act of self‐defence, she kills Little Miracle (BR 104), which means that contrary to what readers might expect she is represented as able to help herself, rather than as a helpless slave girl. Moreover, the fact that she kills – even though she does so to protect herself – is a significant divergence from the antebellum slave narrative which presented slaves in an idealised way in order to achieve its political aims43 . The stereotype of the tragic quadroon is first of all destabilised by the fact that Blonde Roots reverses ethnic categories and associations as blacks are slave owners and whites are slaves. Moreover, Doris does not have a mixed ethnic background, and it is exactly this feature which victimises the stereotypical slave woman. Jennifer Fleischner writes that “the slave woman of mixed racial heritage becomes a symbol in white antislavery writing, enabling negotiation between sameness and difference” (39), but the fact remains that women like the slave woman in Lydia Maria Child’s antebellum short story “The Quadroons” either die or are represented as helpless and passive (Child par. 25): A woman of mixed ethnic background marries a white man who ultimately leaves her because he is unable to cope with the social pressure he has to face (ibid. par. 8-12). She dies from a broken heart, which directs the reader’s attention to her daughter. She is in turn presented as inherently good but haunted by her black heritage which forces her back into slavery (ibid. par. 23). The sense of ‘sameness’ based on the woman’s white ancestry is supposed to raise white readers’ empathy and encourage abolitionist action, but it still makes equality and acceptance conditional on a particular ethnic background. By detaching established associations with slavery from either of the two ethnic groups involved, Blonde Roots on the other hand draws attention to the fact that slavery as an institution is motivated by a power imbalance which is based on a “racialized regime of representation” (Hall, “Spectacle” 245). In this sense, Doris is liberated from any form of ethnic determination. While her ethnicity certainly shapes her identity and auto‐image (see Chapter Five), the fact remains that the impact of one’s ethnic background is shown to be a universal rather than an exclusionary category. What the reversal of Doris’s (but also the other protagonists’) ethnic background in Evaristo’s narrative foregrounds is her individuality and a representation of slavery 43 An incident which depicts a slave resorting to violence is Frederick Douglass’s fight with the slave owner Mr. Covey: When Mr. Covey wants to whip him, Douglass stands up against him and fights him down (LFD 56). Like Doris, he acts in self‐defence, but in contrast to her, Douglass is an adult and does not kill Mr. Covey. Thus, Blonde Roots is more radical in its subversion of the stereotype of the helpless slave girl and refrains from portraying Doris as flawless and ideal in favour of a more authentic and complex representation.

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which depicts it as a generally human rather than specifically ethnic experience. In this sense, the strategy also serves to stress the general constructedness of representations and undermines the British grand narrative of abolition: Slavery is not an exclusively black experience, just as abolition is not an exclusively white effort. Instead, both ethnicities are linked to slavery and abolition. Evaristo’s subversion of stereotypes and particularly her reversal of ethnic attributes is reminiscent of Charles Johnson’s neo‐slave narrative Oxherding Tale. Timothy Spaulding remarks that in “metafictional intrusions, philosophical digressions, and often parodic narrative situations, Johnson” criticises the first‐person narrator “as both a convention of the slave narrative form and as a symbol of black subjectivity” (Spaulding 78). Instead, Spaulding suggests that Charles Johnson foregrounds the “complex, dispersed, and transcultural dimensions of their [the protagonists’] identities” (ibid. 79). Similarly to Blonde Roots, Oxherding Tale has a creative approach to ethnicity and challenges binaries, even though there is no reversal as in Evaristo’s narrative. Spaulding points out that Charles Johnson’s approach forms part of his critical view of the still limited representations of black individuals even after abolition, which he sees represented in Toni Morrison’s Beloved and Octavia Butler’s Kindred. Thus, according to Spaulding, the Black Power and Civil Rights movements, which shaped and facilitated the emergence of neo‐slave narratives, still supported “the conception of an essentialist and authentic black identity” (Spaulding 79). This leads to an important observation: Many of the contemporary neo‐slave narratives indeed offer more complex representations of former slaves and make their position in the narrative more central than in the antebellum varieties, but they still rely on portrayals which foreground their difference and are reminiscent of the stereotypical representations in the earlier forms. Beloved for instance appears to evoke the suffering slave mother. Even more strikingly, in his reading of a number of contemporary slave narratives, Spaulding concludes that apparently “the road to freedom for the contemporary author and the slave subject lies primarily in constructing a stable, politically autonomous communal sense of black identity in the face of the physical, psychological, and cultural subjugations of slavery and its legacy” (ibid. 79f.). Charles Johnson and Bernardine Evaristo on the other hand seem to go a step further than other contemporary writers like Butler or Morrison, which proves that the consistent representation of a unified black identity is a tendency rather than an established pattern. Similarly to Blonde Roots, The Long Song also evokes the stereotypical representations of the tragic quadroon, the suffering slave mother, and the helpless slave girl. Like Mary Prince in her antebellum narrative, July is separated from her mother and forced to work from a very young age. As a woman of mixed ethnic background and because of her failed relationship with a white man, July is moreover reminiscent of the tragic quadroon. July’s loss of her daughter Emily might also allude to the stereotype of the suffering slave mother. While she is not as active as Doris,

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the fact that she appears as a determined and independent narrator of her story already contributes to the subversion of the stereotypical representations evoked. Even more significantly, in the afterword, her son Thomas reveals that “the pain of that parting [from Emily] soon causes that dear old woman [July] to put all thought of Emily from out of her mind and feign indifference when any further mention is made of her” (LS 398). Even though she does not express her suffering openly, it is still implied in the text through July’s silences and through her son’s observations of her behaviour. Nonetheless, she insists that her life was a happy one. Dismissing her son’s pressure to recall the destitution she and many other free slaves experienced after abolition she asks “[b]ut why must I dwell upon sorrow? July’s story will have only the happiest of endings” (LS 395). Thus, July’s narrative acknowledges the existence of but at the same time counters or negates the significance of the suffering and passivity which shape all three antebellum stereotypes, the tragic quadroon, the suffering slave mother, and the helpless slave girl. In this sense, the narrative creates a sense of familiarity by integrating those stereotypical representations. At the same time, when for instance July refuses to be defined by the suffering those representations signify, this familiarity is interrupted. Instead, the reader’s attention is drawn to July’s act of writing which equips her with the power to determine and shape the way in which she represents herself. What this also foregrounds once again is the constructedness of all stories and, more generally speaking, representations. By drawing attention to the fact that representations of history, but also July’s story, are by no means fixed and naturally given, readers might question the stability and prominence of the British grand narrative of abolition as well. This potential effect is further emphasised by the novel’s structure: July’s assertion of her own happiness is directly followed by her son’s afterword in which he points out July’s and indeed his own links to Britain (LS 397f.). What is even more striking in The Long Song than the subversion of stereotypes is the narrative’s commitment to challenging the peripheral and rather instrumentalised position of slave protagonists. This is achieved through the prominence of the narrator’s reflections on historical events in the narrative and through the novel’s structure. Roughly in the middle of the narrative, slavery is abolished and thus, the ultimate aim of the antebellum slave narrative is achieved. Quite significantly, however, abolition does not feature prominently in the novel. Jana Gohrisch observes that this “is an aesthetically distinctive feature that calls for interpretation” (424)44 , and indeed, the present chapter intends to resolve this issue. Already rather early on in the novel, the narrator recounts the events of the Baptist War, which is generally thought to have contributed to abolition. The integration of such an event 44 Similarly, Fiona Tolan observes that “[w]hile developing amidst urgent national and international political upheavals, this narrative is determinedly intimate and domestic, charting the political progress of imperial Jamaica only obliquely” (99).

6 Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming Genres

might serve as a genre marker and moreover create a sense of familiarity for the reader as it implies that abolition is the central element and purpose of the narrative. This familiarity is broken up when it becomes obvious that July did not know about the significance of the Baptist War when she was still a slave, and even when she is in the process of writing down her story she is unable to identify the events taking place back then as the Baptist War (LS 100f.). Her son asks her about that particular time, but she admits that she cannot answer any of his questions because “news did not travel as it does today” (ibid. 102) and instead recommends a book by a Baptist minister (ibid. 103). This can be seen as a sharp divergence from the antebellum slave narrative’s concern with first‐hand information and facts. Even more significantly, July reveals that when those fires raged like beacons from plantation and pen; when regiments marched and militants mustered; when slaves took oaths upon the Holy Bible to fight against white people with machete, stick and gun; […] at Amity, the loudest thing your storyteller could hear was Miss Hannah gnawing upon the missus’s discarded ham bone. (LS 103f.) Thus, what is foregrounded here is July’s (and the other slaves’) personal lives at Amity Plantation and their takeover of the house after Caroline Mortimer has escaped to the city. As is later revealed, it is at this time that July’s romantic encounter with Nimrod takes place and she becomes pregnant with her first child. July does not serve as a mere mediator or witness but is instead portrayed as a young woman who is too preoccupied with her personal life to pay much attention to the things happening around her. A similar tendency can be observed with regard to the eventual abolition of slavery. The reader is presented with a brief passage which describes how July witnesses the slaves perform a funeral ceremony to mark the abolition (LS 181f.). Together with other formal features like July’s previous accounts of her life as a slave and her hopes for equality, as well as her descriptions of the Baptist War, the funeral scene might again cause a sense of familiarity in the reader as it epitomises the antebellum slave narrative’s ideological function. And indeed, at that point July declares her story finished (LS 183). Quite strikingly, however, her son asks her to continue because he wants to know more about her decision to give him, her son, up shortly after his birth (ibid. 184). Once again, the antebellum slave narrative’s central element of abolition is relegated to the background in favour of July’s personal story. Moreover, it is revealed soon afterwards that in fact July never witnessed the funeral because “upon that glorious night of deliverance, July was, as you shall now read, confined within the tedious company of her missus” (LS 196). This account is even more significant than July’s experience of the Baptist War as it foregrounds an essential circumstance: In a moment usually associated with freedom and the expiration of the master‐slave relationship, July is ‘confined’ and with her ‘missus’.

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What this implies is that for July, abolition has not brought about much change and the fact that she continues her story to talk about the time after abolition further destabilises its prominence in July’s life, thereby also destabilising the British grand narrative of abolition. Instead, the narrative stresses slavery’s enduring effect on July and her personal life. In this sense, the antebellum slave narrative’s primary concern with abolition is substituted with The Long Song’s focus on the slaves’ individuality. Bernardine Evaristo also foregrounds her slave protagonist’s personal life rather than abolition, or slavery as such, though she does so more subtly. As pointed out in Chapter Five, most of the narrative depicts Doris’s quest for freedom and her attempts to escape, which forms a contrast to July’s story. Similarly to the antebellum slave narrative, abolition remains something which is anticipated throughout the plot, and it is only in the postscript that the reader learns about the time “when freedom came” (BR 261). However, in contrast to the antebellum varieties, which used postscripts or supplements to appeal to the Queen or publish arguments against slavery, Doris’s postscript is concerned with the lives of her friends and family, and with how her own life continued after her escape45 . One might assume that this creates a link to other contemporary slave narratives as they too draw attention to their protagonists’ subjectivity. This is for instance illustrated by Octavia Butler’s Kindred or Toni Morrison’s Beloved,46 which indeed allow readers access to the former slaves’ subjectivity and are therefore less stereotypical in their representations. However, the representation of their subjectivity remains rather limited because authors like Butler and Morrison construct a distinctly unified black subjectivity which foregrounds that the protagonists “still suffer the residual effects of slavery” (Spaulding 99). Thus, many protagonists in contemporary slave narratives still appear as types who display a considerable degree of conformity rather than as individuals. In this sense, slavery is still the most defining feature of their subjectivity and identity. It is exactly this aspect which distinguishes Blonde Roots and The Long Song from other contemporary varieties of the slave narrative: Doris and July reject slavery’s defining power over them. This is achieved by the novels’ focus on their respective protagonists’ individuality and by destabilising the apparently fixed nature of historical and personal representations.

Concluding Remarks: Towards Black British Slavery Literature? Andrea Levy’s The Long Song and Bernardine Evaristo’s Blonde Roots interact productively with the slave narrative genre in order to create an interactive heterotopic 45 A similar effect is achieved by the afterword in which her son appeals to July’s daughter, thereby once again privileging the personal rather than the political. 46 For further examples see for instance Spaulding (79f. and 99).

6 Unfamiliar Familiarity: Transforming Genres

space in which Britain’s exclusionary grand narrative of slavery might be challenged. The construction of such an interactive heterotopic space functions in a similar way as in Muslim interactions with the Bildungsroman genre, i.e. by creating an unfamiliar familiarity. For that purpose, The Long Song and Blonde Roots transform two particularly prominent features of the slave narrative genre, the use of authenticating material and the representation and position of slaves within the narratives. The analysis has shown that it is particularly the antebellum variety’s approach to these features which is transformed, while some of the contemporary forms’ methods are expanded rather than modified – perhaps because they have already appropriated the antebellum narrative’s patterns to some extent. Thus, in a step away from the antebellum variety both novels make use of additional material and individualised representations of the slave protagonists to portray their subjectivity and personal lives as the narratives’ focal points. In contrast to many contemporary narratives however, this subjectivity is detached from previously still limited frameworks. According to Timothy Spaulding, in most contemporary slave narratives “[t]he possibility of a post‐slavery identity that goes beyond the racial divide of black and white” seems daunting (Spaulding 99). In his study, such a possibility can ultimately only be realised in a “more radical rejection of realism” (ibid.), examples of which are the vampire narratives The Gilda Stories by Jewelle Gomez and Stars in My Pocket like Grains of Sand, a science fiction novel by Samuel R. Delaney, as they are set in the future “beyond a postmodern world” (ibid. 102). The Long Song and Blonde Roots on the other hand are clearly not set in the future, even though Evaristo’s novel destabilises notions of time. Instead, they consistently point to contemporary Britain and stress the links between its present and past, and it is this observation which can be considered the most profound transformation of the slave narrative genre’s familiar features. Similar tendencies can be found in the novels’ use of authenticating material and indeed throughout the overall plot: References to the King of England, Caroline Mortimer’s memories of England as well as July’s attempts to be as close to her English masters as possible all point to the prominence of England in the The Long Song. The casual way in which Doris talks about “Londolo” (7), “Mayfah” (4), the “Members of the House of Governors” (19), “Paddinto Station” (28), “SUS Laws” (31) and “Coasta Coffee” (33) leaves no doubt as to Britain’s involvement in the story. Just like Levy’s novel, Blonde Roots uses its postscript to draw attention to slavery’s lasting effect on Britain: “In the twenty‐first century, Bwana’s descendants still own the sugar estate and are among the grandest and wealthiest families in the United Kingdom of Great Ambossa, where they all reside” (261). Taking these references into account, it is well possible to speak about The Long Song and Blonde Roots as British novels. This is further emphasised by the fact that, as pointed out previously, a preoccupation with the past in order to shape and make sense of the present is an essential element of black British literature. Look-

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ing back at the development of the slave narrative illustrated at the beginning of the present chapter, it soon becomes obvious that it has always borrowed from different genres. Following the appropriation by contemporary writers from the 1960s onwards, the conventionalised antebellum variety has turned into a form which is so flexible and dynamic that it is exactly this versatility which becomes its defining feature. What has remained rather stable, on the other hand, is the African American context which has only very rarely been broken up, and the ideological functions which have shifted from abolition to the construction of a unified black subjectivity. Quite strikingly, The Long Song and Blonde Roots transform or expand particularly these two features: the African American background is substituted with a distinctly British context, and both novels promote a subjectivity in which slavery is not a defining feature, but instead a legacy which concerns black and white Britons. Consequently, it might be possible to categorise The Long Song and Blonde Roots as examples of black British slavery literature: Since both novels reference the antebellum and other contemporary slave narratives, and also share the central concerns of black British literature, this term seems open enough to accommodate the productive and creative ways in which Levy’s and Evaristo’s works engage with the topic of slavery. Moreover, rather than being confronted with suffering or passive protagonists who use their narratives to foreground the horrors of slavery, readers encounter two (in July’s case at least retrospectively) active women who decline to serve as examples for illustrating historical events and developments. Indeed, they foreground their personal stories in which slavery is relegated to the background. Even more significantly, they refuse to accept the responsibility for remembering slavery and its ancestors alone and instead involve Britain. Thus, the familiarity evoked by the integration of familiar patterns and themes in interrupted. The unfamiliar familiarity created in this process engages the reader in an active reception process which requires him/her to compare his/her expectations to their actual realisation in the two novels. What this creates is an interactive heterotopic space. The various strategies used in The Long Song and Blonde Roots foreground Britain’s involvement in slavery – a representation which potentially destabilises the British grand narrative of abolition. Readers’ exploration of Britain’s slave ancestry in an interactive heterotopic space might then potentially lead to a transformation of exclusionary boundaries which maintain established assumptions about Britain’s slave ancestry, but also more generally white supremacy or Britain’s role as an abolitionist rather than a beneficiary of slavery. Obviously, the extent to which the interactive heterotopic space’s potential for change and transformation is realised depends on readers’ original attitudes and, in this particular case, perhaps also on their closeness to Britain. Still, the strategies employed in the narratives promote a perspective which is likely to create an inclusive and critical outlook on Britain’s legacy of slavery.

