Upward mobility - Essay Example

[Supervisor Upward mobility The period spent by the narrator in England earning a doctorate, away from his village. It might be objected that no event from this period of time is directly narrated any place in the novel, but this conspicuously absent story is a premise of nearly every action and reaction exhibited by the narrator - it contains his formation as a character and prepares him to read Sa'eed's life-story. (Tayeb , 183) Moreover, this narrative, even though largely only implicit, is formally and logically required by the corresponding (and very prominent) time-level which comprises Mustafa Sa'eed's narration of his own experiences in England (Mawsim's fourth time-level; see below). This third time-level represents one facet of several possible comparisons between the narrator and Sa'eed, all urged by the construction of the novel around this pair of characters.At the very beginning of the novel, the narrator refers to his time in England as seven years of longing and describes the place as "a land 'whose fishes die of the cold'". The narrator's characterizations of his studies abroad are typically vague and completely lacking in detail (as in the preceding example) or dismissive. The narrative of Mustafa Sa'eed's experiences as a student, intellectual and Sudanese expatriate in England. This time-level first appears relatively late in comparison with the other time-levels, (Tayeb , 183) After offering this optimistic cross-cultural comparison, the narrator notes the ominously silent Mustafa Sa'eed, who "said nothing". Sa'eed's silence parallels the narrator's own reticence to share all his thoughts with the villagers, a reticence which possibly reflects deeper misgivings about the truth of his upbeat observation. The narrator thinks to himself that in England, just as in the Sudan, (Tayeb , 183) Some are strong and some arc weak; that some have been given more than they deserve by life, while others have been deprived by it, but that the differences are narrowing and most of the weak are no longer weak. This comparison begs the question, however, of whether the same can be said of the relationship between England and the Sudan, rather than within both England and the Sudan.30 For Sa'eed, as both we and the narrator learn in subsequent chapters, a chasm separates East/South from North/West, a gulf reflecting powerlessness and power, respectively, in response to which he embarks on his personal program of violent revenge. Even before Sa'eed's story is begun, however, Sa'eed questions the relevance of the narrator's experiences abroad. Sa'eed introduces himself to the narrator and remarks, in a vaguely dismissive manner, on the latter's achievements. (Tayeb , 183) Solid and unproblematic values, the humanistic act of studying another culture's literature, and the virtue of humility, all appear in conjunction with the narrator's experiences in Europe. Yet the dissimulation calls into question the values implicit in the narrator's very general description of his experiences abroad. Sa'eed responds by attacking the narrator's choice of subject: "We have no need of poetry here". Sa'eed's blunt criticism reflects the unviability of the naive model offered by the narrator for a possible relationship between England and the Sudan. The eager Sudanese student assiduously applying himself to the acquisition of the higher (in both senses) European literary culture offers, for Sa'eed, a pathetic reflex of the rapaciousness of European Orientalism (including philology): "a Western style for dominating, restructuring, and having authority over the Orient. Even though it is Mustafa Sa'eed who is speaking, the narrator's own experiences in an idealized England populated by poets, humanists, and doctoral candidates render English poetry intelligible to him. Ironically, precisely those idealized experiences allow him to perceive Mustafa Sa'eed as an interloper in the otherwise (also highly idealized) cultural homogeneity and simplicity of the village. The narrator's background, the fuel for any and all reactions the narrator might have to the recounted experiences of Mustafa Sa'eed. Apart, however, from these few intimations about the narrator's history, the reader never really receives a picture of how things may have gone differently in England for someone other than Sa'eed. hat the incoherence and arbitrariness of European views of the Orient become expressly associated with Sa'eed's reverse colonialist agenda.As he recounts the story of his murder trial at the Old Bailey, Sa'eed describes the ludicrous contradictions embodied by the two barristers who represent the prosecution and the defense. (Tayeb , 183) His defense lawyer, an Orientalist of the old school, confidently proclaims: "You, Mr. Sa'eed, are the best example of the fact that our civilizing mission in Africa is of no avail." Sa'eed describes the prosecutor, on the other hand, as a known libertine and open admirer of Sa'eed's sexual exploits. Thus, an alleged English moral order, underpinned by the rule of law, dissolves into contradictions which serve the ideology of colonial domination, orienting itself around two particular constructions of Sa'eed: as a symbol of the uncivilizable savage, he is not to be held accountable for his actions; as a symbol