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A comparative approach to Pakistani

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a
Claire Chambers
a
Leeds Metropolitan University, UK
Published online: 20 Apr 2011.

To cite this article: Claire Chambers (2011) A comparative approach to Pakistani fiction in English,
Journal of Postcolonial Writing, 47:2, 122-134, DOI: 10.1080/17449855.2011.557182

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 Journal of Postcolonial Writing
Vol. 47, No. 2, May 2011, 122–134

A comparative approach to Pakistani fiction in English

Claire Chambers*

Leeds Metropolitan University, UK

Journal
10.1080/17449855.2011.557182
RJPW_A_557182.sgm
1744-9855
Taylor
2011
20Article
47
c.chambers@leedsmet.ac.uk
ClaireChambers
00000May
&
and
ofFrancis
Postcolonial
(print)/1744-9863
Francis
2011 Writing
(online)

This survey paper adumbrates an opening up of Pakistani fiction in order to draw

comparisons with other writing by novelists of Muslim heritage. While Pakistani writers
tend to be analysed as part of broader South Asian trends, Pakistan also faces west and
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has concerns in the Middle East, Central Asia, Europe and beyond that derive from its
Muslim identity. Without overstating the idea of a universalizing umma (which can lead
to neglect of the differences and tensions between different Muslim groups), the
approach has the advantage of bringing together writers from Muslim countries to shed
light on each other. South Asians, Arabs, and Africans are discussed together, because
of their shared religious heritage, but never overlooking their vast contextual variations.
Insights and themes unique to the research include the fact that writers often tap into a
canon of largely Muslim literature and art from the Middle East, South Asia and
elsewhere, which responds to key moments in the construction of Muslim identity, so
intertextuality is a significant concern.
Keywords: Pakistani literature; diaspora; Muslim; intertextuality; Yusuf; war on terror

My paper focuses on Pakistani writers who write fiction in English, examining them
alongside their peers with Muslim heritage from the Middle East, North Africa, and their
diasporas. Pakistan’s pre-Islamic civilizations (evident in the archaeological sites of Taxila,
Moenjodaro, and Harappa), and its shared borders and overlapping culture with India,
Afghanistan, Iran, Central Asia, and China, “has given Pakistani writers a particularly rich
cultural heritage to draw on” (Shamsie, Dragonfly xxii). Pakistanis also speak a variety of
languages, including Urdu, Baluchi, Punjabi, Sindhi, Siraiki, Pashto, Kashmiri, and Poto-
hari. In the decades immediately after Partition, some rejected the use of English for creative
purposes as an elitist, colonial language. Yet, far from making a political choice to write in
English, many writers educated in the “English-medium” system in Pakistan or Anglo-
American countries have English as their strongest language. As a character in Aamer
Hussein’s Another Gulmohar Tree1 remarks, “You don’t choose the language you write in,
it chooses you” (53). Given that my broader research project is in literary representations of
and by Muslim-heritage subjects in the UK, there is likely to be some bias towards British-
resident writers, but I hope not to the exclusion of authors based in Pakistan or in the
Pakistani diaspora elsewhere, notably North America. My interviews with several of the
authors discussed (conducted for my book, British Muslim Fictions) inform the paper.
The recent flowering of Pakistani fiction in English has received much news media
coverage,2 and great critical attention when compared to the scant material on the subject
before the 1990s.3 Pakistani writers, most of them living or educated in the West,
currently feature prominently in the international literary scene as award winners or

*Email: c.chambers@leedsmet.ac.uk

ISSN 1744-9855 print/ISSN 1744-9863 online

© 2011 Taylor & Francis
DOI: 10.1080/17449855.2011.557182
http://www.informaworld.com
 Journal of Postcolonial Writing 123