7 Closeness and Distance: Creating Ideological Positions for the Reader

In order to realise its heterotopic potential for transformation, an interactive heterotopic space must engage the reader in an active reception process. Chapter Six illustrated how this can be achieved by creating ‘unfamiliar familiarity’ in terms of genre conventions. In a next step, the present chapter intends to analyse how the novels by Diran Adebayo, David Dabydeen, Bernardine Evaristo, and Andrea Levy generate distance from and closeness to their respective ideological positions, thereby guiding the reader to a particular position. It is argued here that the novels’ narrative situations construct a particular position for the reader which has the potential to shape his/her perspective. The positions created in the novels differ profoundly from one another and affect the creation of interactive heterotopic spaces and their potential for change and transformation. As stated previously, interactive heterotopic spaces depend on the interaction between reader and text, and aim at creating a space in which existing norms, structures and hierarchies can be reassessed. That said, interacting and reassessing provide readers with options: they can agree or disagree with the positions foregrounded in a novel1 . It is suggested here that agreement or disagreement can be generated by creating closeness to or distance from the implied reader and by the use of unreliable and particularly world‐constructing narration. Thus, the present chapter focuses on both closeness and distance, and their potential for instigating interactive processes. This is also why this chapter employs the terms ‘closeness’ and ‘distance’ rather than for instance (a lack of) ‘empathy’ and ‘sympathy’, which have in the past frequently been associated with literature’s social or anthropological function2 . While empathy implies that “we feel what we believe to be the emotions of others”, sympathy refers to “feelings for another” (Keen 5, emphasis 1 Of course, ‘distance’ can refer to the reader’s complete rejection of the text, which excludes the possibility of his/her interacting with it. However, as will soon be pointed out, the term ‘distance’ is here used to describe the reader’s critical attitude to the perspective foregrounded in the text, which is guided and brought about by his/her interaction with particular textual strategies. 2 Examples include Suzanne Keen’s Empathy and the Novel and Martha Nussbaum’s Poetic Justice: The Literary Imagination and Public Life.

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in the original)3 . Thus, even though there are variations in meaning, both concepts rely on the reader’s identification with protagonists or plot lines presented in a narrative. The term ‘closeness’ is therefore meant to include the concepts of sympathy and empathy and express a position constructed for the reader by the text which is close to the perspective foregrounded in the text. However, distance can be equally effective in creating an interactive heterotopic space. In the context of drama, Bertold Brecht pointed out that a number of techniques have an ‘alienation effect’. Even though Brecht refers to the theatre and lists dramatic devices as examples4 , the fact remains that as an aesthetic strategy, alienating the perceiver from an object – such as a narrative text for instance – can “free socially‐conditioned phenomena from that stamp of familiarity which protects them against our grasp today” (Brecht 192). According to Brecht, disrupting the narrative illusion of immediacy makes the perceiver take on a more distant position which allows him/her to reflect on what s/he sees or reads. Thus, even though distance might not cause the reader to feel close to a protagonist or perspective presented in a text, it can still contribute to the creation of an interactive heterotopic space and guide the reader’s interpretation. In that sense, distance as an aesthetic strategy can support social change and transformation. In order to ascertain how the novels under consideration create an interactive heterotopic space, the present chapter will first of all focus on narrative interactions with the concept of the implied reader in Adebayo’s and Dabydeen’s works. In a second step, it will explore the use of unreliable and world‐constructing narration in Levy’s The Long Song and Evaristo’s Blonde Roots. Both strategies generate positions of closeness to or distance from the novels’ ideological bias for the reader, thereby potentially contributing significantly to an active reading process which might destabilise exclusionary boundaries.

7.1

Between Reinforcing and Generating Perspectives: Narrative Interactions with the Implied Reader

In the context of the present chapter, the definition of closeness and distance is based on the assumption that they are supposed to be understood as positions which the reader can take with regard to the narrative s/he is presented with, and which allow him/her to engage productively with it, thereby creating an interactive 3 In order to illustrate the distinction between empathy and sympathy, Suzanne Keen gives the following example: “Empathy: I feel what you feel. I feel your pain. Sympathy: I feel a supportive emotion about your feelings. I feel pity for your pain” (5, original emphasis). 4 For an overview see for example Brecht’s essays “Alienation Effects in Chinese Acting” and “Short Description of a New Technique of Acting” in Brecht in Theatre: The Development of an Aesthetic, edited by John Willett (1964).

7 Closeness and Distance: Creating Ideological Positions for the Reader

heterotopic space. It appears conducive to make use of the spatial dimension surrounding those two terms. Being close to or distant from something, somewhere or someone establishes a spatial relation between two different entities. It is suggested here that positions of closeness or distance can be created through varying degrees of mediacy and access to the narrative, which result from the prominence of an ‘implied reader’, the use of different narrative situations, focalisation and different modes of representing consciousness, as well as modes of showing or telling. Wolfgang Iser’s concept of an ‘implied’ reader is highly relevant when it comes to constructing positions of closeness to or distance from the protagonists or, more generally, the plot. Much has been said about levels of literary narrative communication5 . It is generally agreed that it consists of communication between the protagonists (story level), between narrator and narratee (discourse level), as well as between reader and author (nonfictional level). However, there are also models which include an implied author and an implied reader, the latter of which will be of particular importance in the present chapter. Wolf Schmid emphasises that there are different concepts of the implied reader, many of which understand the implied reader as a “presumed addressee” or an “ideal recipient” (302). Iser criticises such concepts as he considers their concern with results too restrictive (30). Instead, he suggests “turning away from the results produced and focusing on that potential in the text which triggers the re‐creative dialectics in the reader” (ibid.). In line with the rest of his reader‐response theory, he uses the concept of the implied reader to pay attention to the structures of the text which, combined with the reader’s predispositions, possess the potential to guide the reader’s understanding of a text. Thus, the implied reader “is crucial to understanding the meaning of a work” (de Bruyn 106). The implied reader is one of those structures. Iser defines the implied reader as “a network of response‐inviting structures, which impel the reader to grasp the text” (34). Consequently, the implied reader is by no means empirical. Instead, s/he is “firmly planted in the structure of the text; he is a construct” (ibid.). Monika Fludernik illustrates this aspect with an example: Thus it can be said that many of Dickens’s novels embody a very bourgeois world view, in spite of containing a good deal of social criticism. In point of fact, these texts tend to uphold the Victorian work ethic and condone the Victorian mystification of sexuality. The implied reader will be a contemporary agreeing with those views, a role into which the actual reader may or may not slip. (26) 5 There are various models which consist of different numbers of levels. See for instance Didier Coste’s Narrative as Communication or Ansgar Nünning’s Grundzüge eines kommunikationstheoretischen Modells der erzählerischen Vermittlung: Die Funktion der Erzählinstanz in den Romanen George Eliots.

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What this suggests is that the real reader is free to distance himself from the position or perspective constructed for an implied reader. Iser foregrounds that the implied reader takes on “the presence of a recipient without necessarily defining him: this concept prestructures the role to be assumed by each recipient” (34). This remark draws attention to two important aspects: Firstly, that the implied reader is the image or anticipation of a recipient who is not necessarily defined (ibid.), which means that texts might contain implied readers whose presence and character can be more or less prominent and tangible. Secondly, that the anticipation of such an implied reader prestructures the role the real reader is invited to take on. Thus, the implied reader can be considered “an expression of the role offered by the text” (Iser 37), which the real reader can either accept or reject. As such, it becomes clear that the concept of the implied reader and the position it offers to the real reader are closely related to a text’s ideological implications. The position – or ideological framework – created for the implied reader might conflict or coincide with the real reader’s framework, and consequently, closeness or distance might be generated and result in the construction of an interactive heterotoptic space. Another factor which plays a significant role in inducing closeness or distance is mediacy, which Franz Karl Stanzel6 considers a generic characteristic of narrative (248). Indeed, the fact that narrative texts are always mediated brings about a sense of distance. However, according to Stanzel, there are three different narrative situations which can be used to create varying degrees of distance. The three narrative situations put forward by Stanzel are the first‐person narrative situation, the authorial narrative situation, and the figural narrative situation. Each of these situations is structured by the narrative elements of person, perspective and mode (Stanzel 249). While ‘person’ refers to the narrator of a text, ‘perspective’ describes the degree of insight (internal or external) the narrator has (ibid.). When it comes to ‘mode’, Stanzel distinguishes between teller- and reflector‐characters which are related to but not identical with “the two narrative styles of ‘telling’ and ‘showing’” which will soon be discussed in more detail (ibid.). Sara Strauß points out that first‐person narratives “are prominent for unveiling the protagonist’s most intimate thoughts and feelings” (36), which implies an internal perspective. In an authorial narrative situation, the narrator has an external perspective and is usually omniscient (Fludernik 92), while in a figural narrative situation the narrator 6 Critics have argued that Stanzel’s model, and particularly its illustration in a typological circle, is too limited. However, the present chapter will still make use of Stanzel’s terminology when necessary. Its advantage lies in the continuum provided by the typological circle, which accounts for shifts and transitions, as well as its prototypical character. As Monika Fludernik has pointed out, Stanzel’s model “locates recognized and historically relevant types of the novel on his circle” and therefore provides readers with orientation and clarity (103).

7 Closeness and Distance: Creating Ideological Positions for the Reader

vanishes behind a reflector‐figure through whose consciousness the story is mediated (ibid. 93). Thus, it seems plausible that the person, perspective and mode which dominate a narrative situation can have considerable impact on the degrees of mediacy a narrative contains. Consequently, those degrees can be assumed to shape the position constructed for the implied reader, which is then, in the reading process, offered to the real reader who might engage in a productive interaction with the text. An alternative, more detailed approach is proposed by Gérard Genette. In Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method, he concentrates on five narrative elements: order, duration, frequency, mood, and voice. It is particularly the distinction between mood and voice which proves productive in the analysis of narrative texts. ‘Voice’ refers to the question ‘Who speaks?’, as opposed to mood’s ‘Who sees?’. In this context, he introduces narrative situations which he calls ‘homodiegetic’, where the narrator is part of the story, ‘heterodiegetic’, where the narrator is not part of the story, and ‘autodiegetic’, where the narrator is not only part of the story but also its (main) protagonist (Genette 244f.). Monika Fludernik observes that the “major advantage of this terminological innovation is that there is no confusion about the use of the first‐person pronoun. Homo/heterodiegetic defines the relationship between the narrator and the fictional world” (98). Other aspects which belong to the category of voice are the time of narration (subsequent, simultaneous, prior, or interpolated) and narrative levels (extradiegetic, (intra)diegetic, and hypodiegetic), which can contribute significantly to generating closeness or distance (ibid. 99). Mood (‘Who sees?’, point of view) is the category which is most relevant to the upcoming analysis. Genette distinguishes between perspective and distance (162). Perspective refers to the idea of focalisation, and thus the point of view (ibid. 185f.). Regardless of who the narrator is – or whose voice is telling a story – it is possible to experience the events through the eyes or consciousness of different protagonists who are not necessarily identical with the narrator. The reader experiences the events from the point of view of a particular focaliser who brings him/her rather close to that protagonist, but can also be limiting as the reader’s experience is dependent on that of the focaliser protagonist. Genette proposes that there are three degrees of focalisation which can shift within a narrative. Zero focalisation describes a narrative situation with “what English‐language criticism calls narrative with omniscient narrator” (Genette 189). Internal focalisation can be fixed, where the events are perceived through the eyes or consciousness of one protagonist, variable, where focalisation shifts between the perspectives of two protagonists, or multiple, where events are presented from the point of view of many different protagonists (ibid. 189f.). In stories with external focalisation, the reader has no access whatsoever to the protagonist’s thoughts or feelings (190). Thus, Genette points to the fact that different modes of presentation – for instance the degree of focalisation – can provide the reader with varying levels of closeness to or distance

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from the focaliser and his/her point of view. For that reason, focalisation plays an essential role in creating closeness or distance. An aspect which is closely related to focalisation is the representation of a protagonist’s consciousness. There is an ongoing debate about whether narrators can function as focalisers and report a protagonist’s consciousness7 . The present chapter ties its position in this respect to Matías Martínez and Michael Scheffel, who consider different techniques of representing consciousness such as for instance stream of consciousness, interior monologue or free indirect discourse “devices of internal focalisation” (229). In her extremely interesting study on English stream of consciousness fiction, Sara Strauß explains that in addition to “traditional modes of overt mediation of a character’s sentiments by a first person or authorial narrator”, there are also “modes and techniques which achieve a more immediate representation of the fictional character’s mental processes” (36). These include for instance the use of free indirect discourse, interior monologue, and stream of consciousness (ibid. 36). Interestingly, while those techniques provide the reader with apparently unmediated access to the protagonists’ consciousness, they can also have a “distancing effect”, for instance when there is an ironic discrepancy between the character’s thoughts and reality (ibid. 44). It therefore seems likely that modes of presenting consciousness contribute significantly to the construction of closeness or distance. What is equally significant in this respect is Genette’s understanding of distance and thus ‘showing’ and ‘telling’, which were already mentioned above in the description of Stanzel’s model. Tracing the opposition between showing and telling back to Plato’s conceptualisation of mimêsis and diêgêsis, Genette suggests that telling in the sense of diegesis is “more distant than ‘imitation’ [mimesis]: it says less, and in a more detailed way” (163, original emphasis). With regard to mimesis, Genette stresses that showing in narrative can never be a complete imitation. As stated previously, narratives by their very nature are always mediated and consequently, they can be told “in a manner which is detailed, precise, ‘alive’, and in that way give more or less the illusion of mimesis”, but never achieve any form of unmediated imitation (ibid. 164, original emphasis). Indeed, Genette maintains that “all we have and can have is degrees of diegesis” (ibid.). Interestingly, Stanzel’s teller vs. reflector modes are closely related to the opposition between telling and showing because they also generate different forms of mediacy and thus varying degrees of closeness or distance. Monika Fludernik explains that the teller mode relies on a clearly distinctive narrator, whereas in reflector mode, the narrator is less prominent, thereby producing an “illusion of immediacy” (2009. 35). 7 See for instance James Phelan’s essay “Why Narrators Can Be Focalizers—and Why It Matters” in New Perspectives on Narrative Perspective, edited by Willie van Peer and Seymour Chatman, SUNY, 2001, pp. 51-64.

7 Closeness and Distance: Creating Ideological Positions for the Reader

The opposition between showing and telling is particularly useful here as it implies the positions of distance and closeness which are at the centre of this chapter. This is also emphasised by Tobias Klauk and Tilmann Köppe’s conceptualisation of that polarity: Using a spatial metaphor, the showing mode is also called a narrative with ‘small distance’, presumably because readers get the impression that they are somehow near the events of the story, while the telling mode correspondingly evokes the impression of a ‘large distance’ between readers and the events. (846) The spatial register they employ to illustrate the effects of the telling and showing modes corresponds well to the ‘position’ constructed for an implied reader and which the real reader can then interact with. Klauk and Köppe go on to list a number of features which can be understood as indicators for one of the two modes respectively, which include for instance, among others, the narrator’s presence or absence, explicitness or implicitness, or the speed of narration (850). However, they also emphasise that academic opinions diverge greatly in this respect (ibid. 846). For that reason, they introduce a more general approach which is based on “the idea that the telling vs. showing distinction captures different impressions a reader may have upon reading the text” (ibid. 851). This makes it possible to analyse a variety of indicators in the context of the narrative in which they occur and thus shifts the focus to their effect on the reader rather than on their mere existence within a text. Thus, it can be assumed that aspects such as the prominence of an implied narrator, the narrative situation, focalisation and modes of representing consciousness, or the distinction between showing and telling play a crucial role in establishing positions of closeness and distance, and thereby also in the construction of an interactive heterotopic space.

Exploring Positions of Closeness and Distance in Some Kind of Black and The Intended The novels by David Dabydeen and Diran Adebayo not only differ in their respective narrative situations, but also in the way they use closeness and distance to create interactive heterotopic spaces. Adebayo’s Some Kind of Black employs a third‐person heterodiegetic narrator who has a rather omniscient perspective which is mostly focalised through the main protagonist Dele8 . Dabydeen’s The Intended on the 8 Roy Sommer notes that there is a temporary shift in focalisation from Dele to his father in order to illustrate the generational conflict between first- and second‐generation immigrants. However, he also remarks that it is Dele whose perspective remains dominant throughout the narrative (“Texts” 357f.). Similarly, Susanne Reichl also explains that “most of the novel is narrated from Dele’s viewpoint”, but that there are short shifts, for instance to his friend Concrete, which “can be explained by fictional requirements, such as Dele’s absence in a particular situation” (133).