of the sensual Orient, he legitimizes forbidden desires, which, however, are not to be publicly indulged. The English rule of law thus robs him of full legal capacity while the English imagination endows him with sexual prowess which, however, is to be held in check at all costs half a man and a dangerous, sexual superman at once. It is into this web of colonialist hypocrisy that Sa'eed launches himself headlong "as an invader into your very homes"(Tayeb , 183) The narrator's encounter with Sa'eed, with the colonialist legacy in all its complexity, is as inescapable as it is painful: inescapable because even in that remote village at the bend in the Nile that legacy relentlessly tracks down the narrator and forces itself upon him, in the most unlikely of situations; painful because the narrator becomes disabused, by excruciating means, of his simplistic and naive assumptions about the post-colonial situation. Maminis four time-levels each signify different phases, or constituent elements, of this encounter, an encounter that requires the narrator to become a reader and interpret history in order to make sense of his world. (Tayeb , 183) The story of the narrator as reader of history models a hermeneutic process that lends itself very well to characterization in terms of Gadamerian hermeneutics. In the context of Maivsim, Gadamer is useful in two ways: First, Gadamer relies on the example of the investigation of history and tradition as one model of understanding and interpretation more generally. Second, Gadamer uses the term "the Thou" as a metaphor for the object of interpretation, sometimes also styled "the other." Mawsim's narrator undertakes to understand Mustafa Sa'eed, as an individual whom he encounters (the Thou, the other), and as an emblem of a particular historical situation. It is the ultimate irony that Mustafa Sa'eed appears able - initially anyway - to realize the narrator's own optimistic view of a progressive humanism which successfully resolves the tensions between the oppositions South-East/North-West: education abroad (in Europe), unproblematic return and integration into society (marriage and children in a farming village), productive life (Sa'eed serves on the village agricultural cooperative committee and offers constructive suggestions which benefit all). Perhaps sensing that this state of affairs was too good to be true, as though he realized it was a lie (as Sa'eed was fond of saying about himself), he chooses to make an ungraceful exit. T The title, Nervous Conditions, comes from a statement Dangarembga uses as the prologue to her novel--"The condition of native is a nervous condition"--taken from the introduction to Frantz Fanon's The Wretched of the Earth (1963), in which he wrote about the psychosocial effects of colonization. (Tsitsi , 4-10) Thus, illness is a preexistent, thematic condition under which the events of the novel take place. For Nyasha and Tambu, the condition of native as a nervous condition comprises not only colonization but also the condition of gender and the condition of female education. Their attempts to function in a society that does not allow them socially acceptable verbal or written outlets as educated, female Africans result in their being punished for inappropriate expressions of dissatisfaction and anger. Because Nyasha is the character who articulates most of the historically "real" political events mentioned in the narrative, she expresses most clearly Dangarembga's thematic articulation of illness as a colonial condition. On a metaphoric level, colonialism and Western influence are presented as contaminations that infect and threaten the lives and health of the colonized. If physical and psychological illness can be read as symptomatic of colonialism, it can be cured only by independence, so the ending of Dangarembga's narrative looks ahead to the time of Zimbabwean independence, although the novel itself ends several years before then. (Tsitsi , 4-10) And since Nyasha's rebellion against the silencing of her voice and body is a gendered rebellion against patriarchal authority, her personal experience of rebellion figures the guerilla war taking place in Southern Rhodesia during the 1960s and 70s when the novel is set. Silence and obedience are important values in Shona culture, the Sigauke family's ethnic tribe, and in colonial Southern Rhodesia. In an anthropological work entitled The Genuine Shona: Survival Values of an African Culture (1973), which was published about the time the events of the novel, but not the story, were coming to a close, Michael Gelfand describes Shona families as being structured by a clearly defined paternal system of rank. Women were lower in rank than men, gaining in status as their brothers and sons moved higher in family rank. The Shona displayed respect for anyone of a higher status through what Gelfand describes as "good manners," by being silent and obedient in that person's presence. Gelfand contends that, among Shona family members, "harmony" reigned, and there was an "appreciation of the status of every member of the group." This led "to a well disciplined unit" that ensured the avoidance of "friction" . Such a tradition of silence and obedience was reinforced by the way colonial government stratified society along racial lines. Southern