Missing Edward Said: Some Thoughts on Egypt's Youth Uprising

Like most people, I too have been caught off-guard with the events in Egypt since January 25, 2011. For years, I have been following global events, analysing and at times writing about them. For example, I made a case for the shift of power to the east nearly fifteen years ago, when India was still stumbling unsteadily into globalisation. It has been gratifying to note that I was right!

But despite following events for the past two decades, I have to confess, I got Middle East wrong! I believed that once the power of US and Europe had shifted to the east, and the pernicious postcolonialist influences exercised directly or indirectly by Europe and US diminished, Middle East would find its feet. Mistakenly, and perhaps with a dose of cultural arrogance of my own, I believed that the region would find its historical sense of self once China and India regained their postcolonial importance.

My analysis based itself on one primary factor: culture and cultural production of a society, and its ability to control and shape its own narrative. I believed that as literature, art, music, film were so tightly controlled, that as mass scale cultural production was not happening at a large enough scale, in a free enough environment, the Middle East would not be able to shake off its postcolonial burden of an identity thrust upon them, of the Orientalist narratives of political apathy, autocracy, religious fanaticism, poverty, fecklessness.

A disclaimer: I know there will be political and economic analysts who will write more knowledgeably than me on those factors, but I am more interested in longer historical cycles, in ways in which deep-rooted cultural identities are reformed, reshaped, and revived constantly, consistently and repeatedly. Perhaps that is why I have been thinking of the great scholar Edward Said, and wishing repeatedly that he were alive to see the way his region has risen up to definitively shatter the narrative of Orientalism.

And yet the signs that perhaps a different cultural production was going on in the region were there to see. By this, I do not only mean the various Arab language TV channels, including of course Al Jazeera. I mean a larger, almost invisible, popular culture in which the region's population has been participating: the digital one.

I do not want to over-emphasise the role of social media here, as implicit in some of the lauding of that has been a covert desire for western commentrators to take credit for Egypt's (and Tunisia's) changes, as if Mark Zuckerberg were - in some fashion - a Lawrence of Arabia for the 21st century.  The phenomenon goes beyond simply the availability of digital technology and social media.

First of all, some basic points which are specific to Egypt but can, with slight modifications, be applied to many states in the region:

A large segment of Egypt's population is under twenty five. While this point has been noted in economic and political terms, lets just place it in its historical context. This means that most of Egypt's youth - and the bulk of those in Tahrir Square - are truly postcolonial.

What does this mean beyond a short hand?

The literacy rate at the point of decolonization in most countries around the world in the middle of the twentieth century was abysmally low. The educated sections of the population formed a colonised elite - so amply explained by Franz Fanon - who were removed from their own cultural roots, dislocated from their own history, often collaborators with the colonial regimes that not only showered them with largesse during the empire but repeatedly jockeyed to position them as leaders for the decolonization. The strategy then was not too different from the one now: replace the regime but replace it with one that would be sympathetic.

Poverty stricken, illiterate, battered, the decolonizing masses around the globe relied on leaders - who were not only often corrupt and autocratic, but also propped up by the Cold War order - and were repeatedly disappointed.

However, this has been steadily changing over the past decades. Even the most backward decolonized nations show  distinct improvement when compared to the days of the empire(s). Which is why, the protesters in Tahrir Square are no Fanonian elite. Born not only in a decolonized country, but also after Egypt's peace treaty with Israel, they demonstrate a sense of identity that does not rely on "othering" or indeed on difference. For the first time in the region, there have been few anti-Israel or anti-US slogans raised, and done so only for their complicity with their own hated regime. What we're seeing today is a revival of an older identity, recovered, revived, re-formed in Egypt which relies on itself. This is not to argue for some "essentialist" ideal, but rather a decolonization of the mind! And it is happening right across the postcolonial world.

And this brings us to the issue of popular culture. While Arab and Persian language television has much to contribute, there has also been a revolution in popular culture in the region thanks to the internet. In the (almost) decade since 9/11, more young people in the region have joined online communications with extraordinary results.