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other hand contains a first‐person autodiegetic narrative situation in which the unnamed narrator retrospectively shares memories of his teenage years in London and his childhood in Guyana with the reader. The concept of the implied reader is essential in the construction of interactive heterotopic spaces as it encourages the reader to accept or reject the perspective offered to him/her by the text, thereby expressing closeness to or distance from that position. With regard to Some Kind of Black and The Intended, those perspectives, and their potential to create change and transformation, can be considered to be rather contrary. It is argued here that the heterotopic potential of Adebayo’s novel relies on the fact that the implied reader’s perspective remains rather vague and is not particularly prominent, which means that the real reader has to reconstruct the position created throughout the narrative in interaction with the text. In The Intended, on the other hand, the implied reader features very strongly within the narrative, and an interactive heterotopic space can only be established if the real reader distances him-/herself from the position created for the implied reader or, more indirectly, from the narrator himself. However, the narrative is organised in a way which focuses on generating closeness to the implied reader’s position, which means that it only has a restricted ability to place the real reader in interaction with the text. This circumstance might interfere with the creation of an interactive heterotopic space in which questions of belonging and exclusion might be renegotiated. The Prominence of the Implied Reader As will soon be illustrated, the implied reader’s perspective in Dabydeen’s narrative is a (white) dominant‐hegemonic one. Significantly, this perspective generates a standard to which the unnamed narrator is seen to be aspiring throughout the narrative. In fact, he presents himself as inferior to this dominant‐hegemonic position and constantly foregrounds his efforts to meet the standard it represents. Thus, it can be assumed that the narrative situation is supposed to compensate for the narrator’s feelings of inferiority and generate the closeness to the standard he so adamantly wants to achieve. A significant pattern in Dabydeen’s novel is the narrator’s continuous effort to win the favour of an implied reader who represents everything he dreams of: privilege and belonging to the dominant social group. A first example of this is the narrator’s use of language. When talking about a letter from his mother, the narrator chooses to report her words by using the Creole she speaks in: “The last one [his mother’s letter] told how the girls growing up and doing well. The eldest secure job as typist, the rest still taking schooling. Things be in short supply” (I 83). According to Russell West, the fact that the narrative contains both Creole and standard English implies “a concrete textual performance of a polyphonic notion of identity” (227). However, the narrator then phrases his reply in Standard English: “I have a summer job earning a good salary […] , and I enclose twenty dollars for you. The shops in England are crammed with goods,

7 Closeness and Distance: Creating Ideological Positions for the Reader

anything anybody could wish for. The English are very nice to us” (I 83f.). Thus, the narrator’s choice of register and grammar clearly indicates a bias again. His use of Standard English, particularly in the situation just described, creates closeness to the implied reader rather than to his mother, and might be seen as another effort to convince the implied reader of his difference from members of his ethnic group. This is a tendency which can be observed throughout the narrative and is supported by Helge Nowak’s observation that despite the novel’s use of Creole, standard English remains the “main medium of narration”, which makes it “easily accessible for a British audience” (81). Further evidence of the narrator’s attempts to create closeness to the constructed white dominant‐hegemonic reader is the expression of opinions and perspectives which he considers typical of him/her. This behaviour can be seen as an attempt to establish closeness to the implied reader as a representative of the dominant‐hegemonic standard. The narrator’s response to a racist attack on his school friend Nasim clearly illustrates this. When the narrator visits Nasim in hospital he confesses that he is distressed, feeling a bitter contempt, especially at the sight of his stupid, helpless eyes peeping out between the bandages. […] His wounds were meant for all of us. […] I knew immediately that Patel, Shaz and I could never be friends again, because he had allowed himself to be humiliated. We would avoid him in school because he reminded us of our own weakness, our own fear. (I 14f.) On this occasion, the narrator seems to acknowledge his emotions, which is rather untypical of him. However, he only does so to distance himself from Nasim and at the same time everyone who is perceived as ‘different’ because of his/her ethnic background. Rather than expressing anger at Nasim’s attackers and the racism they represent, he feels aggressive towards Nasim, their victim. What this illustrates is the extent to which the narrator has internalised a sense of inferiority9 . Thus, by opening up emotionally, he apparently offers the reader access to his feelings. Quite significantly though, this closeness is used to position himself as far away as possible from potential racist attacks. As a result, the narrator appears rather hard to categorise and perhaps even suspicious, which might lead to the reader’s rejection of the narrator and the opinion he expresses. A similar effect is achieved by the narrator’s description of Karim’s family at the hospital: I was embarrassed for all of us, for the several Asians wrapped in alien, colourful clothes who whispered to each other in a strange tongue and crowded protectively but belatedly around their beaten son. No doubt they presented a right sight to 9 Russell West-Pavlov comes to a similar conclusion when he suggests that The Intended is about “xenophobia” and “internalized inferiority” (50).

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the white patients and guests who kept eyeing them. I was sure I could hear a few giggles. I knew then that I was not an Asian but that these people were yet my kind and my embarrassment. I wished I were invisible. (I 15) What is striking here is the considerable extent to which the narrator seems to adopt what he assumes to be the perspective of white people. He uses adjectives like ‘alien’ and ‘strange’ to describe his friend’s family and becomes rather explicit when he distances himself from them, referring to them as his ‘embarrassment’. This tendency intensifies as the narrative progresses. Observing a number of black teenagers, he remarks: I wished they would behave, act respectfully, keep quiet, read a book, anything, instead of displaying such vulgar rowdiness. No wonder they’re treated like animals, I heard myself thinking, distancing myself from all this noisy West Indian‐ness, and feeling sympathy for the outnumbered whites. (I 127) Once again, he affiliates himself with the more dominant group of British society and even resorts to racist insults and ideas. The fact that he contrasts the black youths to keeping quiet and reading a book serves as a reminder of the Oxford Myth, which seems to embody the standard he aspires to. This is also emphasised by Mark Stein, who suggests that the narrator’s development is “a process of cultural whitewashing” (155). At the same time, people with a black or white ethnic background are presented as binary oppositions which display negative or positive attributes respectively. What the passages quoted above present the reader with is a sense of bias towards a white background as represented by the implied reader. The narrator never questions his impressions of white or non‐white people and does not even consider the thought that white Britons might not necessarily feel what he believes them to. At the same time, this very bias serves to define the implied reader: It seems very unlikely that the implied reader to whom the narrator is speaking throughout the narrative is a tolerant white person or even a person of colour. Analysing the passage quoted above, Karen McIntyre identifies a “strategy of interpellation” which serves to “provide an interrogation of the circulation and proliferation of notions of otherness, while nevertheless revealing just how deeply entrenched and pervasive such value judgements have become” (166). While this interpretation clearly draws attention to the fact that the passage in question is directed at a particular reader, it still seems to confuse the implied reader with a real reader. McIntyre apparently refers to a real reader who, she argues, will be “decolonize[d]” (ibid. 154) by the text. What is problematic about this approach is that it automatically assumes that the text will have a particular, definable effect on the ‘real’ reader. In contrast to that, adding an additional textual structure – the implied reader – makes it possible to adopt a more complex and nuanced perspective

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on the narrator’s internalised racism and bias towards the implied reader’s norms and standards. The most intense expression of the narrator’s bias occurs when he recalls an encounter with his friend Joseph: He [Joseph] was sweating heavily. He must have been a spectacle on the road, wrapped in a raincoat when all about people were cavorting half‐stripped in parks and ice‐cream vans were kerb‐crawling for mothers and infants. No one though took much notice of him, accustomed as they were to the sight of black youth wearing colourful drapes over their heads beneath which snaked locks of hair, or fetching heavy radio‐cassette players on their shoulders like Caliban’s logs. It was impolite to stare and in any case they were dangerous creatures, quick to take offence, whip out knives or claw at people’s faces. You merely giggled or fumed behind their backs and wished that they would be banished back to the trees of Africa and the West Indies. It was indecent the way young daughters nurtured for fifteen years through school and home abandoned love and sense to fondle their tails in dance halls. (I 77) What is particularly striking here is a shift in focalisation. At the beginning of the quote above, the narrator observes the scene until his perspective seems to become that of the prototypical dominant‐hegemonic, potentially racist implied reader. The pronoun ‘they’ is initially used to describe the people in a park, whereas it then turns into a means of expressing the thoughts of someone who might occupy the position constructed for the implied reader: ‘they’ now refers to stereotypically portrayed black people. Moreover, the use of ‘you’ appears to generalise the attitude expressed and address the implied reader at the same time, which allows the narrator to position himself close to the implied reader. It is also important to note that as an autodiegetic first‐person narrator, the narrator’s perspective is limited. The fact that he is able to reproduce what can be assumed to be a representation of the implied reader’s perspective illustrates the degree to which it is part of the narrative situation: It has become inherent to the narrative and thus, to return to Iser’s terminology introduced at the beginning of this chapter, forms part of the ‘response‐inviting structures’ (34) which offer the reader a role to take on or reject. In Dabydeen’s novel, the strong presence of this role – the white dominant‐hegemonic and potentially racist implied reader – throughout the narrative creates the framework against which the real reader’s reading process takes place. On the plot level, it is certainly safe to say that the narrator does everything to create and maintain the sense of closeness to the implied reader he is talking to, which means that this closeness is offered to the real reader as well. What is significant is that this tendency conflicts with the construction of an interactive heterotopic space. Such spaces are supposed to support the re‐examination of established structures and social hierarchies and therefore aim at destabilising

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or at least relativising the superiority of the standard represented by the implied reader. This means that the successful construction of an interactive heterotopic space here relies on the real reader’s rejection of the position offered by the implied reader, and therefore on distance from that position. Of course, distancing might also occur as a result of the narrator‐protagonist’s highly deliberate attempts to win and manipulate the (implied) reader’s favour. However, the strong prominence of the implied reader’s bias and the narrator’s closeness to that position seem to complicate the construction of distance but may also facilitate it, depending on the real reader’s attitudes. Adebayo’s narrative makes use of a different approach, as it is not the implied reader who is most prominent here, but instead the third‐person heterodiegetic narrator. While Dabydeen’s narrator aims at meeting the implied reader’s standard, the narrator in Some Kind of Black wants to bring the implied reader close to the protagonist Dele. This becomes obvious, for instance, by the narrator’s efforts to explain things which the implied (or real) reader might not necessarily know. When Dele tricks the hostess of a party into playing his favourite music, the narrator not only reports how he proceeds in this respect, but also provides the implied reader with background knowledge necessary for understanding. Tabitha, the party hostess, asks Dele to select music for them to dance to. His response is as follows: “Trust me,” Dele soothed, pointing to a tape marked Breaking-Up at the Basement, “this is pure west London sounds.” The Basement was a club that played to a Love Has No Colour crowd in London’s Ladbroke Grove. The Basement was Tabitha’s spiritual home although, hailing from Tewkesbury, she had never been there. “That sounds wild, Delboy.” Her face was patchily ruddy; a combination of the liquor and fall‐out from the first sunny day of the year. […] Dele smiled. The bogus Basement label worked every time. In fact, the tape sticker was a cover of tunes altogether more hardcore and X-rated but this way you could slip them on and no one would complain. (SKB 18) The narrator’s remarks on the club and on how it influences Tabitha’s attitude towards the music Dele is about to play supports the reading process of those who are not familiar with the London club scene and Tabitha’s taste in music. At the same time, this knowledge allows the (implied) reader to form a clearer picture of Dele. The fact that the narrator considers it necessary to share this knowledge suggests that the implied reader is someone who is perhaps not part of the London club scene and therefore has a different background than Dele. At the same time, the narrator wants the implied reader to understand Dele. The aspect just mentioned points to another characteristic of the implied reader in Adebayo’s novel: S/he is considerably less defined and tangible than the one in The Intended, where it seems possible to develop a profile of the implied reader in terms of social background and ethnicity, and perhaps even a particular ideological out-

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look. In Some Kind of Black however, the implied reader – and therefore the position offered to the real reader – is more open and less fixed. Consequently, the reading process needs to be more active, as it depends on the real reader to figure out which perspective the narrative promotes, rather than being directly confronted with one. However, this does not imply that the narrative does not construct a bias towards a specific perspective or ideological position. In this case, it is Dele’s position – and not that of the implied reader, as in The Intended – which is foregrounded and represents something which might perhaps be described as a standard as well. It is also significant to note that in Adebayo’s novel, this bias is generated throughout the narrative as a process, whereas in Dabydeen’s novel the bias is rather explicitly and directly presented as a fixed result within the narrative. Thus, in Some Kind of Black it is the implied reader who is asked to follow the bias created by the narrator, and not the other way around, as in The Intended. What this means is that the construction of an interactive space in Some Kind of Black depends on different factors than in The Intended: The heterotopic potential of Dabydeen’s narrative requires the real reader to distance him-/herself from the implied reader’s dominant position. In contrast to that, in Adebayo’s novel an interactive heterotopic space is likely to be opened up by the reader’s closeness to the text’s most prominent, and thus, Dele’s position. Interactions Between Narrators and (Implied) Readers: Narrative Situation and Tense Even though the sense of closeness between the narrator and the implied reader in The Intended attempts to guide the real reader towards the implied reader’s position, the novel’s use of first‐person narration carries the potential to challenge this tendency. As stated previously, narratives which are presented by a first‐person narrator are usually associated with closeness to the narrator. At the same time, the reader is intensely dependent on the narrator’s reliability and trustworthiness. Still, even though a first‐person narrator might be unreliable, the fact remains that the reader expects rather immediate access to the narrator’s thoughts, which facilitates closeness. Particularly when the first‐person narrator is an autodiegetic one, readers are likely to assume that they will learn enough about him/her to form a relatively clear picture of the narrator in their minds. Thus, unreliability does not necessarily preclude closeness. In contrast to the usual associations and expectations with regard to first‐person narratives, Dabydeen’s narrator is neither easily graspable nor identifiable for the reader. Throughout the narrative, the autodiegetic narrator remains without a name. From what he recounts it is safe to say that he is male, was born in Guyana and came to Britain as a teenager, where he was abandoned by his father and subsequently grew up in a home, from where he later moved on to a rented room in

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Balham. He is highly ambitious, interested in literature and writing, studies hard, and dreams of going to Oxford – a plan which he ultimately succeeds in. What he also communicates rather openly is his interest in Janet, a white middle‐class girl who hesitates to introduce him to her parents and instead promises to do so once he has graduated from Oxford (I 173). Already the beginning of the narrative contributes to the impression of an intangible, unidentifiable and distant narrator. The novel starts in medias res with the narrator’s detailed description of his school friends in London. He talks about their backgrounds and about their relationship to one another. Even though he sometimes admits to his limited perspective (“I have always suspected”, I 8) he knows a lot about each and every one of them. What is striking however is the way he describes himself, which is in stark contrast to the richness of detail used to characterise his friends: I, the medium to dark brown West-Indian, was merely clumsy in my schoolclothes. The jacket seemed to heavy, it scratched my skin everywhere, the tie choked my neck, the trousers flapped around my ankles and the shoes swallowed up my feet. (I 8f.) What becomes clear here is that it is his clothes rather than the narrator himself who are presented at the centre – and the active agents or subjects – of the sentence. Readers learn nothing about how those particular clothes make him feel or what he thinks about them. The impression created is one of distance and reluctance. Readers – both implied and real – learn more about his friends than about the narrator himself. In fact, the only longer passage about the narrator contains a description of who he would like to be rather than who he is. He remarks that he wishes “I [the narrator] were Patel”, his friend, and then goes on to describe what he would do (I 10). Interestingly, the passage moves from the past tense to the present tense which generates a sense of immediacy. However, it is significant that the narrator does not comment on why he would like to be his friend Patel, but instead presents a scene which simply creates an impression of the narrator as someone else. The shift from the past to the present tense just mentioned above is one of four instances in which a similar tendency can be observed. In fact, the narrative remains rather vague in terms of time. Except for those four brief instances, most of it is narrated retrospectively in the past tense. As narrating selves, first‐person narrators usually report “from the perspective of a now older and wiser narrator” and as such “often indulge[…] in retrospection, evaluation and the drawing of moral conclusions” (Fludernik 90). In Dabydeen’s novel, the narrator behaves rather untypically not only because he refrains from morally evaluating his past, but also because it does not become clear where exactly he is placed in terms of the time of narration. In addition to the brief time shift mentioned above, there are three

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more, similar instances in which the narrative turns to the present tense. The first shift takes place when the narrator recounts the plot of an Indian film he watched in Guyana, followed by remarks about how the film makes him feel (I 136f.). Traditionally, the use of the present tense is considered more direct and immediate. Here, however, the passage starts with a plot summary, which suggests that the use of the present tense might be due to genre conventions. The plot description – which sounds rather similar to the narrator’s own hopes and plans for his future – is immediately succeeded by the narrator’s confession of his feelings: Hearing of his [the film protagonist’s] success a smile creases her [the film protagonist’s mother’s] face for the first time in years, she breathes deeply, and dies. I am sitting on a bench in the darkness of the cinema clutching a parcel of peanuts, afraid to let go. I hear a few women behind me sobbing and the grief so unsettles me that the peanuts fall from my hand. I too feel like crying in the darkness, where no one can see me. I want to cry and cry like the son, and bury my face in her bosom and never stop crying. When I go home I am so glad to see my mother. (I 137) The quote above is typical of the narrative’s approach to time and the narrator’s openness with regard to his feelings and emotions. In terms of time, the transition from film reality to the narrator’s reality seems blurred. The narrator’s emotional confession appears to form part of the plot description, which implies distance rather than the closeness usually associated with insight into a first‐person narrator’s feelings. As mentioned previously and soon to be discussed in greater detail, the narrator tends to eschew the conscious and open interaction with his emotions. A similar observation can be made in the quote above: When he admits that he wants to cry, he adds ‘like the son’, thereby referring to the film protagonist, and mentions the wish to ‘bury my face in her bosom’ – it is at this point that it becomes difficult to identify who the narrator is talking about: his own mother or the film protagonist’s mother. Thus, the narrator’s emotional outburst – which is rather out of character compared to his previous behaviour – becomes tied to the fictionalised and therefore constructed film plot and makes him difficult to grasp or identify. Consequently, the impression of closeness created here can finally be considered an illusion, which is, however, ultimately unsuccessful because the narrator’s close relationship to the implied reader makes him almost disappear behind the latter’s strong presence in the narrative. There are two other incidents in which the tense shifts from past to present, and both are related to the narrator’s time at the University of Oxford. On the first occasion, the narrator’s use of the present tense is instigated directly after recalling a memory of Joseph who asks “‘[c]an’t you see, all of it is me’” (I 139), which is followed by the narrator’s reply