nominees, best-selling authors, festival speakers and, increasingly, topics for research
students and critics. The success, borne out by multiple prize awards or nominations, of
such novels as Nadeem Aslam’s Maps for Lost Lovers, Mohsin Hamid’s The Reluctant
Fundamentalist, Mohammad Hanif’s A Case of Exploding Mangoes, and Kamila Shamsie’s
Burnt Shadows has led to bidding wars and high advances for US-educated writers Ali Sethi
and Daniyal Mueenuddin. Freeman’s recent Granta 112: Pakistan adds to a sense of
publishers and academics moving away from the fashionable Indo-chic of the 1980s and
1990s (see Huggan 69–77) towards grittier, post-9/11 “renditions” of Pakistan as the eye of
the storm in the war on terror (Bennett-Jones). Some of these writers, despite different back-
grounds, exhibit an ability to “live between East and West, literally or intellectually”
(Shamsie, Dragonfly xxiv), which percolates through their writing.
This attention paid to the (undeniably excellent) “big five” of Hamid, Hanif, K. Shamsie,
Mueenuddin, and Aslam problematically leads to neglect of other less well-known, but
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equally great writers from Pakistan, such as Moni Mohsin, Sara Suleri Goodyear and
Sorayya Khan. It could also give the mistaken impression that Pakistani writing is domi-
nated by male writers (a misapprehension that has already been countered by such antholo-
gies as Hussein, Kahani and M. Shamsie, World). What also gets forgotten in the
celebration of this “case of exploding talent” (Ilkley Literature Festival n. pag.) is that the
achievements did not explode out of a vacuum. Important Muslim writers, such as Ahmed
Ali and Mumtaz Shah Nawaz, began their careers in pre-Partition India and prefigure this
younger generation. In the 1970s and 1980s, leading luminaries of Pakistani writing in
English included Bapsi Sidhwa, Zulfikar Ghose, and Hanif Kureishi, all diasporic writers,
and Ghose and Kureishi having only wavy connections to Pakistan. Salman Rushdie,
although a self-proclaimed Indian writer, wrote extensively about Pakistan in Midnight’s
Children. Despite resisting his family’s move to Karachi, Rushdie also published a novel on
Pakistan, Shame, which, in its satirical portrayal of Zia ul-Haq and the Bhutto family,
anticipates the wicked humour of Hanif’s recent A Case of Exploding Mangoes.
Whereas such critics as Tariq Rahman take an encyclopaedic view of anglophone
Pakistani writing, I take a comparative approach to recent Pakistani English-language
fictional works, situating them alongside writing by authors of Muslim heritage in other parts
of the world. Complete coverage of Pakistani or other “Muslim writing” is not attempted
here, but the authors discussed illustrate recent trends. My research draws attention to the
absence of univocality in writers of Muslim heritage, indicating that – notwithstanding
attempts by sections of mainstream fiction and the media to portray Muslims as a monolithic
group4 – these creative writers are highly heterogeneous, even conflicting thinkers. I argue
that, despite lively differences of opinion, Pakistani and other writers of Muslim background
draw upon, return to, and build on a canon of largely Muslim writing and art from the
subcontinent and Middle East. Through intertextuality, the writers challenge stock images
of, while highlighting divisions and disagreements among, Muslim groups.
The declared aim of founder of the nation, Mohammad Ali Jinnah, to safeguard the
rights of Muslims as India’s largest minority generated support for the Muslim League’s
calls for Pakistan but, notwithstanding his deep-rooted secularism, Jinnah inadvertently
opened the door to religion being privileged over all other components of identity (see
Shamsie, Offence 29–35). The word “Islamic” rather than “Muslim” gained currency, amid
much debate, as a means of defining the new state after it was created, and a hegemonic
version of the religion was officially prioritized in the Islamic Republic of Pakistan’s
Constitution of 1956 and subsequent amendments. Furthermore, as Pakistan’s crises of
1971 and ongoing provincial fissures demonstrate, “Islam” conspicuously failed to unify the
nation. The loss of Pakistan’s east wing in the 1971 war and Bangladesh’s resulting
 124 C. Chambers

independence was slow to inform English-language writing (although there was an outpour-
ing of representations of the war in Bengali literature), perhaps because of psychological
trauma. However, 1971 is now being discussed by a new generation of Pakistani writers
including Kamila Shamsie (Kartography), Moni Mohsin and Sorayya Khan.5
As Sri Lankan critic Neluka Silva, and Kamila Shamsie demonstrate, hardline Islamic
political parties have been resoundingly defeated in almost every election since Indepen-
dence (Silva 175; K. Shamsie, Offence 39, 58, 69, 71–72). Silva focuses on the growing
subgenre of texts lambasting Zia-ul-Haq’s Islamizing regime (1977–88) and his fiercely
misogynistic Hudood Ordinance, examining two texts of the 1980s, Salman Rushdie’s
Shame and Rukhsana Ahmad’s pathbreaking We Sinful Women anthology of English trans-
lations from Urdu poetry. This era is examined further in Nadeem Aslam’s Season of the
Rainbirds, Kamila Shamsie’s Broken Verses, Mohammed Hanif’s A Case of Exploding
Mangoes, Ali Sethi’s The Wish Maker, and Uzma Aslam Khan’s The Geometry of God,
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among other texts. So writers are acutely aware of the threat posed by the rise of a politi-
cized Islam, particularly to women, and to other minority groups, including the stigmatized
Ahmadi community.
In this context, it might seem strange to make a case for exploring Muslim identity rather
than national origins as a way of understanding literature. But Muslim identity is proving
an increasingly useful valence for understanding Pakistani texts since a series of pivotal
events between 1989 and 2005, including the Rushdie Affair, the two Gulf Wars, 9/11, 7/7,
and the “war on terror”. Identity is a protean thing, constantly being re/fashioned (see Hall),
and one’s religious affiliations as a Muslim intersect with other identity signifiers. My paper
will not stray far into discussions of the multifariousness of Islam; it is the reified figure,
and cultural category, of the Muslim that is under analysis. With Amin Malak, I draw a
distinction between the Muslim “who espouses the religion of Islam or is shaped by its
cultural impact” and “the faith of Islam” (5).
Many significant Pakistani and Arab writers are secular, agnostic, atheists, or (like Paki-
stani-US novelist Bapsi Sidhwa, Pakistani-British poets Moniza Alvi, John Siddique, and
the late Middle Eastern thinkers Edward W. Said and Mai Ghoussoub) were not brought up
as Muslims or come from other religious communities. They all have in common, though,
a Muslim civilizational heritage. In relation to my own positionality and interest in this
field, as a non-Muslim who has nevertheless been shaped by South Asian Muslim culture
in Britain and Pakistan, I often think of a statement by Amin Malak: “Islam constitutes not
only a cardinal component of Muslims’ identity but also becomes a prominent feature in the
identity of the non-Muslims (be they Hindus, Zoroastrians, Jews, or Christians) who happen
to live in Muslim communities” (4). Therefore, I take a broad view of the category
“Muslim”, rather than examining texts for their religiosity or piety.
As Muneeza Shamsie argues convincingly, it is also untenable to impose a distinction
between diasporic and Pakistani-resident authors writing in English (World xvii). Many
Pakistani writers in English (including Nadeem Aslam, Aamer Hussein, Kamila Shamsie,
and Uzma Aslam Khan) neither have hyphenated identities nor can be considered Pakistani
exiles, but write in liminal positions between West and East. I follow Jana Evans Braziel
and Anita Mannur in recognizing the roots of the term “diaspora” in unwilling displace-
ment, oppression and exile, but, like them, I think that “[d]iaspora, in the rapidly changing
world we now inhabit, speaks to diverse groups of displaced persons and communities
moving across the globe” (2). Yet perhaps most central to my understanding of diasporic
identities is Avtar Brah’s suggestion that religion “underpin[s] a complex intersection”
between more commonly discussed aspects of diasporic identity, including gender, class,
caste and ethnicity (18).
 Journal of Postcolonial Writing 125