Although this process began - in a limited way - with Iraq, the first major shift that I had noted was in 2006 as Israel's began its punishing war on Lebanon. While most global mainstream media continued reporting through the typically Orientalist lens (Israel = civilized, democratic, right; Lebanon = barbaric, fanatic, wrong), there were other, newer narratives being shaped, not only on television, but also online. Bloggers posted photographs and eye-witness accounts. Suddenly those who have so long been classified by western media and governments as "collateral damage" not only had voices, but faces, homes, families, stories. Not surprisingly, since so few western reporters were actually on the ground (that is another tale, for another day), the narrative that emerged from within Lebanon was primarily shaped by the Lebanese with accounts and photographs of not only the dead and wounded, but of parties held amongst the rubble; of young people cleaning and rebuilding, of returning to their normal lives.

That story was repeated in 2008 with Israel's bombing of Gaza. Once again, photographs and accounts turned up on blogs and social media websites. In this case, Palestinian and foreign citizen journalists took on the burden as mainstream media went missing.  Again and again, average citizens uploaded their pictures and accounts using precious diesel for generators.

There are many who have pointed to Tunisia as the event that started Egypt's uprising. I don't agree! Tunisia may have provided the spark, even been the first domino to fall. But the process began earlier. More importantly, the foundations of this change and its engine are not economic or political, although they are undoubtedly huge factors.  The foundation of Egypt's uprising as well as many others bubbling around the Middle East are cultural. The key to this uprising is the not only the change in narrative, but also the newly found power to shape it. And that is also the reason that the political failure or success of these protests is immaterial in the longer term (although obviously hopefully they will succeed; failure will mean brutal oppression of these brave young people).

This is also the reason the dominos won't fall in the line predicted by many analysts. After all events of the past week demonstrate that access to Facebook, Twitter, Youtube and other sites is not enough. As Egypt rose to reclaim its position as a pre-eminent civilization through its "Twitter/Facebook revolution" the same websites were amply being used by Pakistan's youth to show their outrage at granting even minimal protection to minorities. There are lessons in the histories of both nations - you just have to look closely at each land in order to solve the mystery.

But for the moment, closely watching Egypt and the larger Levant reshape the Orientalist narrative of oppression, I can't help wishing Edward Said were alive to watch this extraordinary moment of history!

Curious Lessons for an Aspiring Writer: Looking Back at a Decade of Publishing

I just realised that not only are we approaching the end of a year but also the end of the very first decade of this century. Or should that have been last year already?  Regardless, this year, 2010, also marks my very first decade as a published writer. And what a difference ten years make!

Well, actually make that ten years, three countries, three books, a PhD and well over half a million published words.  Phew!  Not sure how I packed all that in, but it has been a fun ride so far.  And yet, today is a good moment to look back at that younger me, at that naive, wide-eyed writer with a bagful of a dreams, no idea of publishing, zero contacts,  and an ambitious manuscript.

There are times I laugh at that younger self, amazed at her absolute sense of belief in her own work (some have, and probably rightly so, called her arrogant).  In my mind, I watch my younger self sending off her chapters to agents who suggest that she make the manuscript more "marketable;" to publishers who respond with a stock letter of rejection that she still does not know means they haven't even opened her precious work; to literary "mentors" who she does not know trade more in sexual favours and big egos than in well crafted words and ideas. And I am amazed that she walks away each time, a little bit stronger, a little bit more convinced that those purveyors of literature are wrong, that her writing will eventually find the sympathetic reader - if only she looks hard enough.

But I also wish I could protect that young writer: from discovering that some of the "big" names in the literary field have feet of clay, that they wouldn't know good writing if it came and hit them on the nose; from realising that many reviewers are driven by their own thwarted literary ambitions and ideology rather than any knowledge or love of stories; from that slow and sickening horror when her very first review in a national newspaper pans her novel based on its chapter headings rather than content, demonstrating clearly that the reviewer could not be bothered to read the book; from the knowledge that much of publishing, like many other industries, is more about who one knows rather than any focus on literary quality.