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I couldn’t see, not for years, not until the solitary hours in Oxford University library trying to master the alien language of medieval alliterative poetry, the sentences wrenched and wrecked by strange consonants, refusing to be smooth and civilised, when Joseph returns to haunt me, and I begin to glimpse some meaning to his outburst. (ibid.) Quite strikingly, the passage to follow, written in the present tense, is the only one in which the narrator acknowledges his outsider status at Oxford and expresses doubt at the promise expressed in the Oxford Myth (I 140). Significantly, it is also the only occasion on which he does not seem to court the implied reader’s favour when he mentions that “those white Oxford students beside me bent over their book” and muses that “[t]hey too are a waste of time” (ibid.). This suggests some form of insight or realisation – of what, however, remains unclear at first –, thereby once again creating a sense of immediacy and closeness which is then however soon afterwards destroyed. The sentence “[w]e are mud, they the chiselled stone of Oxford that has survived centuries and will always be there” (I 141) re‐establishes the binaries which portray the white dominant‐hegemonic social group as superior and the narrator as inferior. At the same time however, it also seems to be the most intense renunciation of his hitherto firm and uncritical belief in the promise communicated by the Oxford Myth. Apparently, it is impossible for him to question preconceived concepts like the Oxford Myth as long as he aligns his thoughts – and in fact his narrative – with the implied reader’s perspective. The brief instance in which he challenges the superiority of the standard represented by the implied reader therefore remains without consequences. Instead, the narrator seems to distance himself from that particular statement as his remarks become more and more impersonal. The use of the pronouns ‘us’ and ‘they’ implies a less personal dimension than the use of ‘I’ would have indicated. Even more significantly, right after the remark just mentioned, the narrator reaffirms his trust in the Oxford Myth when he states that “I begin to despise Joseph […]. I will grow strong in this library, this cocoon, I will absorb its nutrients of scholarship, I will emerge from it and be somebody, some recognisable shape” (I 141). This time, the narrator’s identity – expressed through the pronoun ‘I’ – is much more prominent and identifiable than in his previous remark. Thus, the insight apparently gained at the beginning of the passage in the present tense is relativised by the impersonal expression of what could otherwise be described as a change of perspective, and then completely abandoned. The use of the present tense therefore seems to add immediacy to the incident described, but only to draw attention to the narrator’s unshakeable trust in the Oxford Myth10 . 10 Mark Stein reads the library scene rather differently and comes to the conclusion that the narrator’s admission to Oxford and the intertextuality of his narrative (see Chapter Four) signify “textual agency” (169). In its assessment of the narrator’s position at Oxford, Stein’s reading thus

7 Closeness and Distance: Creating Ideological Positions for the Reader

The third occasion in which the present tense is used takes place at the very end of the narrative. Waiting for the taxi to take him to Oxford, the narrator remarks that “I only know now, and what used to be. […] Soon the black cab will come scuttling along the road like a beetle. Its bright eyes will pick me up like prey, and soon I’ll be gone, me and all my things. One last breath, then I’ll climb in and be gone” (I 173, original emphasis). What is striking about this passage is the fact that it suspends all form of temporal orientation. So far it has been possible to assume that the narrator recounts his memories from a point in time at which he has at least begun his studies at Oxford, maybe even graduated from university already. Now that he announces his move to Oxford at the narrative’s very end, it becomes unclear to ascertain the time of narration. It is possible that the narrator uses the present tense here to provide the reader with access to his thoughts upon his departure for Oxford, thereby emphasising the importance of the University and the promise of transformation it holds. Significantly, though, the fact that this promise does not really seem to be fulfilled for the narrator undermines the Oxford Myth again, at least in the eyes of real readers who are able to distance themselves from the position offered by the text or from the narrator. What remains a fact however is that the use of the present tense – particularly because of its infrequency throughout the narrative – contributes to the intangibility and remoteness of the narrator. This impression is deepened by the use of focalisation. Throughout the first part of the narrative when the narrator remembers his school days with his friends, he tends to blend into the group. He frequently mentions “us boys” (I 7), “the rest of us” (12), and overall the pronoun ‘us’ seems to appear more often than ‘I’. As was described earlier, the tendency to use such forms points to a low degree of visibility and prominence of the narrator. He is difficult to grasp because he reveals so little about himself, while his friends are described more extensively. This tendency becomes even more intense when the narrator vanishes behind his friend Patel. The following passage illustrates this observation:

seems to have accepted the position offered by the text. However, focusing on the ways in which the text prestructures the reader’s interaction with the text, the present chapter argues that it is exactly this position which limits the novel’s potentially subversive elements: Only those readers who are able to distance themselves from the implied reader’s dominant position will recognise the latter’s self‐denial and probably wonder whether it is really enough to be able to “decipher texts” in an Oxford library to be “no longer an immigrant here” (I 139). Moreover, it is only when readers reject the implied reader’s norms and values or indeed feel alienated by the narrator’s overt attempts to meet the implied reader’s standard in the first place that the narrative’s intertextuality – which might otherwise function as a defamiliarising strategy similar to the one explored in Chapter Six – can unfold its potential for transformation.

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He could hardly suppress a whoop of relief as he settled down to the challenge of an unknown middle passage which would end in familiar moonlight. It was after he had stumbled through two or three sentences and studied the question again for clues to inspiration that panic seized him: ‘In the forest of the night’ . . . Fuck! They wanted the tiger described in the night‐time, whereas he had begun his essay in daylight. What was he going to do? He chewed his pen for a full minute, glancing around to see what Nasim and the rest of his friends were up to, until the solution burst upon him like the very dawn in his opening paragraph: he would switch the memorised passages, starting with the moon […] He put pen to paper once again, congratulating himself for his cleverness in manoeuvring out of a tight spot (‘unlike that bloody stupid tiger’, he thought), imagining the surprised look on his uncle’s face when he told him of the predicament and ingenious solution. (I 12f., original emphasis) What can be observed here is that events are perceived through Patel’s perspective. The narrator’s previous ‘the rest of us’ is substituted for Patel’s ‘the rest of his friends’ (I 13, emphasis added), which suggests that it is now Patel from whose point of view the reader is allowed to see. The narrator, on the other hand, becomes part of ‘his’, that is Patel’s, friends. Moreover, the passage above contains free indirect discourse (e.g. ‘What was he going to do’). Clearly, the use of free indirect discourse here weakens the narrator’s position within the narrative and makes him even less tangible. Generally, the fact that an autodiegetic narrator’s story focuses more on other, secondary protagonists or makes it difficult to identify him in the first place is likely to counteract the expectations usually triggered by the novel’s formal narrative situation. Indeed, the narrator here appears more like a peripheral first‐person narrator, a concept which Monika Fludernik considers unusual of autodiegetic first‐person narrators (90). She also notes that the integration of such a first‐person narrator makes “the main protagonist seem unapproachable, impenetrable or mysterious” (ibid.), an observation which is certainly true with regard to Dabydeen’s narrator but nonetheless comes unexpected given the narrator’s autodiegetic relationship to the plot. Quite significantly though, what is foregrounded instead is the implied reader’s position which the narrator almost appears to vanish behind or merge with. While the narrator’s peripheral presence might appear alienating and thereby potentially distancing, it is particularly the fact that this intangibility does not result in openness but is instead filled with the strong presence and impact of the implied reader’s position which weakens the potential for challenging that position.11 For that reason, only a real reader who disagrees with the implied 11 Russell West-Pavlov examines The Intended in the context of Dabydeen’s comments on the immigrant writer’s responsibility to counter racism through arts, education and other contributions (58f.). Referring to the novel’s potential integration in university and high school curricula, West-

7 Closeness and Distance: Creating Ideological Positions for the Reader

reader’s perspective in the first place is likely to detect the illusory nature of the closeness constructed12 . The reading process itself and its potential for instigating a critical attitude however are intensely limited by the narrator’s (potentially alienating) blending with the implied reader’s position, which supports the narrator’s intangibility. Interactions Between Narrators and (Implied) Readers: Telling vs. Showing Another striking characteristic of Dabydeen’s narrative is the fact that it is shaped by the narrator’s acts of telling rather than showing. Telling here indicates that the narrator courts the implied reader and tries to win his favour by giving him what he (apparently) wants. Consequently, this causes the narrator’s distance from his own life and makes him intangible, thereby offering the real reader a position of closeness to the implied reader and his presumed values rather than himself. Showing on the other hand allows the real reader to opt out or reject the position recreated in the process of showing, which takes away control from the narrator and his ability to guide the reading process. On some occasions, The Intended’s preference for telling occurs alongside a tendency which might be best described as escapism. As mentioned previously, the narrator usually avoids talking about his feelings or even allowing the reader to experience his emotions through his perspective. Thus, he mentions or labels an emotion rather than showing how he experiences it, which creates distance and makes him hard to grasp for the (real) reader. This is also the case when he remarks that “[t]he Home was unbearable” (I 61). It is obvious that the narrator associates the Home with negative emotions and experiences, but instead of giving reasons or sharing with the reader particular memories which might explain his opinion, he merely states that “[t]he Home was in fact a prison for youth, and the innocent who were taken there were soon converted to criminal ways” (I 60). He then goes on to describe Joseph and recalls a memory of Guyana – a typical pattern which occurs frequently at points when the reader would expect insight. Pavlov suggests that it might make students “run against the grain of the reproduction of hegemonic structures” (57). Similarly, in another essay he argues that despite the narrator’s self‐denial, “[t]he novel as a global narrative strategy”, its use of intertextuality and the integration of Creole works to “produce[e] a new notion of polyphonic postcolonial subjectivity” (West 234). However, considering the analysis above it becomes clear that such an effect depends largely on the students’, or, more generally speaking, readers’ ability to distance themselves from the extremely dominant implied reader’s position and the narrator (or from the teacher’s ability to make them challenge those two textual strategies). 12 As pointed out previously, the narrator’s continued attempts at courting the implied reader’s favour can be considered as a further option which might encourage the real reader to distance him-/herself from the implied reader’s dominant norms. However, since the distancing effect can here only be achieved rather indirectly via the narrator’s potentially alienating behaviour, this strategy, too, is one which remains rather limited and highly dependent on the real reader’s attitudes.

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Before his comment about the Home, the reader is presented with an incredibly detailed description of the narrator’s summer job at Battersea Fun Fair, which spreads across three and a half pages (I 57-60). Thus, it is particularly when compared to his otherwise close attention to details that his reluctance to elaborate on specific topics appears suspicious. Not only might it raise questions about his reliability, but also about his intentions: It remains open whether he simply wants to avoid glancing back to a potentially painful or traumatising past, or whether his evasion might result from his attempts to create closeness to the implied reader who is unlikely to have lived in a Home but would perhaps appreciate a hard‐working young man. In that sense, it is possible that the narrator’s act of telling rather than showing here contributes to his intangibility, thereby strengthening the implied reader’s perspective. Another example of this sense of escapism can be found when the narrator talks about his family in Guyana. Mirroring the pattern described above, the narrator initially shares his feelings with the reader: “I suddenly felt treasured in their [his friend Nasim’s family’s] presence, strangely moved by a sense of family” (I 22) and “I walked down Bedford Hill feeling sorry for myself, wishing I had a family to go home to” (ibid. 24). It is important to note that once again, the narrator summarises or labels his feelings rather than allowing the reader to experience them in greater detail. What then follows is a shift to Guyana, which in this context appears to be an escape from a moment in which he might have to acknowledge his emotions or even share them with the reader. Interestingly, even the memory he retreats to is presented as unstable as the narrator comments that [t]his is how I remember him, but perhaps in the treeless cold of Bedford Hill, vegetation rotting in the gutter and the whores climbing in and out of motorcars, I fabricate this memory, and his stick becomes a wand which with one wave conjures up a dream world of jamoon tee and tropical fruit whose tastes are now, like a magician’s trick, still fresh in my mouth. Perhaps I am still dreaming. (I 25) What this suggests is that the narrator seems to be at least somewhat aware of the escapist nature of his memory. At the same time, he himself relativises its truthfulness, which destroys the act of showing instigated by the way he recounts his memory of Guyana. Interestingly, unreliability is a factor which is often used to foreground the constructedness of a narrative, thereby encouraging the reader to question what s/he is presented with. In fact, the instances in which the narrator consciously seems to escape the present situation are the only ones in which the impression of closeness constructed by the narrator’s interaction with the implied reader is challenged: The fact that he wants to evade particular situations implies that the closeness to the implied reader’s standards might not be as preferable and dominant after all. Moreover, it is possible that in those instances the real reader feels pity for or anger at the narrator and his desperate attempts to meet the im-

7 Closeness and Distance: Creating Ideological Positions for the Reader

plied reader’s norms, and thus distances him-/herself from the implied reader’s position. However, the fact that the narrator is so difficult to grasp is likely to weaken those subversive tendencies and rather renders them marginal within the narrative. In contrast to the focus on telling in The Intended, Adebayo’s novel is rather shaped by showing. This becomes obvious on a number of occasions, such as for instance the display of emotions, which differs greatly from the one in Dabydeen’s narrative mentioned above. The narrator frequently foregrounds the way Dele feels (e.g. 20f.), and this tendency becomes even more intense when Dele is arrested and beaten by the police. What is particularly striking is that the narrator not only reveals Dele’s thoughts and feelings quite honestly, but also allows the reader to experience his emotions with as little mediation as possible. He shares with the reader that, while in the police van, “the certain knowledge of their immediate futures emptied his [Dele’s] insides” (SKB 76) and that “Dele’s voice was too fearful to rise above a whisper” (77). Even more intensely, Dele’s experience of the policemen’s attack is presented as follows: The first blows are always the worst. It was the same with Dele’s old man. It's because they know what they’re doing. ‘Nothing to say, eh? Cat got ya tongues? Hold him down! Get his legs, Chris —' What was Concrete doing? Something Dele should be? Chris, Chris, remember this. That rhymes, thought Dele. Chris, Chiny, Daniels and that number. 54-26, that’s my number. What was a Toots tune doing in his head at a time like this? Where were they driving? Please don’t let them kill him. Concrete is your man, not him. Thank God, a pause. Dele felt to shout and plead, ‘Okay, you’ve won, you’ve won!’ but his throat was chockful of tears and he didn’t trust himself to speak. They’d have loved that! Concentrate, Del, concentrate and release. Mantras, Dapo’s mantras…Oh Lord, Dapo! A further flurry. Lord, let him die. Let him be tomorrow’s news. That would show ‘em. (SKB 77f., original emphasis) Interestingly, Adebayo’s narrator does not talk about the execution of violence itself, but instead steps back to facilitate the reader’s rather direct experience of Dele’s thoughts and emotions while he suffers at the hands of the police. Not only is this likely to create empathy, but even more significantly this example illustrates how instances of showing foreground Dele’s perspective. The use of free indirect discourse here contributes considerably to this effect: While the remarks ‘That rhymes, thought Dele’ and ‘54-26, that’s my number’ seem to be the narrator’s report of Dele’s thoughts, the lack of reporting verbs and the disappearance of the first‐person pronoun in ‘Please don’t let them kill him. Concrete is your man, not him’ or ‘Lord, let him die’ create a sense of immediacy which supports the novel’s concern with showing rather than telling. In fact, the passages in free indirect discourse here seem to blend more naturally into the overall third‐person narrative than in

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Dabydeen’s first‐person narrative where the change from the narrator’s report to free indirect discourse is more obvious and thus foregrounds mediation and distance. Indeed, in contrast to The Intended, the use of free indirect discourse appears frequently throughout Adebayo’s novel (e.g. 21f.; 68f.; 114; 141) and therefore contributes greatly to the preference for showing rather than telling. It is interesting to observe that on many occasions, those instances coincide with expressions which might be directed at the (implied) reader: “Mind you, if he was living in Peckham, as half of them did, he’d probably be the same” (SKB 13, emphasis added) and “Hold on, though. Maybe he had a couple of possibilities too” (14, emphasis added) contain elements which could either be part of free indirect discourse or address the reader. A similar effect is achieved by more general statements when the narrator reports Dele’s thoughts, such as “But you couldn’t linger over thoughts like that” (SKB 21) or “[i]t was so instantly definitive you couldn’t imagine summer in the city had ever had any other soundtrack than this ‘G-Funk’. You just nod your head, nod ya head” (ibid. 36). Here, the pronoun ‘you’ could refer to the reader, or indicate a generalised opinion or obvious observation, even though ‘one’ might have been stronger in that respect. Regardless of the exact reference, what the use of the second‐person pronouns achieves is that the (implied) reader is openly acknowledged and integrated into the narrative. This tendency becomes more pronounced when the narrator remarks that “come the second now, and our man was a connoisseur” (SKB 17), which is even more inclusive and creates a considerable degree of closeness to Dele. What is particularly striking with regard to the focus on showing in Some Kind of Black is the fact that the reader is able to experience the significance of showing for Dele’s life through the narrative situation. It soon becomes obvious that access to Dele’s thoughts and feelings is something which is granted rather exclusively: The narrator shows Dele’s thoughts to the reader, but at the same time emphasises that Dele hides them from the people surrounding him. At an Oxford party, where some of Dele’s fellow students organise a mock slave auction, the narrator explains that He [Dele] felt to walk out altogether, but then people would notice and think he was making a big deal out of the incident. So he propped himself up by a speaker and tried to look relaxed while his mind ticked away. Boy! John and Deidre, the shame of it! Is that really how he’s been coming these past three years for Tabitha to think she could run that slave fuckery past him? Is that what everyone thinks? Funny how he thought it was he who was taking the piss. . . (SKB 24f.) Once again, the narrator vanishes behind Dele’s thoughts in free indirect discourse. Framed by the narrator’s remarks (the first two and the last sentence of the quote), the passage in free indirect discourse grants the reader insight into Dele’s emotional state, which the narrator previously simply referred to as ‘He felt to walk out