Rhodesia's codified system of segregation ensured that Whites, legally higher in rank, were treated with silence and obedience by Africans. (Tsitsi , 4-10) In Nervous Conditions the use of spoken language, particularly English, signals power, and the lack of language signals lack of power. Because Nyasha disregards rank, her speech disrupts and threatens the authority of gender- and race-determined status in colonial society. Colonial education, and the drive of the entire Sigauke family to educate themselves and each other through the colonial system, drive and complicate much of the action of the novel in ways that are directly connected to silencing and voice. Although Whites often determined that the Africans who benefitted most from a colonial education were the ones least likely to threaten the social order, mastery of written and spoken English had currency in Shona society because it provided access to economic power in a way that circumvented race-determined rank. "Whites were indulgent towards promising young black boys in those days, provided that the promise was a peaceful promise, a grateful promise to accept whatever was handed out to them and not to expect more" (106). Nyasha's parents, Babamukuru and Maiguru, owe their current prosperity to the missionary system, so they place a high value on colonial education. (Tsitsi , 4-10) Shame's characters are all mythic, larger than life. Omar Khayyam Shakil, the most fully realized character, is followed from his fabulous conception to his grisly death. Not only his father but also his mother is unknown. He is the child of three once-wealthy recluse sisters (Chhunni, Munee, and Bunny). (Salman, 2-6) On the death of their father, who has never permitted them to leave the huge, ancient house, they have a party for the local British colonial administrators and once again seal off their home from the world. All undergo the symptoms of pregnancy and a child is born, to be nursed by all three. Omar grows up in the decaying mansion, crammed with glories of the past. Spoiled by his mothers, scorned by the town's people, fat, unattractive, and lecherous, Omar is an unlikely hero. After he has left home to become a doctor, a second child, Babar, a future revolutionary, is even more mysteriously born. General Raza Hyder is a more conventional protagonist. The product of a wealthy, traditionalist Muslim Pakistani family, he rescues his bride-to-be, Bilquis, and introduces her into his ultra-fundamentalist Muslim home, whose forty daughters and wives share a single sleeping room under the iron hand of the matriarch, his grandmother. (It is here that Bilquis becomes friends with Rani Humayun, Iskander Harrapa's bride-to-be.) Salman Rushdie's description of Hyder serves as an example of the novel's wry technique of characterization: five-foot-eight, "no giant, you'll agree"; fair skin, but "certainly darker than Bilquis's adoring eyes were willing to concede." Also to be noted is the gatta, the permanent bruise on the forehead of the devout that comes from vigorous bowing down toward mecca several times daily. His energy, impeccable manners, and humility are contrasted with his tendency to shed public tears, quick to flow down the dark pouches under his eyes: "These pouches would grow blacker and baggier as his power increased, until he no longer needed to wear sunglasses the way the other brass did, because he looked like he had a pair on anyway, all the time, even in bed." His humility is undermined by his self-created sobriquet "Old Razor Guts." The description mixes the mundane with the grotesque, and physical attributes are used as prognosticators of character. Rushdie's technique of characterization is often not far from caricature. "Little Mir" Harrapa, a primitive cousin of Iskander whose ascent to high office so enrages Iskander that he forsakes his playboy existence to focus his entire being on political power, is a good example. Little Mir takes vengeance upon Iskander for stealing his mistress by raiding and sacking the Harrapa estate. Most memorable, however, is his colorful language: "Who is the elder, me or that sucker of shit from the rectums of deceased donkeys" Each has his revenge. Iskander encourages Little Mir's son, Haroun, to kill his hated father but is eventually convicted and executed for it, having played into the hands of his enemies. (Salman, 2-6) The characters are all described form the outside, and in terms of their actions. Beyond this, and perhaps more important, is what the author tells the reader about his characters and their motivations. Their interior psychological worlds are not explored, and they remain fairy-talelike Arabian Nights creatures with little human warmth or dimension. The violence that befalls them is not painful, because the reader is not tempted to identify with the characters. If there are sympathetic figures in the novel, they are the women, who, although not much more "real" than the men, attract sympathy because they are so much the victims of their men and of their society. They bear the burden of shame. Works Cited Salman Rushdie. Shame . Picador (December 1, 2000), 2-6. Tsitsi Dangarembga and Kwame Anthony Appiah . Nervous Conditions . 2005, 4-10. Tayeb Salih. Season of Migration to the North. Heinemann (January 1, 1970), 183. Read More