In the current political climate, an increasingly complex debate is emerging about the
reified figure and cultural category of the “Muslim”. Yet criticism of postcolonial and
migrant writing still tends to subsume religious identity under such categories as ethnicity,
nationality, hybridity and race. Proposing an alternative critical vocabulary, the paper
explores the diversity of Muslims, the civilization of the Islamic world and, to a lesser
extent, the representation of religion, as depicted in a rich and often contestatory body of
writing. Pakistani and Pakistani-diasporic authors tend to be analysed as part of broader
South Asian trends alongside their peers from India, Bangladesh, and their diasporas. This
is logical, given their long history as one nation. However, the “South Asian” construct’s
relevance may be decreasing as Partition becomes more firmly a part of past history
(notwithstanding its continuing residues); and as Pakistan, India and Bangladesh develop
and self-fashion increasingly distinct identities. Pakistan differs from India because it has
concerns in, and links to, the Middle East, Central Asia, East Africa and beyond that derive
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from its Muslim identity. However, it is important to bear in mind Kamila Shamsie’s6 witty
query: “Has anyone else noticed how we seem to have geographically shifted from being a
side-thought of the subcontinent to a major player in the Greater Middle East? Is this
progress?” (“How” n. pag.). The comparative “Af-Pak” rather than “Indo-Pak” approach
(K. Shamsie, “How” n. pag.), while now common in political and social sciences, is as yet
under-explored in literary studies, but it will only represent an advancement if we use
“Muslim writing” as a launch-pad towards a constellation of new texts and connections,
rather than a label with which to brand and constrain writers.
I begin my comparative survey by taking one example of shared influences from the
Qur’an on these writers. The Qur’anic story of Yusuf, narrating Yusuf/Joseph’s betrayal
by, and eventual return to, his family; his exile into slavery; and attempted seduction by
Potiphar’s wife Zuleikha (the name popularly given to Potiphar’s wife in Muslim tradi-
tion), is explored in Aamer Hussein’s “The Lost Cantos of the Silken Tiger”, Tanzanian-
British novelist Abdulrazak Gurnah’s Paradise, Suhayl Saadi’s Joseph’s Box, and
Nadeem Aslam’s “Leila in the Wilderness”. In Hussein’s folkloric story-within-a-story,
Yusuf is figured as a poet, challenged to a recital contest by the fiery but ageing
Zuleikha, during which they fall in love. This story gives way to discussion amongst
Pakistani émigrés in London about the Pakistani woman writer Aarzou, said to have writ-
ten the tale about her lover, the poet Yusuf Reza, in order to “stage [ … ] herself as
Potiphar’s wife – an early feminist struggle to present a woman mad, bad and dangerous”
(“Cantos” 89).
Gurnah’s Booker-shortlisted fourth novel, Paradise, represents both a rewriting of
Surah Yusuf and a pessimistic account of the colonization of East Africa in the late 19th
century. In the richly resonant chapter “A Clot of Blood” (in the Qur’an, this is one of the
ingredients out of which Allah made man), Yusuf, the good-looking rehani (slave-boy),
faces attempted seduction by the vampiric older woman, Zulekha.7 As in Surah Yusuf,
Yusuf’s innocence is proven by the fact that Zulekha tore Yusuf’s shirt at the back as he ran
from her, yet in this corrupt, hierarchical society the evidence counts for little (238–39). In
contrast with Surah Yusuf’s concluding optimism, when the young man’s steadfast faith is
rewarded in his return to his family, Gurnah’s Yusuf makes the cowardly, if understandable,
decision to abandon Amina, the woman he loves, and despairingly joins the ruthless
German colonizers he had despised (247).
Suhayl Saadi’s voluminous and somewhat impenetrable Joseph’s Box also features a
character called Zuleikha who discovers a box in a Scottish river, inside which she finds six
further boxes containing clues which inspire a journey to Scotland, England, Pakistan,
ending in the Himalayas. Saadi’s self-declared aim is to use the Yusuf myth in order to
 126 C. Chambers