7 Closeness and Distance: Creating Ideological Positions for the Reader

altogether’. At the same time, the narrator also reveals that Dele is highly aware of how to hide feelings of hurt and disappointment from the people around him. The impression created is therefore not only one of closeness, but also of privilege. Dele displays a similar reluctance to share emotions with regard to Helena: He worried that if he told the whole truth, about his home life and the rest, it would lead to such a shift in the balance of power. It would have been an invitation to Helena to respond to him on the level of pity or sympathy, the way contrary black critics said that white people got off on Toni Morrison books. He was too proud to let it come to that. (SKB 37) What becomes clear here is that Dele wants to be seen in a particular way by society. In this sense, Dele’s wish is reminiscent of that of Dabydeen’s narrator. However, while the narrator shares Dele’s intentions with the (implied) reader, Dabydeen’s narrator is not that open and instead positions himself close to the standard he wants to achieve with the creation of a particular hetero‐image. In The Intended, this standard is represented by the implied reader, whereas in Some Kind of Black it is on this occasion Helena, who for Dele embodies Englishness, belonging and the Oxford Myth (SKB 25 and 38). Similarly, the narrator’s presentation of Dele’s letter to his girlfriend Andria displays a high degree of showing. Initially, the narrator points out that his relationship with Andria makes Dele feel vulnerable (SKB 190) and then includes two versions of the letter in which he breaks up with her. What is particularly striking about the two letters is their varying degrees of emotional honesty. In the first letter, Dele admits to feeling “worried”, “cold” and “horrible” because “I’m turning into something I never thought I would become”, expresses fondness for Andria (“I basically realised what a wonder you are”) and regret about his conviction that “I cannot make you happy” (SKB 191). However, according to the narrator, he destroys the letter and ultimately sends her a much shorter and rather formal note. Not only are the letters an excellent example of showing in contrast to telling – the letters certainly create a strong sense of immediacy as they appear to have been written by Dele himself – but they also once again emphasise the narrator’s attempt to establish the (implied) reader’s closeness to Dele. This clearly illustrates the contrast between the two novels’ strategies in terms of closeness and distance: While Dabydeen’s unnamed narrator explains to the implied reader why he considers himself close to him/her, the narrator in Adebayo’s novel shows and recreates for the (implied) reader Dele’s emotions and thoughts in order to create closeness to him. Since the positions created for the two novels’ implied readers differ considerably from one another, it is likely that they generate rather different responses to those positions in the real reader as well. Indeed, the tendency to recreate emotions and thoughts is an essential element of showing. It foregrounds the process in which the protagonist’s behaviour, atti-

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tudes and feelings are developed, rather than simply presenting those factors as a result. In Some Kind of Black, this approach can be observed with regard to Dele’s realisation that Sol has exploited Dapo’s illness and his own helplessness in order to defraud him. Towards the end of the narrative, focalisation shifts from Dele to Gabriel, Fitzroy, Michael and, most importantly, Sol. While insight into Gabriel and Fitzroy’s point of view illustrate how the murder of a man at the rally for Dapo has influenced their lives (SKB 159f.), Michael and Sol’s perspectives reveal more relevant information. Focalised through Michael, the narrator reveals that he and Sol “had gone to see Mr Kyscinki and offered him the services of their security affiliate to run the door. Kyscinki had less politely declined, so they had sent in some local hooligans to distress the place on its first Saturday night” (SKB 160). What is communicated here is a sense of danger with regard to Sol, a person whom Dele has come to trust. With regard to Sol, readers are likely to suspect that Sol’s concern for Dele and Dapo is not altogether altruistic: A greased‐up head bobbing amongst others by the table alerted Sol to the fact that Fitzroy has made his entrance, fresh from Radio Four. He’d let that foolish frotter have his moment’s pleasure. The people that mattered knew who was truly in charge. He scoped the room for Dele and noted approvingly that his man was reasoning with that Nigerian sculptor. (SKB 168) While the (implied) reader is thus asked to develop insight into Sol’s real intentions, Dele is shown to be more and more dependent on Sol. Referring to Sol and his friends, the narrator reports that “[t]here was a home and everything was in place for him [Dele] there” (SKB 190). What is established here is discrepancy between the (implied) reader’s knowledge and Dele’s knowledge, and thus, dramatic irony. The (implied) reader can observe Dele’s increasing trust in Sol, all the while being aware of the fact that Sol does not seem to be a reliable or trustworthy person. Dele appears to be tricked into a harmful situation, which is likely to cause suspense and potentially sympathy. Moreover, the (implied) reader is able to follow Dele’s growing awareness of Sol’s true intentions. Initially, it is only mentioned that “[h]e was beginning to get the impression, this past week, that Sol was dissing him” (SKB 195), which is then followed by the more explicit remark that “[a]n ugly line had started its trace across Dele’s head” (207). In dialogue with Gabriel, Dele then realises that Sol not only stole money from Dele and his family but also incited the violence which resulted in a man’s death (SKB 207-209). Interestingly, the fact that the (implied) reader knows more than Dele places him/her in a superior position, which is reminiscent of Dabydeen’s novel where such an imbalance is a defining element within the narrative. However, in Some Kind of Black that disparity foregrounds Dele’s perspective: There is no need to wonder about Sol’s intention. Instead, the narrator recreates Dele’s progress towards realisation, which is likely to create a strong sense of involvement in the (implied) reader and thus potentially

7 Closeness and Distance: Creating Ideological Positions for the Reader

generates closeness or distance, depending on the real reader’s outlook and general attitude towards Dele (e.g. considering him naïve or careless).

Concluding Remarks What has become clear is that Dabydeen’s novel is intensely shaped by the relationship between a relatively intangible unnamed narrator and a clearly defined implied reader. In fact, the narrative relies on a power imbalance which constructs the implied reader’s perspective as a standard the narrator constantly attempts to meet throughout the narrative. On the plot level he tries to do so by gaining an Oxford education. On the level of discourse he employs a first‐person narrative situation which is characterised by a strong orientation towards what he assumes to be the implied reader’s norms and values. Not only does the narrator create binaries which allow him to position himself closely to the implied reader, but he occasionally even tends to merge his own perspective with that of the implied reader. As a consequence, the narrator is able to create a sense of closeness to the implied reader’s dominant‐hegemonic position, which is then offered to the real reader as well and not likely to contribute to the creation of an interactive heterotopic space unless the latter feels alienated by this position or indeed the narrator’s self‐denial and intangibility in the first place. In contrast to that, in Adebayo’s narrative it is the implied reader who remains largely undefined and open. Instead, the narrator is much more independent and prominent and guides the reading process so as to create closeness to the protagonist Dele and his perspective. Thus, the implied reader is presented with the protagonist’s disappointment with the Oxford Myth and the frequently hostile attitudes of the dominant‐hegemonic groups of society. In Dabydeen’s novel on the other hand it is exactly such a dominant‐hegemonic perspective which is foregrounded. What contributes profoundly to the establishment of closeness or distance are tendencies towards showing or telling. Some Kind of Black displays a preference for showing, for instance through the use of free indirect discourse or a focus on the recreation of processes and emotions. Consequently, the (implied) reader is able to interact with Dele’s thoughts and emotions and can potentially experience closeness to Dele’s point of view. In The Intended on the other hand, telling is much more frequent than showing, which results not in recreation and interaction, but rather in a strongly controlled reading process which is directed towards the narrator’s rather fixed interpretation of the implied reader’s perspective. With regard to the narrative’s heterotopic potential for change, it must be assumed that the heterotopic potential of The Intended remains limited not only on the plot level, but also on the level of interaction between reader and text. In the context of that particular novel, the construction of an interactive heterotopic space depends on distance with regard to the implied reader’s position. It is only when

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the real reader rejects this position that such an interactive process is instigated. However, while the narrative certainly contains elements which question the implied reader’s position – for instance its high degree of mediacy and the narrator’s intangibility – it is impossible to dismiss the fact that, perhaps due to the autodiegetic narrator’s limited perspective which is so close to that of the implied reader, those elements are not communicated in a way which is likely to interrupt the reading process. Thus, those readers who are likely to detect the potentially distancing elements do so exactly because they already disagree with the role offered to them. In those cases, the distancing effect is likely to be intensified but not necessarily generated. On the other hand, those readers who share the position offered to them hardly ever encounter factors which interfere with their reading process. Still, it is possible that such readers feel alienated by the narrator’s attempts to evoke approval. Distance might then function indirectly via the real reader’s attitude towards the narrator rather than the ideological position the implied reader represents. Some Kind of Black however challenges the real reader to develop a perspective more consciously. Since the implied reader’s position remains largely open, it depends on the real reader to construct a position for him-/herself with regard to the bias created in the novel. Thus, it can be assumed that the heterotopic potential for transformation of The Intended predominantly lies in the reinforcement of critical attitudes, whereas Some Kind of Black also contains the potential to produce new ones.

7.2

Between Unreliable and World-Constructing Narration: Destabilising Standards, Constructing Belonging

The present chapter investigates how the use of narration which destabilises (fictional) facts might function productively13 and challenge established standards or norms. A strategy which is often associated with such an effect is unreliable narration. What is problematic about the concept is that it is closely linked to a sense of deviance from a particular standard. Indeed, unreliability and related terms like “fallible” and “untrustworthy” narrators (Olson 101) or “discordant narrators” (Cohn 13 In the context of the present chapter, the term ‘productively’ is best understood in terms of John Fiske’s theory of the ‘producerly text’. He suggests that popular texts are usually ‘producerly’ because they foreground their own ambiguity: Like readerly texts, they are easy to read and can be consumed without much further thought on the topics they deal with, but like writerly texts, they are also open enough to contain different and diverse meanings (Understanding Popular Culture 104f.). Significantly, readers can choose to simply read a popular text for their enjoyment, but they can also interact with the text productively by identifying and filling gaps and constructing new meanings (ibid. 104). Similarly to Iser, Fiske therefore foregrounds the active and even productive role of the reader in the process of meaning creation.

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307) all contain normative elements which imply that such narrators lack particular qualities and deviate from an established norm in a way which ultimately strengthens and perpetuates it. In contrast to that, it is argued here that the narrators in Andrea Levy’s The Long Song and Bernardine Evaristo’s Blonde Roots employ narrative strategies which transform and potentially transcend established techniques like unreliable narration. In fact, July’s and Doris’s narrations allow them to subvert supposedly fixed norms or grand narratives and make it possible to categorise them as “world‐constructing” (Fonioková 65) rather than unreliable narrators. Thus, their tendency towards destabilising facts generates closeness to or distance from certain ideological biases, thereby potentially creating an interactive heterotopic space in which Britain’s grand narrative of abolition and the country’s legacy of slavery can be reassessed.

The Heterotopic Potential of World-Constructing and Unreliable Narration in The Long Song and Blonde Roots July, the narrator of Andrea Levy’s The Long Song, is often considered unreliable14 in secondary literature (e.g. Laursen 66; Tolan 96; Gohrisch 425; Upstone, “Some Kind of Black” 282). However, this categorisation does not seem unproblematic considering the fact that July’s narration has a productive dimension which unreliable narration often lacks. In her study on unreliable and unnatural narration, Zuzana Fonioková states that unreliable narration is sometimes used to “illustrate the difficulty, if not impossibility, of accurately reconstructing past events. [...] Still, we intuitively insist on the existence of some kind of objective past even if it is epistemologically inaccessible to us” (11). Per Krogh Hansen expresses a similar view when he argues that unreliable narration always presupposes that there is a ‘true’ story or standard from which the unreliable narrator deviates (238). He insists: But what this line of thinking does not grasp is that fiction is also a room for possibilities; a place where alternative (real or unreal) possible worlds is [sic] being tested, illustrated, and opened for the reader. Whether or not these possible worlds are appealing to the majority of readers has nothing to do with the narrator’s reliability. (Hansen 238) 14 Coined by Wayne Booth in 1961, the term ‘unreliable narration’ has since been redefined and appropriated from a number of perspectives, the most prominent of which is probably Nünning’s. Booth argues that “a narrator [is] reliable when he speaks for or acts in accordance with the norms of the work (which is to say, the implied author's norms), unreliable when he is not” (158f., original emphasis). Nünning on the other hand suggests that “unreliability is not so much a character trait of the narrator as it is an interpretative strategy in the reader”, which means that the reader’s perspective serves as a standard or norm (95).

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What this foregrounds is that unreliability is always linked to value judgements which are potentially bound to power imbalances. As stated previously, master narratives promote one particular version of history or the world in general, thereby excluding not only other narratives and perspectives, but also the people who represent them. As an interpretative strategy offered to the reader, unreliability is likely to serve as a means of discrediting a narrative by characterising it as ‘deviant’ or ‘untrue’ – thereby acknowledging the dominant status of a ‘true’ story or grand narrative. A close‐reading of July’s narrative soon reveals that her narration by no means aims at perpetuating Britain’s grand narrative of abolition – a fact which is already emphasised by July’s explicit criticism of established (British) accounts of plantation slavery (LS 8). Her frequent categorisation as an unreliable narrator therefore suggests that it is necessary to open up the concept and focus not only on a narrator’s deviation from a particular standard, but also on the productive and dynamic potential implied in narrative strategies which indicate unreliability, or, more generally, destabilise facts. A model which acknowledges this potential is Zuzana Fonioková’s concept of the world‐constructing homodiegetic narrator who is “a related yet different type of narrator, one that [...] could be confused with an unreliable narrator” (65). The similarity which unreliable and world‐constructing narrators share is that they both present readers with “a distorted perception of themselves and the things around them” (ibid.). However, while the reader’s categorisation of a narrator as unreliable is based on his/her “superior knowledge” (Fonioková 47), world‐constructing narrators “do not offer any other perspective and do not implicitly include an alternative rendering of the story to be discovered by the reader. Nor do they provide the reader with any means of distinguishing between the narrator’s subjective view and an objective fictional reality” (76). In this sense, the reader is not able to detect deviance from fictional reality, which means that s/he cannot develop superior knowledge or identify a ‘true’ story which is hidden behind the narrator’s representation of events. What Fonioková considers particularly significant is “the structure of the fictional universe” (77). She argues that world‐constructing narrators create a fictional world which is incompatible with the real world but “the narrative is coherent and comprehensible” (ibid.). It is exactly because of the fictional world’s coherence and apparent plausibility that “the reliability of the narrator’s utterances cannot be assessed against the state of affairs in our actual world but must be measured against the state of affairs within the fictional world” (ibid.). While it is true that readers might compare the fictional world to their real world, the fact remains that in the purely fictional context of world‐constructing narration, the narrator cannot be considered unreliable: there is no reason to suspect that s/he hides something from the reader. In this sense, it is not really the consistency between the reader’s

7 Closeness and Distance: Creating Ideological Positions for the Reader

world and the fictional world, but rather the reader’s interaction with an inherently logical and coherent fictional world which is important: When reading such texts [with world‐constructing narrators], the secret the reader looks for is not the truth within the fictional world. This sort of discourse requires the reader to suspend disbelief to a considerable degree: even when the fictional reality as presented by the narrator goes against the reader’s intuition and real‐world knowledge, she has to accommodate the incongruities by imagining a different kind of reality. Not suspending one’s disbelief would prevent the reader from making any sense of the narrative: discarding the strange and unrealistic elements as the narrator’s fantasies or lies would leave nothing left. (Fonioková 77) The concept of world‐constructing narrators appears highly relevant for the construction of interactive heterotopic spaces as it is exactly the suspension of disbelief which might generate for the reader closeness to the fictional world’s norms and at the same time also distance from the real world. This observation is further emphasised when Fonioková remarks that world‐constructing narration “challenges the reader’s view of reality and of what is possible” (251). Thus, readers are not encouraged to search for a hidden ‘true’ story in the narrative but to engage more deeply with fictional reality. In this sense, standards are not simply retraced, but transformed or even generated. The reader’s closeness to or distance from those standards obviously depends on his/her personal position and background, but the fact remains that while the reader is reading, world‐constructing narration requires him/her to adopt (at least temporarily) a position of closeness in order to make sense of the narrative. Consequently, “when reconstructing the fictional world, the reader is compelled to devise frames of reference specific to this world, and these frames will considerably differ from the reader’s real world model” (Fonioková 113). Considering these characteristics, it seems more adequate to categorise July as a world‐constructing narrator. What contributes significantly to this impression is the complex structure of the narrative. As mentioned previously, July’s tale is framed by a fore- and afterword written by her son Thomas Kinsman. Moreover, July’s tale consists of a main narrative by a third‐person narrator who appears heterodiegetic, and passages of metalepsis in which a first‐person narrator comments on the main narrative. Thus, there seem to be two ‘personae’ who are closely linked to the narrative: the protagonist July and the third‐person heterodiegetic narrator who conveys July’s story to the reader and sometimes comments on that story in the first person. The narrator’s status as an apparently heterodiegetic narrator places her outside the fictional world and justifies her omniscience. However, her position is challenged already rather early on in the novel: In a metafictional first‐person passage

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in which she recalls a conversation with her daughter‐in-law, the latter addresses her as “Miss July” (LS 54). The fact that the narrator has the same name as the protagonist of her tale, and that both are or, in the narrator’s case, were slaves is likely to raise questions in the reader about the narrator’s position in the narrative and her relationship to the protagonist. In his foreword, Thomas Kinsman provides the reader with some general information about the narrator. He reveals that his “mother had a story” (LS 1) but was reluctant to write it down because she was born a slave and therefore insecure with regard to her literacy (ibid. 3). As a printer, he offers her his support as an editor (ibid.). However, he never suggests or implies that his mother – the narrator – might also be the protagonist. This changes rather abruptly when, in another metafictional insertion, the narrator reports that her son confronted her with the words that “[t]his is the story of your own life” (LS 185). At this point, if not before, the reader is likely to realise that the third‐person narrator July is indeed also the protagonist of her own story. This transforms her position in the narrative: The story told by a heterodiegetic narrator is subsumed into July’s first‐person narrative, thereby rendering July’s narrative autodiegetic15 . Ole Birk Laursen refers to the narrative situation in The Long Song as a “duplex narrative strategy [which] enables Levy to give voice to those who have not been heard in dominant narratives of that era” (66). At the same time, this structure also adds unreliability to the narrative in the sense of implying that there is one ‘true’ story. Sara Upstone for instance suggests that Thomas Kinsman’s interventions challenge July’s authorship and raise the question if the story is really hers or rather her son’s (“Some Kind of Black” 281f.). July’s potential unreliability is also foregrounded when the reader is alerted to the fact that July wants to withhold information; in fact, she wants to finish her story early on two occasions: The first one takes place after slavery has been abolished and she has witnessed her mother’s 15 Even though Jana Gohrisch also suggests that the novel’s narrative situation challenges July’s unreliability, she seems to separate July’s voices rather distinctly (425). She explicitly distances herself from Maria Helena Lima’s reading of the novel, which argues that roughly from the middle onwards “the narrative is consistently in first person” (Lima 146). Considering the fact that formally speaking, July’s narrative indeed continues to use third‐person narration, it can only be assumed that Lima’s interpretation is based on the fact that from that point onwards, the reader is aware of July’s real identity. The present chapter agrees with neither of the positions presented by Gohrisch and Lima as they appear to either over- or underestimate the dynamic relationship between the novel’s narrative voices. This tendency might be traced back to the fact that they examine the novel’s narrative situation exclusively in terms of Stanzel’s theory. As pointed out previously, Stanzel’s theory includes many valuable elements, but this does not mean that there are no occasions on which it limits interpretation. Genette’s theory on the other hand acknowledges the complexity of narrative situations more clearly: His distinction between auto-, hetero- and homodiegetic narrators points to the relationship between narrator and fictional world. Indeed, taking Genette’s approach into account it becomes possible to conceive of July as an autodiegetic narrator who makes use of both first- andthird‐person narration.