Yet - now ten years since my first novel was published - I would not change a thing for that young writer.  Those years of fruitlessly pounding the pavement gave me immense strength and the crucial insight that no-one knows my writing better; that there are friends and support in the unlikeliest of places; that the most important quality for a writer is not talent or sensitivity or empathy, but rather absolute grit and obsessive self-belief. Without that messiah-like fervour, few of us can survive the cruel knocks meted out by the coterie of editors, publishers, reviewers (and no, the knocks don't stop with a publishing contract; that is just the first round of the punishing cycle).

But more than anything else, I would remind that young writer of the old Hindi proverb: अंधी गाय का धर्मं रखवाला (Dharma protects the blind cow), that the cosmic law protects the innocent.  How else could I send off dozens of emails to literary agents and yet end up signing up with the only one who believes with missionary zeal in absolute literary merit of my work?  How else would an Indophile reader in Barcelona pass on my first novel to a friend who also happens to be one of the most courageous editors in the country? How else would a naive kid like me, from a nondescript small Indian town, end up with an extraordinary international group of editors, publishers, literary agent, reviewers, readers and academics who champion my work in big and small ways? That in itself is a little miracle!

But most importantly I would tell that young writer-self of mine that she would find champions in other unlikely places: in chance encounters with other writers; in brief meetings and snatched conversations with unusual and unexpected literary mentors.  And perhaps there is no other way but to remind myself of two brief literary encounters with more experienced writers who generously shared their insight and kindness in that first year of my publishing trajectory.

The first would be a series of brief meetings with Ruskin Bond, that gentle chronicler of the Himalayas, in Delhi as well as in Landour, when he repeatedly advised me to focus on my craft and try to block out the distractions of the "publishing circus."  At an early meeting, he pointed out that it was better for a writer to not get early success as it gave them a chance to develop their own craft and ideas.

On one memorable occasion, we escaped a glamorous book event in a five-star Delhi hotel - to get chaat in the Bengali Market. The excitement he generated amongst the school kids when we walked in was the clearest reminder that a writer lives not in the inane chatter of the apparent literati but in the minds and hearts of his/her readers.  Through out that meal, Ruskin got wide smiles and gasps of recognition, shy, affectionate and utterly non-intrusive greetings, and a little kid's loud triumphant announcement: "he does love chaat, he does! Just like in his book!"  No amount of literary praise or prizes can replace that incredible warmth and affection that I noticed amongst Ruskin's many readers that night.  For me, it was an early lesson that good writing is not about royalties or prizes or reviews, but about the abiding affection a reader can hold for a writer.  I have since followed Ruskin's advice, staying true only to my craft, and have been ever grateful for his  gentle guidance.

The second lesson was even shorter and more unusual, with a single brief meeting - again at a book event - with the novelist, Shashi Deshpande.  That she knew me at all surprised and flattered me but the fact that she had not only read but liked my book came as the biggest shock.  I veered madly between pride and embarrassment through the evening, feeling giddy and slightly sick.  We spoke briefly, and later my brother and I gave her a lift back to her hotel in our dilapidated, dog-drooled, student-y Maruti 800 (she graciously ignored the dog toys and crumbs of dog biscuit on the seat, and was unfailingly courteous and lovely).  As we said goodbye, she said a strange thing to me: "Get away from this city; it will stop your writing. Go somewhere where you can continue writing."

For a young writer loving the glamour and excitement of book launches, and literary talks, press interviews and society chitchat, the advice seemed a bit odd. But in the months that followed, and I found myself unable to concentrate on my writing, I realised its importance.  Keeping her words in mind, I began drawing away from the literary circles, refocussing on my own work rather than the "networking." Soon after I moved, first to Barcelona, then to London, and to this day, continue inhabiting the fringes of the literary communities in both cities.

That decision to withdraw has come at a price: for example, only one national publication in India chose to review my last novel despite my editor's very valiant and concentrated efforts. And yet instead of that novel sinking without a trace, given how studiously it was ignored by the press, Indian readers continue to find it, read it and love it.  More interesting is its trajectory overseas where it continues to spark debate and attract readers. (An aside: its Serbian translation also brought back a long lost friend, who found the novel in a Belgrade bookshop and emailed, after over two decades of no contact).  I am now in a strange situation: even though much of my writing is about India, and often for Indians, now European and American critics engage and discuss my work more often and more thoroughly than those in my own country.  I often wonder what Ruskin and Shashi would make of this weird contradiction?