explore the Sufi conditions of “sacrifice, truth, power, obedience, life, memory and beauty”
(Box blurb), through a transcultural frame.
Finally, Nadeem Aslam’s lush novella about antipathy towards the birth of girl-children
in Pakistan, “Leila in the Wilderness”, which opens Freeman’s Granta 112: Pakistan (9–53),
is inspired by the ancient Arab legend of Leila and Majnun (the hero Qes is known as Majnun,
meaning the Mad One due to his grief at the loss of his lover, Leila). The ancient love story
is one of the central metaphorical, romantic and mystic texts of Muslim civilization. Other
English-language writers of Muslim heritage, including Kamila Shamsie (Broken 49–51, 118)
and Afghan-American Khaled Hosseini (240), make reference to the legend. “Leila in the
Wilderness” also evokes verses from Surah Yusuf, which describe Joseph’s father going blind
because of his sorrow over his missing son, and his sight being restored when he is shown
a shirt that proves Joseph is alive. In the novella, Leila is made to wear a talismanic shirt “meant
to represent the garment worn by Joseph”, in order to protect the unborn son her relatives
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long for (Freeman 26). Yet the shirt, apparently so enabling for sons and fathers, makes Leila
feel as though she is “almost blind” (37). This discussion of three Pakistani writers based in
Britain – Hussein, Saadi, and Aslam – and one writer of Muslim heritage from Zanzibar –
Gurnah – indicates that Surah Yusuf lends itself well to transcultural debate about migration,
exile, slavery, and gender. Certainly this is the view of Dutch literary critic Mieke Bal, whose
book, Loving Yusuf, centres on (re-)tellings of the Joseph story, from the Bible and Qur’an
through to Rembrandt’s etchings and Thomas Mann’s Joseph and his Brothers.
In other texts, prayer and Ramadan are shown to structure the Muslim day and year,
intimating a strong imagined community. Hajj promises even greater “spiritual pleasure”
(188) than the quotidian activities of prayer and fasting for Najwa, protagonist of Sudanese
writer Leila Aboulela’s Minaret. At the novel’s end, she chooses to be funded to go to
Makkah by the family she has worked for as a servant, rather than pursue a prohibited rela-
tionship with Tamer, her employer’s youthful brother. The novel resembles romance
fiction, with a friendship growing between Najwa and Tamer, despite their different ages
and social positions, but the conclusion tilts it towards a different interpretation. Over
romantic love, Najwa chooses religious pilgrimage, which she imagines as being made up
of “genuine joy and adventures [ … ], [t]he crowds, the hardship of sleeping in tents, long
bus rides, the [sense of being] squeezed and wrung” (209). Ali Sethi represents Hajj more
irreverently through the portrayal of another servant woman, Naseem, who has saved up her
wages to make the pilgrimage to Makkah, commenting approvingly that in Saudi Arabia
“[e]verything they have: KFC, McDonald’s, anything at all” (5). Yet, for Naseem, the
pilgrimage proves epiphanic, showing her

the people of the world brought together in one mission: they wore the same cloth and prayed
to the same God and went round and round the same monument. It had alerted her to the
presence of a single underlying system. (Sethi 12)

This idea of an “underlying system”, however tongue-in-cheek, indicates a notion of a

Muslim global community, or umma.
A key feature of what may be controversially termed “Muslim writing”, therefore, is that
writers are often less concerned with (neo-)colonialism and “the West” than with establish-
ing connections and affiliations which transcend this. Peter G. Mandaville observes that
“[t]he ‘debate’ between Islam and the West is certainly important, but we have allowed it
to so over-determine our perceptions of Islam that crucial contestations and negotiations
within Islam go unnoticed” (2–3). An example of such negotiations is found in Abdulrazak
Gurnah’s exploration of pre-colonial trading connections between the Indian subcontinent,
 Journal of Postcolonial Writing 127