7 Closeness and Distance: Creating Ideological Positions for the Reader

execution (LS 182), the second one after her daughter has been taken away from her (353), both of which are traumatic moments in her life, and Ole Birk Laursen indeed reads July’s unreliable narration as “[r]esembling the scene of Freudian psychoanalysis, where the patient reconstructs the traumatic event through interpretation and free association” (66). Upon her first attempt at ending the narrative early, the reader does not yet know for certain that the narrator is also the protagonist of the story. It is only in the subsequent exchange with her son – reported by July – that Thomas Kinsman discloses her real identity. In the same conversation he also reveals that after her mother’s death, July gave birth to a son – who is, as the reader will soon learn, Thomas Kinsman – and left him in the care of a Baptist minister (LS 184). Thus, those instances draw the reader’s attention to a supposedly hidden story against which s/he can compare July’s tale. Her son’s remarks therefore foreground deviance from a ‘true’ story, a feature which is typical of unreliable narration. In this sense, July’s initial reluctance to acknowledge her status as both narrator and protagonist, and thus her perpetuation of the narrative’s double structure, add unreliability to the narrative. At the same time, the fact that July’s story is conveyed through a double structure already implies that it is possible to speak of two narratives told by the same narrator which ultimately merge into one, a process which mirrors the development from unreliable towards world‐constructing narration. Indeed, there are elements which both raise doubts as to July’s status as an unreliable narrator and transform her unreliability into a potentially world‐constructing mechanism: Even though her son’s remarks allow the reader to detect deviance in July’s narrative, s/he does not have any superior knowledge. On this occasion, however, it is July – and thus, the potentially unreliable narrator herself – who decides to equip her readers with the information she initially wanted to hide from them. The fact that it was her son who encouraged her to continue her story is only of minor significance for the narrative compared to July’s ultimate decision to include this information and how it became part of her narrative in the published version of her story. Indeed, unreliability seems to have shaped the construction of July’s narrative, but not the ultimate result, the narrative itself. Thus, even though the development described above bears traces of unreliability, it also positions July’s narrative in the context of world‐constructing narration. This tendency is emphasised further as the narrative progresses. Though still rather subtly, an argument between July and her son emphasises her attempts to redefine the standards which enable readers to judge her narrative: This tale is of my making. This story is told for my amusement. What befalls July is for me to devise. […] ‘Mama,’ he [Thomas Kinsman] say to me, ‘do not take me for a fool. This is the story of your own life, not of your creating, I can see this.’ ‘No,

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it is not,’ I tell him. ‘It is,’ him say. ‘It is of my making,’ I tell him. ‘It is not‐it is of your life lived,’ him tell me. ‘Oh no, it is not.’ ‘Oh yes, it is.’ (LS 185) What the exchange above illustrates is a struggle for dominance between two perspectives. Quite strikingly, Thomas Kinsman’s remarks that July’s tale is ‘the story of your own life’ and ‘your life lived’ communicates a significant difference from July’s reply that her story is ‘of my making’: While Thomas Kinsman focuses on the mimetic reconstruction of his mother’s story, July is more concerned with a creative reconstruction. In her study of unreliable and world‐constructing narration, Zuzana Fonioková points out that unreliable narration can be understood as “retelling”, while world‐constructing narration represents a form of “reliving” (245, original emphasis). While the situation described above certainly does not involve the fusion of July’s subjectivity and the novel’s fictional reality, which is characteristic of world‐constructing narration, and creates the impression of telling rather than living, it nonetheless foregrounds the creative and active dimension of July’s narration. Still, at this point, the standard – July’s life observed from afar, foregrounding her suffering and thereby reaffirming the abolitionist perspective on (former) slaves expressed through the British grand narrative of abolition – is still more prominent than July’s transformation or appropriation of it. Her second attempt to finish her story provides the reader with a first draft of her final chapter in which July “did grow so rich and old and happy upon her wit, that she did purchase a little boarding house” (LS 361). She explicitly sets out to contradict other accounts of her life: So, reader, do not feel pity for the plight of our July, for my tale did not set forth to see her so wounded. And though other books and volumes (wrapped in leather and stamped in gold) might wish you to view her life as worthless, I trust you have walked with her too long and too far to heed that foolishness when it is belched upon you. No, July’s tale has the happiest of endings—and you may take my word upon it. (LS 361) Those final words foreground that July is concerned with countering and – as she refers to it as ‘foolishness’ – discrediting the standard against which her life is judged. The ‘other books and volumes’ she mentions are ‘wrapped in leather and stamped in gold’, thereby conveying a sense of authority which makes it possible to assume that they represent, on a more metaphorical level – dominant grand narratives about slavery and abolition. Moreover, it is quite significant that July reminds readers that because of the time they have spent reading July’s story, they will accept her story – her subjectivity – as the ‘true’ story. What this implies is that, at least within the fictional world created by July, her subjectivity becomes more prominent.

7 Closeness and Distance: Creating Ideological Positions for the Reader

This tendency becomes still more pronounced at the ultimate ending of July’s narrative. Following her son’s suggestions, she continues her story once again, but in a rather selective manner: She recalls a court hearing in which she stands accused of theft. In a move away from her previous representation of July as a happy and rich woman, she now admits that she is destitute: “It is time to put that younger July from your mind for another has just walked in. And her face […] is so pinched with starvation that death’s bony skull can be glimpsed beneath it” (LS 366). Unable to defend herself in court, she listens to “a fat‐bellied, bewhiskered white man” disclosing her past to the court (ibid. 367). However, the man not simply informs the court of her personal situation and her time at Amity Plantation, but links those aspects of her life to stereotypical and racist depictions of former slaves (LS 368f.). The fact that it is a member of the dominant hegemonic group who tells July’s story, thereby creating a particular image of her, implies that he, and not July, is in control of her (self-) representation. On that occasion, July is in a rather powerless position without access to means of representation. It is her son who makes sure that she is released and ultimately saves her from starvation by bringing her to his home. From that point onwards, July spends a considerable amount of time recounting the life of her son (LS 374-394) until she ultimately finishes her tale. Apparently, her son wants her to focus on her own story again and urges her to talk about her life after her daughter’s abduction. This time, July rejects his demands more radically and, instead of continuing her story once again with a detailed account of that period of time, she gives a brief summary which consists of questions rather than statements, such as “you wish me to describe how July walked to find those negroes upon the backlands? […] Should my reader feel the fear of the harassment from planters that came upon that place almost daily? […] Shall I let the earthquakes rattle and the floods pour?” (LS 394f.). July’s questions appear evasive and thereby potentially unreliable. At the same time, the fact that she asks those questions at all signals that she is aware of them and chooses not to elaborate on them in order to assert control of her life and how it is represented. This is emphasised particularly strongly by her final words: “But why must I dwell upon sorrow? July’s story will have only the happiest of endings and you must take my word upon it” (LS 395), thereby repeating the words which she used to finish the first draft of her second ending (ibid. 361). By returning to a previous ending of her story, July not only seems to exclude her suffering after abolition from her story but also positions her subjectivity quite centrally at the end of her narrative. Even though she admits that “some other day there may come a person who would wish to tell the chronicle of those times anew” (LS 395), it is still her insistence on her happy ending which completes her narrative and leaves the reader with her standard or version of events. What this foregrounds is July’s ability to construct for the reader a particular world view through world‐constructing elements, thereby encouraging the reader to adopt a position of closeness to that world view. That this world view is

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at times challenged illustrates that July’s narration contains elements which might render her unreliable. However, the fact that July is an autodiegetic narrator ultimately transforms those elements – such as for instance her son’s interventions – from potentially distancing into productive and empowering mechanisms as it draws attention to her deliberate destabilising of established norms and standards, thereby combining elements of unreliable and world‐constructing narration. However, it is not only July’s unreliability which appears ambiguous in the novel: The fact that her narrative cannot be considered what Fonioková refers to as ‘unnatural’ also complicates July’s status as a world‐constructing narrator. Fonioková argues that world‐constructing narratives are “a type of unnatural narrative[s]” (10), and thus not compatible with real‐world frames of reference. According to Jan Alber, unnatural narration creates “physically impossible scenarios and events, that is, impossible by the known laws governing the physical world, as well as logically impossible ones” (80). Even though Sara Upstone remarks that The Long Song “undercuts realism” (“Some Kind of Black” 281) more than Levy’s previous novels, it is still set in a context which is easily recognisable for readers. However, the fact remains that July includes elements which are typical of world‐constructing narrators, particularly the prominent (and complex) position of her subjectivity in the narrative. Following Fonioková’s observation that unreliable and world‐constructing narration are different but related “forms of distorting (fictional) reality” (10) and Johannes Hain’s focus on ‘family resemblances’ between different, potentially unreliable narrators16 (128), it might be possible to categorise July as an unreliable world‐constructing narrator. This term hopefully expresses the dynamic and complex nature of July’s narrative which consciously includes elements of unreliable narration, but only to contribute to the narrative’s overall world‐constructing function and the creation of an interactive heterotopic space. Doris, the narrator of Bernardine Evaristo’s Blonde Roots, displays a more prominent tendency towards world‐constructing rather than unreliable narration. In fact, it is only the slave owner Kaga Konata Katamba who can be considered unreliable in the novel. Per Krogh Hansen distinguishes between different forms of unreliability (241), and Kaga Konata Katamba’s narration in his pro‐slavery pamphlets clearly display traces of intranarrational, internarrational, intertextual and extratexual unreliability. Intranarrational unreliability results from “discursive markers” (Hansen 241) in Kaga Konata Katamba’s discourse. Hansen mentions Edgar Allen Poe’s short story “The Tell-Tale Heart” as an example of a narrator 16 Building on Ludwig Wittgenstein’s concept of ‘Familienähnlichkeiten’ or ‘family resemblances’, Hain argues that unreliable narration is an open concept which cannot be classified based on distinct criteria but is instead used as a meta‐concept on the basis of family resemblances (172). What this implies is that it is possible to categorise a narrator as unreliable because s/he exhibits similarities to other narrators who have previously been considered unreliable.

7 Closeness and Distance: Creating Ideological Positions for the Reader

who praises a particular characteristic which s/he sees in him-/herself, while at the same time countering this auto‐image through his/her narrative (ibid.). This is also true for Kaga Konata Katamba, who describes himself as “sensitive”, “peaceful” and “a money‐maker for the benefit of the nation and an extoller of high morals for the spirit of the Empire of GA” (BR 115). He claims that “the Europane slaves have been saved from the most horrendous deaths, punishments, morally reprehensible indulgences and serfdom” (ibid. 121), thereby implying that the slaves’ situation in their home countries was worse than what they experience after their enslavement. This is a claim which can be found in racist publications and, depending on the readers’ assessment of those publications, thus also contributes to Kaga Kontata Katamba’s intertextual unreliability17 . With regard to his self‐praise, it soon becomes obvious that Kaga Konata Katamba is a violent person who is concerned with his own financial benefit rather than morality: I had agreed on the purchase of 400 slaves. This would ensure they fitted snuggly onto the platforms in the hold. Bunk beds, I called them. By my calculations, all going well, the financial profit from this cargo, when we finally returned to GA after depositing the cargo in New Ambossa, would be somewhere in the region of C£52,000, 10 per cent of which would be mine - C£5,200. I calculated that should I add another 150 slaves, making a total of 550, the gross profit would rise to somewhere in the region of C£71,500 – 10 per cent of which, C£7,150, would be mine. (BR 144) Thus, the contrast between Kaga Konata Katamba’s auto‐image and what he reveals about himself is likely to cause the reader’s assessment of him as immoral and unreliable. The example above also illustrates the role of the reader’s superior knowledge, which Fonioková considers essential when distinguishing between unreliable and world‐constructing narration: In Kaga Konata Katamba’s narrative there is certainly a ‘hidden’ story which he himself is unaware of and which therefore puts the reader – if s/he recognises it – in a superior position. This effect can also be observed on an extratextual level: Depending on their values and historical knowledge, many readers will soon realise that Kaga Kontata Katamba is a slave holder and therefore almost automatically marked as reprehensible and morally corrupt. Moreover, as opposed to July, Kaga Konata Katamba gives himself away unintentionally, a circumstance which is often considered a prerequisite for categorising a narrator as unreliable (Allrath 77). By contrast, this again illustrates the equivocality which characterises July’s status as an unreliable narrator. 17 According to Sofía Muñoz-Valdivieso, further intertextual references in Kaga Konata Katamba’s pamphlet include George Orwell’s Animal Farm and Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, both of which are concerned with questions of power (“Revisiting” 60).

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This impression is emphasised on an internarratational level: In his publication, Kaga Konata Katamba describes the slaves and their homeland, at times referring to incidents or people who also feature in Doris’s narrative. For instance, he briefly meets Doris’s family before they are brought to the ship which is about to transport them into slavery. He describes the encounter as follows: I had already noted that he [Doris’s father] was sinew but solid, not in the first bloom of youth but not too old to do a good day’s work in the fields of West Japan either. […] Two of the guards immediately pinned his arms behind him while he frothed and fumed in Mumble-Jumble, which Bayakatonda translated for me, so that I would know what I was dealing with. I rather wished he hadn’t. ‘You must help me, sir! You are my only hope. I am Jack Scagglethorpe, a hard‐working, God‐fearing, law‐abiding citizen from the north. This lady here is my dear wife Eliza and these are my girls Alice and Sharon. Those kidnapping devils came to our cottage while we were at dinner and before I could get up and protect my family I was sent flying to the floor with a blow to my head which knocked me out. They’d already taken my Doris last Spring and on the way here they dragged my eldest Madge into the woods. […]’ I told my host that it was obviously beyond this creature’s comprehension to understand that he was being removed from Abject Misery. (BR 141f.) Kaga Konata Katamba’s account is countered several times throughout Doris’s narrative. Not only does she describe her family in terms which foreground their humanity in stark contrast to Kaga Konata Katamba’s focus on their profitability as workers, but her narrative also contains information which his publication lacks: When Doris meets her sister Sharon again, she learns that her sister Madge was “raped to death. My father dying in his own excrement. My mother, drowning. Little Alice’s suffering, all alone in the world” (BR 236). These descriptions certainly contradict Kaga Konata Katamba’s image of himself and slavery as generous towards and beneficial for the enslaved. The fact that Doris’s narrative takes up much more space and is generally positioned more prominently in the novel clearly foregrounds her perspective rather than his. Hansen notes that internarrational unreliability often foregrounds one perspective which he refers to as “a privileged fabula” (242), and this observation is also true for Doris’s narrative. Consequently, the use of unreliable narration in Evaristo’s novel generates closeness to Doris’s ideological position rather than to Kaga Konata Katamba’s. Moreover, Blonde Roots presents readers with a fictional universe which foregrounds the world‐constructing dimension of Doris’s narration. As pointed out previously, July’s narrative does not really contain unnatural elements, which renders her status as a world‐constructing narrator ambiguous. Evaristo’s novel, on the other hand, is a “reversal narrative” (Newman 285): It reverses time, space and

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indeed history itself18 . The most profound reversal is of course the construction of slave holders as “blaks” (BR 27) and slaves as “whyte” (ibid. 5). Obviously, it is extremely likely that readers will be familiar with the ethnic background of transatlantic slavery. The dynamics which evolve from the contrast between the reader’s knowledge and the narrative’s fictional universe will soon be discussed when considering the overall heterotopic potential of the two novels’ use of unreliable and world‐constructing narration. At this point it should be kept in mind that Blonde Roots’s reversal strategy transcends realism (Upstone, “Some Kind of Black” 281). The reversal of time fuses past and present, for instance by using “a contemporary urban dialect […] and mak[ing] references to contemporary practices such as cosmetic surgery and tanning, and the culture of self‐help books” in a narrative that “is ostensibly set at the time of slavery, with reference to nineteenth‐century dress” (ibid. 290). Conceptions of space are subverted by the fact that the continent of ‘Aphrika’ is located to the East of the ‘U.K. of Great Ambossa’ and North of ‘Europa’, a geography which is illustrated in a map preceding the narrative. Thus, the narrative quite explicitly constructs a fictional world which differs from reader’s real‐world knowledge. While these elements certainly contribute to the creation of the unfamiliar familiarity discussed in Chapter Six, the fact remains that, when disregarding the reader’s interaction with it for a moment, the fictional universe constructed here is presented in a coherent and meaningful way. Doris never implies that there might be an alternative story or that she could have confused things, even unintentionally. In this sense, there is no reason to suspect that things might have been different: Doris’s perspective is never countered or contradicted by others, nor does she contradict herself. There is no superior knowledge encoded in the text which might make her potentially unreliable. On the contrary, the fact that it is Doris’s perspective which represents the standard or norm from which someone else’s – Kaga Konata Katamba – narrative deviates foregrounds her outlook even further. The fictional world presented in Blonde Roots encourages readers to actively engage with the text and position themselves close to Doris’s perspective. At the same time, in order to experience a meaningful reading process, this closeness in turn requires readers to distance themselves from the world they are familiar with. Thus, like The Long Song, Bernardine Evaristo’s novel includes unreliable and world‐constructing narrators in order to challenge Britain’s grand narrative of abolition, but in different ways. While July combines unreliable and world‐constructing elements in her narrative, Blonde Roots presents readers with two separate narrators – one is unreliable and therefore discredited and the other world‐constructing. 18 For a discussion of Evaristo’s reversal strategy see Sofía Muñoz-Valdivieso (“Revisiting” 57-59).