So what next for this writer?

The past decade has taught me many things, but one is more important than all else: my job is to write good stories, to consider ideas, to create debate and provoke thought. And to do all that to the best of my capacity!  The rest is neither my area of expertise nor my remit.  My agent, editors, publishers continue to work very hard to get my writing out into the world, and for that I am very grateful.  They are the ones who take risks, persuade and cajole, believe and hope, and most of all passionately champion my cause.  And they do so while fully conscious that my writing shall neither be the next bestseller, and without advising me to be more "marketable." Those are the true heroes of this journey!

But then, most of all, there are my readers who take choose to spend hours of their time and energy with my books, and short stories, and essays.  And they take the trouble of finding me and emailing me with their responses: indeed, not a week goes past without receiving an email from a reader somewhere (and often in very unexpected places).  And that keeps me focussed on what I need to do: think more, dream more, live more. And most of all, write more.

Happy 2011! And a very happy new decade!

Speaking as a Non-Christian, Only Grinches Hate Christmas

Alright, so I am not a Christian, never was, and never will be. However, I spent an awful lot of my childhood in Catholic schools, where for the record, I was neither abused nor mistreated. Instead I met some wonderfully committed teachers who followed their vocation by instilling their students with intellectual rigour, discipline and a respect for hard work.  Along the way, I learned the Bible, sang in the choir, participated in nativity plays and, as my father mischievously reminds, also tried to get drunk on the sacrament wine.

Add to this education, my family background and may be it makes sense why we celebrate Christmas.  It may be because Hinduism is culturally incapable of "fundamentalism" as we don't have a "fundamental" text  (we have a dozen to choose from, often contradictory, but never literally a "revelation" or "word of god"), or because our tradition emphasises inclusivity and respect for other religions rather than mere tolerance.  Who knows? But frankly, celebrating kindness and generosity is hard to dislike.

When I was very young, our traditionally Hindu home was visited by Santa who always left a book or game under our pillows. Of course, we suspected that my grandmother and uncles did that to ensure that we didn't stop believing the stories we heard at our Catholic school or read in books.  Funnily enough, thanks to the Soviet kids books that proliferated in India during the Cold War, my family could also de-link Santa and the presents from religious education, just as the Russian children's books did.

Of course, it helped that we had Christian friends who celebrated the festival. Sometimes, they were alone or unable to go back to family, in which case we stepped in to help them celebrate.  A meal, a shared set of carols, or grace said over the dining table has yet to hurt anyone!  And when we went back to school after our winter holidays, and wrote or spoke about our experiences, our Catholic priest-teachers praised us for practising the ultimate Christian virtues: compassion and kindness.   As my very first principal, Father Joseph, said to us in "morals" class, "the Good Samaritan is the best person in the Bible."  Over three decades later, I still believe him.

This is why the alleged "war on Christmas" makes me sad. Even though it is couched in language of liberal multicultural tolerance, it is really about exclusion and ghettoisation. Worse still, it is about a paternalistic view of the religious minorities in predominantly Christian western countries that has little to do with reality. Even worse, all these stories about the "war on Christmas" or cancelling of nativity plays, getting rid of Christmas trees, or not celebrating it at all, rarely include voices of those religious minorities.  This particular war is framed, debated, decided and fought entirely by apparently Christian western politicians and media; the dominant culture decides what the religious minorities in the West think, want, do. (Come to think of it, this isn't so different from the real wars in Iraq and Afghanistan!)

So over at the American liberal site, Huffington Post, there are a lot of personal experiences about non-Christians (mostly Jewish and atheist) feeling initially queasy about their Christian partners celebrating Christmas. These accounts are always framed as "tolerance" as the non-Christian partner eventually comes to tolerate the rituals in a deluge of self-righteousness.  Hilariously enough (at least for me), these rituals tend to be limited to a family meal, presents and a decorated tree; I have yet to read an account of a non-Christian partner "tolerating" their partner's trip to a mass.