East Africa and the Arabian Peninsula. Similarly, in his Islam Quintet (of which Night of
the Golden Butterfly is the fifth volume), Tariq Ali describes the hybrid societies of medi-
eval Spain and Sicily, and the more monocultural but still vibrant societies of 19th-century
Turkey and contemporary Pakistan. Writing on Urdu short stories, in a comment also appli-
cable to English-language fiction, Aamer Hussein writes: “[c]ontemporary Pakistani litera-
ture [ … ] reveals fascinating parallels with the literature of other nascent post-colonial
societies” (Kahani 16), to which I would add, particularly Muslim postcolonial societies.
British-resident Egyptian novelist Ahdaf Soueif provides diagrams in her collection of
essays, Mezzaterra (5, 8), which illustrate that alliances such as the Non-Aligned Move-
ment, Socialism and Pan-Arabism aimed to forge new links between countries that circum-
vented the legacies of colonialism, but that these “hospitable” connections were attacked
“from all sides” (8) and are now critically weakened. Bangladeshi Tahmima Anam similarly
describes a prevalent “cultural magpie-picking” that she argues existed in the 1960s among
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leftist activists, who:

felt like they were part of a global movement. Every time some other dictator was overthrown
in a far-flung country, student activists in Bangladesh felt an affinity, not least to the
Vietnamese when they were fighting the Americans. We think of globalization as being post-
internet, but in fact 1968 was the real moment of globalization and political ideas. (In
Chambers n. pag.)

Tariq Ali, in his account of the 1960s, Street-Fighting Years, similarly describes the inter-
nationalism of the 1960s and the iconic status that figures such as Che Guevara and Fidel
Castro had amongst activists in South Asia and Europe alike.
Yet during and after the collapse of communism in the 1980s, Islamism became an
increasingly potent force in world politics. Fiction by Soueif (Map), Aslam (Vigil), Anam
(Muslim) and Ali (Butterfly) documents the rise of various Islamist groups to fill the void
left by Marxist politics. Islamist connections between nations tend to be less concerned with
dialogue than a desire to persuade, convert or overthrow. To describe one little-known but
significant export from Pakistan to the Arab world, for example, the Jamaat-e-Tablighi or
Society for the Propagation of Religion played an important role in North African national-
ist struggles, and in the strikes of 1960s–70s France (see Kepel 207–09). More notoriously,
Arab, particularly Saudi, money is given to Pakistan and its diaspora, often with the aim of
consolidating Wahhabi influences (Lewis 139–40).
Another hierarchical and exploitative, though secular, connection was at its peak in the
mid-1970s to mid-1980s, when many Persian Gulf states encouraged Pakistan, alongside
many other poor Asian countries, to send labourers to work in their oil industry, as South
Asians were seen as “cheaper and more pliable” than indigenous or other Arab workers
(Findlay 107). Yet their expectations of the good life were frequently dashed by poor treat-
ment and conditions, segregation and xenophobic abuse, all common features of migrant
existence in the Gulf. This is recognized by the significantly named Noman in Uzma Aslam
Khan’s The Geometry of God, who travels to unnamed Gulf nations with his father, a
Pakistani Islamist minister, and observes “sleek hotels in cities with only conditioned air,
where all the workers look like me” (113).
To hold to the belief, then, that Pakistani authors are always concerned with interrogat-
ing western Orientalism, a view that may be encouraged by a partial reading of postcolonial
theory, represents a misinterpretation of the texts. Amin Malak suggests that “Muslim narra-
tive writers [ … ] project the culture and civilization of Islam from within” (2), and the texts
dramatize this notion of an insider’s view of Islam. By removing Muslims from the position
of “other”, these novelists create various possibilities for Muslims’ depictions. In this
 128 C. Chambers

century’s climate of Islamophobia, wars of questionable legality, and oppressive counter-