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Concluding Remarks It is possible to say that the use of unreliable and world‐constructing narration in the novels contributes greatly to realising their heterotopic potential for change. In The Long Song, unreliability characterises the creative process in which July produces her story, but the result of this process – July’s narrative – cannot unequivocally be described as unreliable. Indeed, the factors of potential unreliability seem to be used productively here as July applies them in a world‐constructing manner which reduces established grand narratives to the status of stories among other stories. It is this circumstance which ultimately realises the novel’s heterotopic potential for transformation: Even though July was unable to overcome boundaries on the plot level, she still manages to transform them retrospectively through reclaiming authority over her (self-)representation. In Blonde Roots, unreliable and world‐constructing narration are more clear‐cut and linked to two different protagonists. In a more conventional manner, unreliable narration is used to create distance from the unreliable narrator and thereby also closeness to the novel’s preferred ideological position. At the same time, it is used to draw attention to Doris’s narrative as an alternative ‘standard’. The fact that this standard or perspective is conveyed through world‐constructing narration is likely to generate a profoundly active reading process: it is particularly because the fictional universe is so far removed from the ‘actual’ world and readers have to ‘suspend disbelief’ in order to make sense of the world presented to them that Blonde Roots produces closeness with regard the ideological position foregrounded in the novel. Even though world‐constructing narration is primarily concerned with the coherence of the fictional universe, the fact remains that at least in a post‐reading phase, readers will compare this universe to the actual world surrounding them. Indeed, the construction of interactive heterotopic spaces and the novels’ heterotopic potential for change depends on the relationship between fictional world – the text – and actual world – the reader and his/her background. The analysis has shown that both The Long Song and Blonde Roots encourage readers to reassess fixed perceptions of Britain’s slave ancestry. This is particularly true for the world‐constructing elements in the two narratives which do not simply encourage readers to distance themselves from what they are familiar with, but also produce alternative stories which present readers with new points of identification. Obviously, the exact structure of those points of identification depends on the individual reader, but what cannot be denied is that the narrative strategies of both novels contribute greatly to destabilising Britain’s grand narrative of abolition. Consequently, the novels open up interactive heterotopic spaces in which Britain’s legacy of slavery might be transformed from an exclusively black British concern into a historical fact which concerns all British citizens regardless of their ethnic background.

Conclusion

Boundaries seem to be a powerful means of generating and maintaining social exclusion. The boundaries examined in the previous chapters are both physical and ideological in nature: On the one hand, the boundaries which separate heterotopic spaces from the rest of social space, and on the other hand those which shape people’s thoughts and attitudes. Boundaries separate and divide, and thus rely on binary oppositions (e.g. secularism and religion) and dominant norms and narratives (e.g. whiteness and the ‘grand narrative of abolition’). These binaries create the fixed and frequently narrow limitations within which belonging and acceptance are possible. At the same time, however, boundaries also include elements of hope, progress and movement: Most boundaries (especially those discussed in the present study) do not exist naturally but have been constructed for specific purposes. This means that they can be rearranged, challenged, and subverted. It is this potential for change which characterises heterotopic spaces and epitomises the central concern and epistemological interest of this work: What do close readings of literary representations of heterotopic spaces and their relation and interaction with the rest of space reveal about exclusionary boundaries in Britain? What insights does such an investigation generate when it comes to the strategies and practices which produce or challenge those boundaries? How do the texts themselves contribute to a re‐examination of exclusionary boundaries? And finally, to what extent can heterotopic spaces as an analytical category and tool create renewed and potentially broadened perspectives on space and power? The following pages will attempt to answer those questions by bringing together the results of the analytical chapters in Sections Two and Three. The analyses in Section Two have shown that on the level of representation, the respective heterotopic spaces’ potential for change and transformation can be realised to different degrees. Significantly, this potential does not merely rely on the set‐up of the heterotopic space at hand but rather on the spatial practices carried out there and on its relation to the rest of social space. In this sense, the case studies confirm the concern put forward in the Introduction and Chapter Two that previous criticism has tended to focus on Foucault’s first five descriptive principles or characteristics of heterotopic spaces rather than on their functions and their in-

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teraction with remaining societal space. Such an understanding may not only turn the concept of heterotopic spaces into an arbitrary buzzword, but it also simplifies the highly dynamic nature of the processes which shape such spaces. This is made obvious by the fact that the three heterotopic spaces investigated in Chapters Three to Six allow for no consistent judgement regarding their heterotopic potential. Instead, this potential differs considerably not only from one heterotopic space to another (e.g. from the mosque to the University of Oxford), but also among different manifestations of a particular heterotopic space (the heterotopic potential of different mosque spaces, for instance, varies remarkably). It therefore seems more productive to group the mosque, the University of Oxford, and the plantation in their relationship with four approaches which illustrate different possibilities and limitations of heterotopic spaces. The first approach encompasses heterotopic spaces whose potential for change remains rather limited because society’s dominant norms have been internalised by their users to such an extent that exclusionary boundaries eventually remain intact. This approach is particularly strong in Dabydeen’s novel The Intended, where Oxford remains the ultimate standard, and the unnamed narrator hardly ever challenges or questions it. This also means that the University’s heterotopic potential remains largely unfulfilled. The heterotopic potential of the plantation in The Long Song seems to be highly dependent on the spatial practices carried out there. The novel’s depiction of individual acts of resistance indicates that the plantation might indeed realise its heterotopic potential for transformation, but since July is unable to distance herself from the planters’ dominant hegemonic norms, her spatial practices ultimately interfere with this potential, albeit rather unconsciously. This draws attention to the power of ideologically charged representations and hegemonic practices. Indeed, the fact that the analysis of those two spaces offers insights into the ways in which exclusion and belonging are constructed points to the productivity of the present study’s approach to heterotopic spaces as an analytical category: By focusing on the functions of heterotopic spaces and on how they are created by spatial practices and the spaces’ interaction with the rest of society, it becomes possible to foreground the ideological nature of exclusionary boundaries. What this implies is that any attempt to destabilise boundaries must bear that ideological dimension in mind: Unless they also pay attention to questions of ideology, physical transformations of boundaries might not necessarily realise a space’s heterotopic potential. This observation is true for all heterotopic spaces analysed here, but particularly so for those in The Intended and The Long Song and the novels’ representation of protagonists who become an instrument in the dominant groups’ attempts to perpetuate exclusionary boundaries. Leila Aboulela’s Minaret is an example of a second approach which shows a space’s heterotopic potential for change not simply as limited but as actively countered and reversed by members of the marginalised group. As in the first approach,

Conclusion

exclusionary boundaries are also maintained but then, in a somewhat different development, even reinforced by the protagonist. This is surprising, given that the perpetuation of boundaries is usually pursued by members of the dominant social group and not by marginalised people like Aboulela’s Najwa. In the novel, the mosque is represented as a space which supports Najwa’s religious development but apparently also makes her withdraw from society to a considerable extent. Najwa does not use the mosque as a space from which she moves out into society and which provides her with stamina to challenge boundaries. Instead, it seems to function as a space of compensation which encourages her to build up further boundaries around her, perhaps in order to secure the mosque’s compensatory function for her. In this sense, the novel’s representation of the mosque matches the ideological position it foregrounds: Najwa’s search for fixed and stable meanings, which can only be found in Islam and must be maintained by generating boundaries and creating binaries. The analysis of spaces like Minaret’s mosque thus poses important and perhaps uncomfortable questions about Britain’s definition of belonging. At the same time, it also seems valid to question Najwa’s own attitude towards belonging. Neither Najwa nor British society are represented in a way which implies that they intend to overcome binaries, which means that exclusionary boundaries are defended from both inside and outside the heterotopic space. The third and fourth approaches move in a different direction: Some heterotopic spaces realise their potential for change in their respective users but are unable to achieve a transfer to the rest of society. This is the case in representations of the University of Oxford in Some Kind of Black and the mosque spaces in The Road from Damascus. Both spaces fail to transform exclusionary boundaries on the level of society, which implies that the spaces’ heterotopic potential for change ultimately remains limited. However, the protagonists neither accept or internalise those boundaries like Dabydeen’s narrator or Levy’s July, nor do they reinforce them like Aboulela’s Najwa. Instead, Adebayo’s Dele becomes aware of the illusory nature of the Oxford Myth and is able to challenge the dominant norm it represents on a personal level ― something Dabydeen’s unnamed narrator and July do not achieve. It is ultimately society which limits the University’s heterotopic potential. In The Road from Damascus, Sami eventually finds a mosque which realises its heterotopic potential for transformation in him, but he, too, is unable to transfer this potential to the rest of society. Indeed, dominant society seems to defend exclusionary boundaries quite determinedly so that a retreat to the private sphere appears necessary, but it is carried out reluctantly in Yassin-Kassab’s novel. Some Kind of Black ends more ambiguously, and it remains unclear how Dele will deal with the discrepancy created by his own destroyed and society’s continued trust in the Oxford Myth. Like the mosques in The Road from Damascus, however, the representation of the University foregrounds deep divisions and exclusionary boundaries in British

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society. It becomes clear that a heterotopic space’s ultimate potential for change depends on the transfer of destabilised or transformed structures from heterotopic to social space. Until then, heterotopic spaces can only destabilise or challenge, but not transform exclusionary boundaries. The fourth approach covers heterotopic spaces whose potential for social change can indeed be fully realised. An example of this is Bernardine Evaristo’s Blonde Roots, where the protagonist Doris is able to subvert exclusionary power structures and transform the plantation into a place of empowerment. The novel’s postscript draws attention to the fact that the plantation’s heterotopic potential for change is not limited to Doris’s personal life but also extends to the rest of social space. At the same time, however, it should be noted that Blonde Roots does not depict how change on the large‐scale social level is brought about. Instead, it links transformative social processes to small‐scale but nonetheless organised and seamlessly linked events. Reading the plantation as a heterotopic space here again draws attention to the strategies which are used to generate and counter marginalisation: The representation of the plantation in the novel clearly illustrates that Doris’s and her friends’ escape from the plantation is not simply an act which transforms physical boundaries and power structures, but even more serves to expose the plantation’s compensatory function for the planters. Indeed, it is perhaps because Doris is the only protagonist analysed here who manages to destabilise and even transform the ways in which the dominant group sees the heterotopic space in question that she is able to transfer the plantation’s heterotopic potential successfully to the rest of social space. This impression is emphasised further when keeping in mind that in YassinKassab’s and Adebayo’s novels the only factor which interferes with the mosques’ and Oxford’s heterotopic potential for transformation is dominant society’s perception of those spaces: In The Road from Damascus, Sami is arrested when he steps out of Brick Lane mosque because following 9/11, the police take him for a potential terrorist (RD 333). What this clearly indicates is that Brick Lane mosque is still perceived as a possible breeding ground for terrorism; it is only Sami’s, but not dominant society’s perception which has been challenged. Similarly, in Some Kind of Black the University of Oxford remains linked to the Oxford Myth which serves to naturalise exclusionary boundaries. For Dele, Oxford is transformed from a heterotopic space of compensation into one of illusion, but his experiences beyond the walls of the institution reveal that in the public eye, Oxford and its promise of belonging are reserved for only a very limited number of people. In Levy’s and Dabydeen’s novels on the other hand, the plantation and the University of Oxford do not even seem to change in the perception of the novels’ respective protagonists: Neither July nor the unnamed narrator attempt to expose the plantation’s or Oxford’s compensatory function as an illusion but instead long to avail themselves of the spaces’ compensatory functions. The representation of the mosque as a hetero-

Conclusion

topic space in Aboulela’s novel is even further removed from Evaristo’s portrayal of the plantation, because Najwa uses the mosque as a heterotopic space of compensation in order to move away from society rather than towards it, as July and the unnamed narrator attempt to do. Thus, it can certainly be concluded that the concept of heterotopic spaces allows one to reach fundamental insights into generating, challenging and transforming exclusionary boundaries. As the analyses in Section Two have shown, it is highly useful to focus on the sixth feature of heterotopias mentioned by Foucault, namely their functions in relation to the rest of society, rather than on the first five descriptive and seemingly arbitrary principles. Such an approach takes into account the idea of transfer and transformation, and thus includes both the heterotopic space and the remaining social space. Moreover, it encourages a reading which pays attention to spatial practices and therefore supports a close reading rather than a simple typology of heterotopic spaces. It becomes possible to identify and highlight at times subtle shifts and tendencies in the novels’ representation of power and exclusion, and thus also draw attention to the ideological strategies employed by both dominant British society and marginalised groups to create, perpetuate or subvert exclusionary boundaries. At the same time, one cannot help but notice that most of the representations of heterotopic spaces analysed here remain rather pessimistic when it comes to the challenging of binaries and power imbalances. Keeping in mind that the novels at hand belong to the categories of black British and British Muslim literature and thus two categories of texts which are usually considered socially and politically engaged and aim at countering marginalisation, this tendency seems even more unusual. A possible explanation might be provided by Stuart Hall’s essay “New Ethnicities.” It suggests that black cultural politics is characterised by two related phases which are both “rooted in the politics of anti‐racism and the post‐war black experience in Britain” (“New Ethnicities” 441). The first phase or “moment”, which Hall refers to as a “politics of resistance” (ibid.), is characterised by a “struggle to come into representation” (ibid. 442). Hall sees it as a response to the marginalisation of black Britons in culture and society: In order to “challenge, resist and, where possible, transform the dominant regimes of representation” (ibid.), this phase foregrounds “the black experience” as unified and homogeneous (ibid. 441). In fact, ‘black’ became a signifier which subsumed and at the same time disregarded cultural differences inside the black community: Hall points out that it “became ‘hegemonic’ over other ethnic/racial identities” (ibid.).1 Factors like age, gender, class or, indeed, religion, were not taken into account but instead subordinated to the experience of exclusion and racism in British society (ibid.). ‘Coming 1 In a different essay, Hall also writes about ‘black’ as a unifying signifier and locates it in the 1970s (“Old and New Identities” 55).