Over at Independent, it has taken some Muslims from Luton to emphasise the spirit of Christmas; of course, this is the same story where Luton's Gujaratis are apparently fighting to preserve the Bengali language, but lets not quibble over astonishing ignorance.  And the ever faithful Telegraph has this rather odd story about how Christmas trees depress non-celebrants!

Pardon me, but I don't see why a Christmas tree would depress anyone but a grinch.   As the only non-Christian in his flat, my brother puts up an exquisite one every year in his home. The only reason I don't put one up at mine is because I am too disorganised, although I still put up the fairy lights and decorations all over my home.  When we were children, we had an artificial one that travelled to all sorts of bizarre places around the globe with us. To this day, some of my favourite memories are of coming home to the tree with its twinkling fairy lights, the gingerbread men and candy canes waiting to be devoured, and the beautiful ornaments nestled amongst the branches.  Sorry, but you have to be a miserable old git to hate a Christmas tree!

To be fair, this much maligned tree study is from Canada so I have no idea about its parameters, but the newspaper article made me wonder.  Is it really the Christmas tree that depresses people? Do the non-celebrants feel depressed because they know they shall be excluded from the social celebrations? What if it is their experience and knowledge that in many northern European and north American traditions, Christmas is so insularly celebrated that it leaves non-Christians feeling ever more like outsiders?

Having lived the bulk of my life in Christian majority countries in the Americas, Africa and Europe, I have noticed the huge difference between the way Christmas is celebrated in UK or the US (and from what I have seen, in most northern European countries) and the more "traditionally Christian" ones.  The former don't consider the neighbours, friends, or anyone beyond their immediate circle as part of the celebrations; Christmas is strictly (if a little harrowingly) only for the family.  Contrast this to places like Mexico, Namibia, or even southern Europe, where Christmas is not only a family affair but also a community one. People automatically include all others in the celebrations, which - for an outsider like me - is not only an enlightened and welcoming gesture, but also a truly Christian one: I have gone to midnight masses with friend's families, and early morning masses with the grandmothers, set up nativities and decorated Xmas trees, learned to cook obscure traditional dishes, given and gotten presents; I have gone carolling as well as sung silly songs and beat a Caga Tio.  In all cases, I have felt very much a part of the celebrations, and therefore a part of the community.

Not surprisingly, I have returned the favour: setting up decorations, cooking "traditional" Christmas meals, and organising celebrations for those who cannot be amongst family.  For me, it is about putting some of the good cheer and kindness back into the system, but also about opening my home and life to others.

Many years ago, a boyfriend (northern European) was shocked that my Muslim flatmate and I had not only put up a beautifully decorated tree in our home, but also planned on cooking big Christmas eve and Christmas day meals for friends who were unable (or unwilling) to go home.  Despite all our explanations, he just didn't "get" it.   His view was that we were not Christians so why bother; our point was that it wasn't important as the people we were cooking for were!  Since then, I have met many similar people, and they all seem to share the same traits: often highly educated, middle-class, mostly northern European origins, apparently left-leaning, secular and multi-cultural. And yet they are not only deeply uninformed but also unwilling to learn or experience anything beyond the narrow confines of their predetermined realities (sometimes, I think those are also the same people who make up the bulk of the mainstream western press).  But more sadly, they are also happy to project their own narrow view of the world to everyone else, projecting a sort of grand grinch-ness over the globe.

Somewhere in the process of commercialisation, religiosity, secularisation, multiculturalism, or whatever it is you call it in post-war Europe, the basic principle of the golden rule has been lost.  My friends - mostly non-Hindu - help me celebrate Diwali and Holi with equal affection and generosity, just as I celebrate Ramadan, Eid, Easter and Christmas with them.  And that is far more inclusive and therefore less depressing than taking away Christmas trees!

Trust me, the only reason a Christmas tree will ever depress anyone is when it stands for exclusion rather than a warm embrace.