terror legislation, more writers are representing Muslim identity than ever before. Whereas
non-Muslim authors such as Martin Amis, Sebastian Faulks, and John Updike have zeroed
in on the figure of the terrorist, drawing upon a tradition in literature stretching back to
Conrad, Muslim writers have often looked at Islam in complex, multifaceted ways.
Fictional counter-narratives disturbing the monolithic image of the “Muslim” in public
discourse have increased since the 2001 race riots in the north of England, the attacks on
America later that year and the onset of the so-called war on terror. I emphasize the British
riots and the war on terror as much as the dramatic event of 9/11. While the attacks on
America were evidently horrific and tragic, I’d suggest that the unrest preceding them and
the foreign policy that ensued in their wake were not inevitable, and that the war on terror
has had even more cataclysmic reverberations than the terrorist strikes. In addition, the
terrorist acts against the US in 2001 and their aftermath mark a flashpoint for a specific
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generation, as the Iranian revolution and hostage crisis for the late 1970s and early 1980s,
the Rushdie Affair of 1989 onwards and the First Gulf War of 1990–91 all manufactured
concerns about the figure of the Muslim. I will examine fictional representations of three of
these turning points: 9/11, the war on terror and the Iraq War.
Daniyal Mueenuddin and Kamila Shamsie almost casually mention Islamophobia
experienced in the post-9/11 US. Mueenuddin’s elite Pakistani émigrés to the West in his
acclaimed short story collection In Other Rooms, Other Wonders are described as being
weakly hybrid, “not American and not with any place in Pakistan”, daily apologizing for
the crime of 9/11, despite their great distance from al-Qaeda’s politics (149). In Shamsie’s
Broken Verses, the sophisticated New York resident Mir Adnan Akbar Khan (nicknamed
Ed by his friends) is sacked from his job and questioned by the FBI in the suspicious
atmosphere following the 2001 attacks. Returning to Pakistan, Ed cites a depressingly
familiar list of post-“war on terror” outrages: “the INS. Guantanamo Bay. The unrandom
random security checks” (46). Mohsin Hamid explores this theme at greater length in The
Reluctant Fundamentalist through the character Changez (another pronunciation of the
first name of Mongol leader Genghis Khan), who feels compelled to return to Pakistan
after changes in attitude to him, and Pakistanis as a group, in post-9/11 New York.
Changez is aware of other Pakistanis being beaten and arrested, he experiences verbal
abuse from strangers, and “become[s] overnight a subject of whispers and stares” (130) for
assuming the potent visual symbol of a beard, but he goes further than Ed by getting
involved in incendiary Lahori campus politics (179). Less well known is H.M. Naqvi’s
fine new novel Home Boy, which recounts the story of well-integrated Pakistani-American
Shehzad (“Chuck”) and his two friends, who are arrested on terrorism charges in the toxic
post-9/11 climate.
21st-century British Islamophobia is perhaps most extensively scrutinized in Hanif
Kureishi’s latest novel, Something to Tell You. Although somewhat solipsistic, the novel
interestingly shows religion becoming a central marker of identity in contemporary Britain.
Following 7/7, the failed bombings two weeks later, and the shooting of the innocent Jean
Charles de Menezes (see Vaughan-Williams), Kureishi’s previously secular character,
Ajita, tries to reorient herself in London by reading the Qur’an and wearing the burqa. Kure-
ishi traces changing attitudes towards Muslims in Britain by discussing the shifting moni-
kers used in describing them, from “blacks” to “Asians” and now “Muslims” (36–37; see
also Modood 3–7). Perhaps most memorable, however, is Kureishi’s depiction of London
as “one of the great Muslim cities”, evident in a description of Shepherd’s Bush Market, in
which Morocco, the Middle East and Europe coalesce in the pursuit of commerce (10).
Elsewhere, Kureishi explores increasing Islamophobia in a Britain where Muslims’
 Journal of Postcolonial Writing 129

“fortunes and fears rose and fell according to the daily news” (14), and “Mussie”, “ham-
head” and “allahAllah-bomb” (320) are new insults.
Important though 9/11 and subsequent events such as the Madrid and London bombings
have been for non-Muslim perceptions of Islam, the war on terror has had far greater impact
on the lives of Muslims. For writers of Pakistani descent, at least, the war in Afghanistan
represents a particular watershed which has had a devastating impact on Pakistan, and
which is discussed in Feryal Ali Gauhar’s No Space for Further Burials, Nadeem Aslam’s
The Wasted Vigil, Kamila Shamsie’s Burnt Shadows, among other texts. To examine just
one of these novels, The Wasted Vigil deals with intertextuality in an unusual way through
the characters of two doctors, Marcus (now an English perfume factory owner, who has his
hand cut off by the Taliban) and Qatrina (his wife of 20 years, nonetheless considered his
mistress because a female cleric performed their wedding rites). Their eclectic reading is
nurtured by desperation, emblematically figured in the variety of books nailed to the ceiling
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of their house “[a] spike driven through the pages of history, a spike through the pages of
love, a spike through the sacred” (5).
Aslam’s novel of Afghanistan is alternately lyrical and overwritten, but contains some
penetrating insights about 30 war-torn years of the country’s history. The style is intense
and uncompromising, and yet there is a terrible, Yeatsian beauty in many of the images. For
example, Marcus’s mutilation is described elegiacally and horrifically as follows: “the skin
cup he could make with the palms of his hands is broken in half” (6). Adam Mars-Jones
questions the appropriateness of Aslam’s aestheticism to the subject matter of the Afghan
War, but concludes that it is successful, comparing the techniques in The Wasted Vigil to
those found in Sri Lankan Michael Ondaatje’s The English Patient. I would further argue
that Aslam’s exploration of the ruination and recuperation of Buddha statues is not merely
a representation of the destruction the Taliban wreaked in the Bamiyan valley in March
2001 but also a conscious intertextual reference to Ondaatje’s Anil’s Ghost, which
concludes with the image of an artist painting in Buddha’s eyes (299–307). Aslam’s
borrowings are extremely eclectic, ranging from John Berger to Aamer Hussein and
Yevgeny Vinokurov. On the debit side, however, its only central Afghan character, Casa,
sometimes lapses into acting as a one-dimensional mouthpiece for a violent, joyless Islam-
ism, and the slipperiness of the narrative voice means that misleading statements such as
Lara’s “[t]he religion of Islam at its core does not believe in the study of science” (112), can
all too easily be mistaken for authorial diktats (see Yassin-Kassab, “Two”; Buchan).
The Gulf Wars have received less attention from Pakistani writers, probably because
they took place in Iraq, a country geographically and culturally distant from Pakistan.
However, Aamer Hussein had a story about the First Gulf War, “Your Children”, and
another which tangentially discusses the Second Gulf War, “The Book of Maryam”,
collected in Insomnia (73–79). Both touch on the issues of Saddam as a dictatorial Great
Leader (Insomnia 77), and the ethical and political concerns raised for Muslims by the US-
led invasion. Uzma Aslam Khan’s politically astute Trespassing is another exception. One
of its four narrators, Daanish, studies journalism in Amherst, Massachusetts, only to
discover that the American “freedoms” of expression and the press he hopes to be taught
about are deemed less important than the promotion of consumer confidence. During the
1991 Gulf War, Daanish writes a journal about his increasing suspicions that the Iraqi inva-
sion of Kuwait was actively encouraged by the US, to justify an attack on its oil-rich former
ally. Yet his coldly informal tutor dismisses his research as Daanish’s “tak[ing] pride in
[his] own” (148), in one phrase eliding the myriad differences between Arabs and
Pakistanis, and reducing the journal to mere opinion (while hysterical American headlines
about Saddam Hussein are interpreted as factual [149]).
 130 C. Chambers