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into representation’ alludes to the fact that black Britons were frequently excluded from cultural representations or, if at all, portrayed in stereotypical ways. Consequently, they began to use “music and style, later […] literary, visual and cinematic forms” to be seen and heard in British culture in a manner which foregrounded exclusively positive representations of black Britons (Hall, “New Ethnicities” 442). Thus, even though the cultural products of the ‘politics of resistance’ had good intentions, they still fell back to one‐dimensional portrayals and binary oppositions – a tendency which was also explored in the survey of stereotypical representations of (former) slaves in the slave narrative genre in Chapter Six. The second moment on the other hand, the “politics of representation” coincides with “the end of the innocent notion of the essential black subject” (Hall, “New Ethnicities” 443). ‘Black’ did not serve as a unifying signifier anymore but was seen to include an “extraordinary diversity of subjective positions, social experiences and cultural identities” (ibid.). Describing this phase as a “politics of criticism”, Hall argues that it draws attention to diversity and difference by doing away with “what at one time seemed to be a necessary fiction. Namely, either that all black people are good or indeed that all black people are the same” (ibid. 444, original emphasis). Indeed, difference becomes a central element of the ‘politics of representation’, because it foregrounds the ways in which members of the black British community and their experiences are different from each other, for instance in terms of gender, sexual orientation and class (ibid. 446). Moreover, this second moment of black cultural politics also highlights the diaspora experience of black Britons, which means that their ethnic identities may have “rich cultural ‘roots’” but at the same time “operat[e] on new and quite distinct ground – specifically, contestation over what it means to be ‘British’” (Hall, “New Ethnicities” 447). This awareness also carries significant implications for black cultural products as it opens them up to criticism from the black community (ibid. 443f.). An example of a cultural product which reflects the concerns of the ‘politics of representation’ is, according to Hall, Hanif Kureishi’s 1985 film My Beautiful Laundrette, which does not “represent the black experience in Britain as monolithic, self‐contained, sexually stabilized and always ‘right‐on’ – in a word, always and only ‘positive’” but instead “crosses those frontiers between gender, race, ethnicity, sexuality and class” (“New Ethnicities” 449). The ‘politics of resistance’ and ‘politics of representation’ can thus be seen as strategies which serve to challenge exclusionary boundaries and generate belonging. Hall explicitly states that those two moments are not “clearly discernible phases” which appear in sequences, but instead “constantly overlap and interweave” (“New Ethnicities” 441). ‘Representation’ plays a significant role here as it is either access to representation or specific modes of representation which serve as means of countering exclusion. While in the ‘politics of resistance’, the fact that black protagonists appear in films, literature or other forms of cultural expression is already a success, the ‘politics of representation’ aims at portrayals which not

Conclusion

only challenge the signifier ‘black’ as a uniform experience, but also ‘Britishness’ and its implications in order to facilitate belonging. How, then, do the cultural products analysed here, the novels by Aboulela and Yassin-Kassab, Adebayo and Dabydeen, Levy and Evaristo, relate to those two phases,2 and might they indeed explain the overall pessimistic tendencies they present? The British Muslim novels by Aboulela and Yassin-Kassab appear to be particularly hard to categorise because they focus on religion rather than ethnicity. In the ‘politics of resistance’, religion would be disregarded in favour of ethnicity, while in the ‘politics of representation’ it would probably feature as a factor which modifies the concept ‘black’, but the latter would still remain a more dominant signifier of belonging than religion. Thus, since both Aboulela and Yassin-Kassab approach exclusionary boundaries in terms of religion, reading Minaret and The Road from Damascus in the context of Hall’s black cultural politics perhaps does not seem wrong, but does not really seem to fit very well in terms of emphasis. Moreover, Hall presupposes an active striving for integration and representation, but Aboulela’s and Dabydeen’s novels in particular, and perhaps also Levy’s narrative, contain protagonists who remain rather passive: It is difficult to conceive of Aboulela’s Najwa as someone who actively searches for belonging to Britain or wants to ‘come into representation’. Instead, she seems to move towards and long for social invisibility. Dabydeen’s unnamed narrator and, though not as extremely as him, Levy’s July appear to have internalised dominant hegemonic whiteness as a normative standard. While certainly wanting to belong, they consider the complete assimilation to dominant society and the renunciation or denial of their ethnic background as the only ways to succeed in their aspirations. In fact, Adebayo’s Dele and Evaristo’s Doris (and, though from a religious perspective, Yassin-Kassab’s Sami3 ) seem to be the only protagonists who are actively concerned with foregrounding the diversity of their experience and renegotiating the boundaries which generate exclusion. 2 The two categories or phases Hall describes were first published in 1988, thereby preceding the works analysed here. The fact that Hall thinks of them as continually overlapping and interweaving suggests that they might not be limited to a specific period in time. Rather, it seems plausible that their appearance depends on particular social conditions and situations. This is also emphasised by the fact that incidents like the Brixton riots in 1981, the London riots in 2011, and, in the United States, the ‘Black Lives Matter’ movement, all seem to respond to similar circumstances. While the 1981 and 2011 riots and ‘Black Lives Matter’ have political agendas, they are also linked to the cultural sphere and have made use of representations in order to express resistance to marginalisation and exclusion. Thus, Hall’s theory is still relevant today and might be used to contextualise contemporary texts. 3 Unlike Dele in Some Kind of Black and Doris in Blonde Roots, Sami experiences exclusion because of his religious beliefs rather than his ethnic background, and thus does not fit easily into Hall’s politics of representation. However, he too tries to destabilise boundaries, even though those boundaries differ from the ones which Dele and Doris encounter.

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What should be noted, however, is that these observations are true only for the level of representation, that is how exclusionary boundaries are represented on the plot level. Even if those boundaries remain intact on the plot level, the level of the interaction between reader and text might generate different results. This level plays a highly significant role in all six novels. The present thesis thus suggests that these texts not only or not necessarily employ the strategies introduced by Hall4 , but are most notably characterised by an approach which might be described as a ‘politics of destabilisation’. Such a politics does not solely have the signifier ‘black’ at its centre but may focus on any factor or category which is constructed as an obstacle to belonging. Even more significantly, a politics of destabilisation provides the context for the approach of interactive heterotopic spaces which was explored in Section Three. While some texts make use of the strategies put forward by Hall’s politics of resistance and/or representation, the novels analysed here function in a different manner: They employ textual strategies which attempt to destabilise their readers’ outlooks and attitudes. Of course, while on the level of representation it is possible to come to rather definite conclusions and assess whether the representation of heterotopic spaces indicates that exclusionary boundaries are successfully challenged or not, the level of interaction requires more caution. The present study is aware of the fact that any transformation of (ideological) boundaries depends on the reader’s initial outlook and attitudes, and that it is utterly impossible to ascertain whether a reader has adopted new perspectives while or after reading the text. Fittingly, ‘destabilisation’ indicates movement and a process rather than a definite result, and thus mirrors the present study’s concern with potential changes and transformations. As was shown in Section Three, the novels make use of a number of strategies which create an interactive heterotopic space. The strategy of defamiliarising the familiar was explored through British Muslim interactions with the Bildungsroman genre and black British appropriations of the slave narrative. The analysis in Chapter Six has shown that defamiliarisation is highly effective in generating an active reading process and guiding the reader towards the ideological positions offered by the novels. Quite significantly, it seems possible for unfamiliar familiarity on the level of the interaction between reader and text to destabilise or counter a novel’s limited heterotopic potential on the level of representation. This becomes obvious, for instance, when taking a closer look at The Road from Damascus: While it represents the mosque as a space with a rather limited heterotopic potential for change, its transformation of the Bildungsroman genre prestructures the reading 4 As suggested above, the novels analysed here contain elements and factors which assign them to one, none or both of the two politics, but since the present study is concerned with a different politics, it would go beyond the scope and focus of this work to analyse in detail how they function in the manner of a ‘politics of resistance’ and/or a ‘politics of representation’.

Conclusion

process in a way which guides the reader towards the novel’s ideological position: the challenging of any form of dogma and the importance of continuous critical interaction with the perspectives one is presented with. The same is true for The Long Song and Blonde Roots, where the novels’ appropriations of the slave narrative genre draw readers’ attention towards Britain’s involvement in the slave trade and foreground the inhumanity of slavery. At the same time, employing the defamiliarisation strategy on the level of interaction might also reinforce a space’s successfully realised heterotopic potential on the plot level: This is illustrated by Blonde Roots, which presents readers with a heterotopic space that indeed serves as a source of social transformation. Moreover, Doris’s spatial practices also function in a defamiliarising manner as she is able to expose the plantation’s compensatory function for the planters as an illusion and thus defamiliarises that particular space in their eyes. Creating unfamiliar familiarity therefore makes change and transformation explicit: It guides the reader to particular elements before investing them with new meaning and ideological functions. Thus, it is essentially the tendency to evoke familiar patterns and then defamiliarise them which contributes to the efficiency of this particular strategy: Familiar elements are kept present in the narrative and reassure readers ― a circumstance which creates a firm textual basis on which the defamiliarising strategy can unfold. Thus, defamiliarisation certainly creates an active reading process as the reader is constantly encouraged to adopt a comparative perspective. This also generates a certain degree of independence from the ideological positions foregrounded in the novels. The Road from Damascus, The Long Song and Blonde Roots ultimately foreground perspectives and positions which show rather clear tendencies towards challenging exclusionary boundaries. Minaret on the other hand also guides the reader towards initially familiar and then defamiliarised elements, but only to highlight an ideological position which relies on othering, alienation and separation. At the same time, Aboulela’s novel still allows readers to distance themselves from its own ideological bias, thereby again foregrounding the prominent role of the reader: The ultimate effect generated by the strategies relies on his/her background and attitudes, but the defamiliarising strategy at least creates a reading process which is active and thus requires readers to think and compare rather than easily aligning themselves with the ideological positions offered to them. A further approach which contributes to the creation of interactive heterotopic spaces in the novels and thus works towards a politics of destabilisation is the generation of closeness to or distance from the perspectives foregrounded in the respective narratives. The prominence of an implied reader who represents the ideological position the novel wants the real reader to take on, focalisation, the use of tenses, a preference for telling or showing, or elements of unreliable and world‐constructing narration are all strategies which can be used to create close-

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ness and/or distance. However, one cannot help but notice that their success in realising this potential varies among the novels under consideration. In fact, the efficiency of strategies which generate closeness and/or distance seems to depend on the ideological perspectives the novels offer to the real reader. The perspectives ultimately developed and foregrounded in Dabydeen’s, Adebayo’s, Levy’s and Evaristo’s novels can be considered either critical and dynamic or conservative and static. As pointed out in Chapter Six, the interactive levels in The Long Song and Blonde Roots aim at challenging the reader’s attitude towards a prominent British grand narrative, thereby creating an ideological position concerned with change. In regard to The Long Song, this position constitutes a contrast to the main protagonist’s inability to destabilise exclusionary boundaries on the plot level. This is also true for Some Kind of Black: On the level of representation, Dele becomes aware of the illusory nature of the Oxford Myth, but its compensatory function remains intact in the eyes of society. On the level of interaction, however, the novel’s textual strategies foreground Dele’s evolving and potentially destabilising perception of the Oxford Myth. Thus, just like The Road from Damascus and its strategy of defamiliarisation, The Long Song and Some Kind of Black balance their rather pessimistic outlook on the plot level with reader‐oriented strategies of creating closeness to or distance from the novels’ ideological perspectives. Neither July nor Dele are able to resolve exclusionary boundaries on the plot levels, but the fact that the novels encourage the creation of interactive heterotopic spaces counters this limitation. Blonde Roots on the other hand foregrounds change already on the plot level, so that strategies of creating closeness and/or distance serve to intensify and strengthen the novel’s ideological bias. Out of the four novels under discussion in Chapter Seven it is only The Intended which seems to strive for a static position: The narrative foregrounds a perspective which is based on closeness to the narrator’s persistent trust in the Oxford Myth. However, the novel’s overly deliberate and almost exaggerated attempts to evoke approval may still carry the potential to destabilise the narrator’s position and thus, the Oxford Myth. In this case, destabilisation is likely to function rather indirectly when the reader distances him-/herself from the narrator’s manipulative ingratiation. The strategies of generating distance and/or closeness thus all create positions for the reader which accord with the novels’ ideological perspectives. What this suggests is that such strategies contribute to a novel’s heterotopic potential for transformation essentially when they can be used to emphasise a tendency towards change which is already implied in the novel’s ideological perspective. Consequently, if a text does not contain an ideological perspective which foregrounds (the need for) change and transformation, the creation of interactive heterotopic spaces depends on the reader alone. This becomes particularly obvious with The Intended. As pointed out in Chapter Four, critics have frequently interpreted its use of intertextuality, especially the novel’s rewriting of Heart of Darkness, as a subversive strat-

Conclusion

egy which is likely to challenge readers’ attitudes. Clearly, rewriting a canonised work like Conrad’s can create unfamiliar familiarity and thus function similarly as the appropriation of established genre conventions. However, the present study argues that the implied reader’s highly dominant position here not only prevents real readers from challenging the ideological perspectives they are presented with but might also undermine other, potentially subversive, strategies like the integration of intertextual elements5 . This does not mean that novels which foreground perpetuation rather than transformation automatically impede change: Rather, it suggests that in those cases the realisation of the novels’ heterotopic potential for change almost depends on the reader alone rather than on the interaction between reader and text. The fact that Bernardine Evaristo (and, though less prominently so, Andrea Levy too) uses world‐constructing narration in order to create distance and/or closeness and fulfil the narrative’s heterotopic potential for transformation illustrates the importance of techniques which generate an active reading process: That particular narrative strategy is supported by the novel’s status as a reversal narrative which creates unfamiliar familiarity, a technique which seems to contribute even more effectively to the construction of interactive heterotopic spaces than the generation of closeness and/or distance. For novels like The Intended, which cannot rely on strong textual strategies like world‐constructing narration to create an active reading process and support or counter the work’s ideological bias, the reader’s original attitudes and willingness to interact critically with the text are particularly essential. In such cases, the work’s heterotopic potential for change is not entirely impossible but remains highly limited and contingent as it can only be realised rather indirectly, for instance when the reader feels alienated by the novel’s dominant textual strategies. On a more general level the observations above also show that as an analytical framework, interactive heterotopic spaces and their strategies do not function in isolation but depend on their contextualisation in the text concerned. In this sense, they clearly illustrate the enormous potential of the approach to heterotopia employed here: Using the concept of heterotopia not only to refer to “literary motifs” 5 A further element which might limit the subversive potential of the novel’s use of intertextuality is the fact that a novel like Heart of Darkeness might well be canonical, but it does probably not provide a similar degree of familiarity as the Bildungsroman or the slave narrative genre. In fact, the Bildungsroman and the slave narrative have become part of popular and ‘mainstream’ culture through their recurrent employment in a large amount of Bildungsroman and slave narrative ‘texts’ and media adaptations. Indeed, it would be impossible to acknowledge here the enormous amount of books and films which make use of the Bildungsroman structure, but an excellent example of contemporary popular adaptations of the slave narrative is for instance 12 Years a Slave, which won Best Picture, Best Actress, and Best Adapted Screenplay at the 2014 Academy Awards. As such, it is likely to provide readers with a sense of familiarity when consuming other forms of the slave narrative genre.

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(Knight, Real Spaces 21) but also to think about how texts themselves might function in a heterotopic and thus destabilising or even transformative manner allows for a more thorough and nuanced examination of questions of power and exclusion through literary texts. Integrating the interactive level between reader and text into the analysis also ensures that power, space and exclusion are not only seen as abstract textual elements but that the ‘real’ world and the actual reader are given a presence in the study of a particular text. This observation is reminiscent of JeanFrançois Lyotard’s definition of the postmodern as “that which, [...] puts forward the unpresentable in presentation itself” (81): The real reader is not really present or presentable in the interactive heterotopic space, but s/he still occupies a significant position in it because, as Lyotard points out, “the text he [the writer] writes, the work he produces are not in principle governed by preestablished rules, and they cannot be judged according to a determining judgement, by applying familiar categories to the text or to the work”; texts “have the characters of an event” (ibid.). The potentially transformative or destabilising effect on the reader can never be verified because that effect is the event which is generated. Similarly, the writer of a text can never fully anticipate what his/her text or event might signify for or effect in a particular reader. Instead, even though the real reader and the text’s effect on him/her remain undefined and indeed unpresentable, acknowledging those two factors serves to draw critical attention to the strategies which might destabilise his/her reading process or indeed outlook. In this sense, the interactive heterotopic space as an analytical tool seems to be based on a postmodern understanding of ‘text’ foregrounding a ‘playful’ or daring attitude towards established genres, structures and narrative situations. This tendency is shared by all six novels analysed here and ties in well with their overall politics of destabilisation. Of course, the present work can only provide case studies to assess the benefits and challenges of the approach to heterotopic spaces put forward here. Future research could focus on other spaces which function in a heterotopic manner and produce close readings which apply Foucault’s sixth feature of heterotopia. A space with remarkable contemporary significance and considerable heterotopic potential is for instance the refugee camp. It might also be interesting to foreground the spatial practices carried out in heterotopic spaces in greater depth. The analytical chapters have shown that a space’s potential for change depends on spatial practices, including the ability to transfer this potential to society. Future research could start out here and take a closer look at the conditions which influence and might impose limitations on spatial practices, such as gender, age or mental and physical disabilities. Moreover, it seems promising to concentrate on other marginalised communities than the two groups who are at the centre of this study, including for instance members of an ‘underclass’ or elderly people. The concept of interactive heterotopic spaces as an analytical tool could also be applied to different kinds of texts and genres to examine them in terms of their ability to generate a particu-

Conclusion

lar reading process. It would certainly be interesting to identify the limitations of the concept: As pointed out above, it appears to have an affinity with postmodern texts, which raises questions about its potential application to works which are more closed. To conclude this study, it now seems possible to say that heterotopic spaces clearly carry enormous potential for the analysis of space and power and their interrelations. Both as a plot element which is examined on the level of representation and as an analytical tool which serves to investigate the interaction between reader and text, the concept of heterotopic spaces foregrounds the dynamics which surround questions of belonging and exclusion and characterise the reading process generated by the novels at hand. The present work has shown that an approach to heterotopia which combines close readings of literary representations with the attention to social contexts and the interaction between reader and text broadens the analytical scope of both literary and cultural studies: It offers profound insights into the ways in which marginalisation can be created and countered, as well as into the strategies which prestructure an active, potentially destabilising reading process. In this sense, such an approach generates and supports a critical perspective on exclusionary boundaries. Most of the novels analysed here seem to present readers with a rather bleak perspective on British society but at the same time contain elements which open up an interactive heterotopic space that invites readers to re‐examine this perspective. It is exactly the novels’ engagement with strategies that ask readers to take a step back which constitutes a politics of destabilisation. This politics not only characterises the novels at hand, but indeed also (interactive) heterotopic spaces in general. Foucault’s understanding of heterotopia already foregrounds that such spaces have the potential to destabilise the existing structures of society, and this concern also informs the concept of interactive heterotopic spaces put forward by this thesis. Even though literature’s transformative function is always bound to remain equivocal and ambiguous, exploring literary texts through a politics of destabilisation acknowledges and perhaps even celebrates the unpresentable presence of that potential ― careful and tentative as it may be.

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