Even in the Arab world there have been surprisingly few sustained fictionalizations of
the Gulf Wars, but Iraqi refugee Hassan Blasim’s translated short story collection, The
Madman of Freedom Square, harrowingly depicts the perils, trauma and abuse suffered by
those who leave Iraq, as well as those who stay. In the post-“war on terror” world, more
even than when critics Suhrke and Kabbani were arguing this, the vast majority of refugees
and asylum seekers are Muslims, or refugees in Muslim states. Many other writers of
Muslim heritage, including, but not limited to, Abdulrazak Gurnah (Sea), Bangladeshis
Manzu Islam and Tahmima Anam (Golden), British-Syrian Robin Yassin-Kassab, Nadeem
Aslam (Maps) and Kamila Shamsie in Burnt Shadows, dramatize issues relating to asylum,
migration and discourses of otherness in their fiction.
To take just one of these texts: as the title Maps for Lost Lovers suggests, this is a novel
that is concerned with migrants’ “cognitive mapping” of a new landscape (see Jameson 89–
90). Aslam’s mythical Dasht-e-Tanhaii bears close surface resemblance to the Yorkshire
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cities of Huddersfield (where the author spent his late teens) and Bradford, with their large
populations of South Asian migrants, particularly from rural areas in Azad Jammu & Kash-
mir and the Pakistani Punjab. He describes the migrants of the 1950s and 1960s in terms
that echo Paul Carter’s descriptions of earlier European explorers and colonialists, depicting
them as involved in a process of renaming the British landmarks, streets, and towns that they
encounter. In so doing, Aslam uncovers a complex history of interchange between Europe
and the subcontinent, as many of the familiar appellations they choose to replace the
supposedly “unpronounceable” English names in fact hark back to colonialism: “a Park
Street here as in Calcutta, a Malabar Hill as in Bombay, and a Naag Tolla Hill as in Dhaka”
(28). Aslam also charts the increasing polarization between different communities from the
subcontinent, particularly after the Bangladesh War of 1971. Ultimately, the only name
accepted by all communities is the Urdu term “Dasht-e-Tanhaii” for the town’s name, an
allusion to Faiz Ahmed Faiz, who is one of three individuals eulogized on the novel’s pref-
atory page. The phrase derives from Faiz’s poem “Yad” (“Memory”), immortalized in Iqbal
Bano’s song “Dasht-e-Tanhaii”, which deals with the theme of lovers’ separation, despite
their physical proximity (see Mufti 255–59). More allusively, the poem may be interpreted
as touching upon a migrant’s yearning for home.
Aslam’s representation of the ways in which contemporary British-Pakistani communi-
ties have been shaped by, and are reacting to, post-war waves of chain migration is neatly
complemented by his portrayal of a painter’s attempts to “incorporate into [his] art the lives
of the people I grew up amongst – examine and explore them” (318). When the news
emerges that a photography studio in Dasht-e-Tanhaii, renowned for its vast collection of
portraits of migrants from the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s, is about to close, Shamas’s British-
born son buys a cache of photographs to rescue this “important document” of South Asian
migration (319) and inform his own art. The artist Charag intertwines the documentary real-
ism of photographs with the opulent “butterflies, fruit- and flower-heavy boughs, birds,
hoopoes and parakeets” of his usual painting style (320). This strand of the novel refers to
Tony Walker’s Belle Vue studio in Bradford, which from 1926 until its closure in 1975 was
well known for taking archaically formal photographs of the city’s immigrant workers and
their families. Photographs from this studio, as in the example of the starchy picture of
Shamas and his family in Aslam’s text (318), were sent back to Pakistan “to show [the
immigrants’] new found wealth and success”, often with western material goods in promi-
nent positions (Bradford n. pag.). Although many negatives were destroyed in 1985, a valu-
able collection of the remaining photographs is available on the Bradford Museums,
Galleries and Heritage website. This archive, which illustrates the continuing significance
to the migrants of sending photos “back”, parallels Aslam’s interest in the idealized
 Journal of Postcolonial Writing 131

backward gaze of uprooted peoples, also movingly described in Amitav Ghosh’s essay “The
Greatest Sorrow” (303–13). There is also traffic here between the sending of photographs
to the subcontinent and the importing of imagery from Pakistan to enrich Aslam’s writing.
Like Charag, Aslam uses specifically Muslim South Asian myths, art forms, and reli-
gious stories in order to translate the England in which his characters live. For instance, the
novel is peppered with rich images drawn from Urdu poetry, particularly ghazals: tropes
include the moth and the flame; stars and diamonds; wine and peacocks. The novel’s evoca-
tion of the 19th-century ghazal poet Ghalib (see Maps 163, 332) is suggestive in relation to
Aslam’s literary project. Ghalib creatively reinterpreted the stock images of Urdu poetry in
order to make veiled but sharp points about the turbulent times in which he lived, the era of
the Indian Rebellion of 1857 and the demise of the Mughal Empire (Chew 41). In a similar
way, the artists Abdur Rahman Chughtai (whose intricate drawing of a deer and cypress is
on Aslam’s frontispiece, and who himself illustrated Ghalib’s poetry [Dadi 52]) and, more
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recently, a younger generation of artists including the “Singh Twins” Amrit and Rabindra
Singh, adapted the Mughal miniature tradition “to depict the complex urban and domestic
landscapes” of contemporary South Asians’ lives (Dadi; Mathur 6).
Aslam embarks on an analogous enterprise, showing that themes from South Asian poetry
and art (relating to such issues as politics, tradition, love, and religion) are relevant to contem-
porary British migrants, and that they generate various connotations when transplanted to this
new context. By this, he refutes attempts to constrict Islam into an exclusive, singular identity
as distortions of the religion’s pluralist history. In evoking the opulence associated with Urdu
poetry, he reminds readers that Islam is a heterogeneous religion and culture, and that in the
ghazal tradition, for instance, secular elements such as wine and the Beloved featured as spir-
itual metaphors. It may be argued, then, that Aslam builds upon a canon of work negotiating
the changing positions of Muslims in pre- and postcolonial societies.
This paper has illustrated the many ways in which writers of Pakistani and other Muslim
heritage explore their syncretic, progressive past and more recent history. Drawing on artis-
tic works by Muslims (and non-Muslims), the authors reflect the many influences that bear
upon contemporary Muslim identity. At stake in the return to figures of Muslim art, such as
Faiz, Chughtai and Ghalib, is a desire to think through moments of crisis in Muslim subjec-
tivity formation, which include the 1857 Indian Rebellion, Gulf Wars and the war on terror.
The writers also seek to highlight the centrality of Muslim art to global canons, and to situ-
ate their own fictions within a long history of Muslim artistic identity. The texts certainly
write back to earlier stereotypical depictions of Muslims, but something more is also put
forward. The novels celebrate Muslim civilizations as forming a rich cultural repository
from which their writing has much to gain. The intertextual referencing of a long history of
Muslim artistic work refigures the category “Muslim” as a springboard rather than a
constricting box. It is to be hoped that, through a comparative perspective, the paper has
illustrated the connections as well as disjunctures between Muslim writers, who are produc-
ing some of the most nuanced and politically engaged writing in world literature today.

Acknowledgements
I would like to thank James Dodge for all his insights, and Muneeza Shamsie for her encyclopaedic
guidance and editorial skills. Any errors are, of course, my own.

Notes
1. Unless stated otherwise, all writers (including Aamer Hussein) have Pakistani heritage.
2. See, for example, K. Shamsie, “Another”; Dalrymple; Chaudhuri.
 132 C. Chambers

3. M. Shamsie, Dragonfly and World; Rahman; Hashmi; Cilano, “Extreme” and National.
4. For examples of stereotypical literary representations of Muslims, see Amis; McEwan; Updike;
Faulks. On media representations, see Said; Poole; and Ahmed.
5. For further analysis of literary representations of 1971 and its fallout, see Cilano’s recent mono-
graph, in which she scrutinizes the critical juncture for Pakistani self-identity of the 1971 war, as
refracted through both Urdu- and English-language literature.
6. Authorship of the four sections of “How to Write about Pakistan” was never attributed but I have
received independent confirmation that it is by Kamila Shamsie.
7. Probably because phonetic representations of Arabic words vary according to the writer’s mother
tongue, subcontinental writers tend to spell the name “Zuleikha”, whereas Gurnah consistently
writes “Zulekha”. Similarly, there are disparities in spellings of the name Leila/Laila/Layla in the
Leila and Majnun myth.

Notes on contributor
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Claire Chambers is Senior Lecturer in English Literature at Leeds Metropolitan University, where she
specializes in South Asian writing in English and in literary representations of British Muslims. Claire
is currently writing two books, the first entitled British Muslim Fictions: Interviews with Contemporary
Writers, and the second a monograph about artistic representations of Muslims in Britain, 1966–present.

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