“Malala’s message is true, it is profound, it is something the world needs to take note of; education is a right of every child, but Malala has been used as a tool by the West.”
This Huffpost article examines Malala’s rise to international recognition as part of a history of the institutionalized, racist narrative that has been used by journalists and politicians to quell the guilt of the white man and justify the West interfering in other countries. Part of this narrative is the demonization of the non-white Muslim man, who is portrayed as a savage without the capacity for reasonable negotiation, leaving the West with no choice but to resort to violence, war, drone strikes, etc.
This article resonated with me because, while I admire Malala’s spirit and message, it always bothered me that she was getting immense amount of Western attention when there are hundreds of thousands just like her who are overlooked. Why was this one girl singled out? What about the others that have undergone similar abuse, not only by those we mark as enemies and extremists, but by our own soldiers? Why does we choose to focus only on the brutality of the Taliban, but not on our own nations’ contributions to the conditions by entering into war and destabilizing the regions and making them vulnerable to groups like the Taliban?
From left, Mr. Ansari, Noël Wells, Lena Waithe and Eric Wareheim in the Netflix series “Master of None.” Credit K.C. Bailey/Netflix
The hilarious Aziz Ansari recently wrote an article for NYTimes about the lack of opportunity for PoC actors in the entertainment industry. He notes that even when the rare non-white character is available, the challenges of casting tend to lead to either a white-washing of the role or to the casting of a white actor in black/brown/yellow-face.
“Even at a time when minorities account for almost 40 percent of the American population, when Hollywood wants an “everyman,” what it really wants is a straight white guy. But a straight white guy is not every man. The “everyman” is everybody.”
On Facebook, Ansari calls for more effort on the part of producers to cast non-white actors to represent diverse roles: “We are all more sophisticated, compelling, and interesting than our ethnicities, accents, and stereotypical jobs. Let’s see that on TV and film.”
Ansari’s been on a roll tackling Race in America; during his Tuesday night interview with Stephen Colbert on The Late Show, Ansari pointed out the rare 50% percent diversity rate of a white guy and an Indian guy sharing the stage… “an all-time high for CBS!” ???
According to a TIME analysis of U.S. census data, mixed-race marriages are growing at rapid rates. Click here for an interactive graph tool that allows you to choose any combination of race and gender to see whether such marriages are on the rise or decline.
It’s interesting that they chose to include “non-white” (Hispanic, Black, Asian, American Indian, or Multiracial) as it’s own variable amongst the racial identities. It brought to mind the racial binary Professor Gordon writes about in Race, Biraciality, and Mixed Race — In Theory.
“What have I made of myself and my children? … We cannot exercise our rights. Humility and insults, who is responsible for all this? Me and the American government. Obstacles this way, blockades that way, and bridges burnt behind.”
The quotation above was excepted from the 1928 suicide letter of Vaishno Das Bagai, an Indian immigrant victimized by racist Anti-Asian legislation which stripped him of his citizenship, property, employment, and ultimately, his self-esteem in America. This New Yorker article looks at history and the experiences of people like Bagai to explore how systemic racism continues to influence the lives of Asians in America. It describes the duality of the Asian American experience:
“There are now, in a sense, two Asian Americas: one formed by five centuries of systemic racism, and another, more genteel version, constituted in the aftermath of the 1965 law. These two Asian Americas float over and under each other like tectonic plates, often clanging discordantly. So, while Chinese-Americans and Indian-Americans are among the most prosperous groups in the country, Korean-Americans, Vietnamese-Americans, and Filipino-Americans have lower median personal earnings than the general population.”
Pakistani novelist Kamila Shamsie asks American writers why, “Your soldiers will come to our lands, but your novelists won’t.”
I grew up in Pakistan in the 1980s, aware that thinking about my country’s history and politics meant thinking about America’s history and politics. This is not an unusual position. Many countries of the world from Asia to South America exist, or have existed, as American client states, have seen U.S.-backed coups, faced American missiles or sanctions, seen their government’s policies on various matters dictated in Washington. America may not be an empire in the nineteenth century way which involved direct colonization. But the neo-imperialism of America was evident to me by the time I was an adolescent and able to understand these things.
So in an America where fiction writers are so caught up in the Idea of America in a way that perhaps has no parallel with any other national fiction, where the term Great American Novel weighs heavily on writers, why is it that the fiction writers of my generation are so little concerned with the history of their own nation once that history exits the fifty states. It’s not because of a lack of dramatic potential in those stories of America in the World; that much is clear.
In part, I’m inclined to blame the trouble caused by that pernicious word “appropriation.” I first encountered it within a writing context within weeks, perhaps days, of arriving at Hamilton College in 1991. Right away, I knew there was something deeply damaging in the idea that writers couldn’t take on stories about the Other. As a South Asian who has encountered more than her fair share of awful stereotypes about South Asians in the British empire novels of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, I’m certainly not about to disagree with the charge that writers who are implicated in certain power structures have been guilty of writing fiction which supports, justifies and props up those power structures. I understand the concerns of people who feel that for too long stories have been told about them rather than by them. But it should be clear that the response to this is for writers to write differently, to write better, to critique the power structures rather than propping them up, to move beyond stereotype—which you need to do for purely technical reasons, because the novel doesn’t much like stereotypes. They come across as bad writing.
The moment you say, a male American writer can’t write about a female Pakistani, you are saying, Don’t tell those stories. Worse, you’re saying, as an American male you can’t understand a Pakistani woman. She is enigmatic, inscrutable, unknowable. She’s other. Leave her and her nation to its Otherness. Write them out of your history.
What do you think of her response to the use of the word “appropriation”, and her recommendation for writers that may be accused of it?
Do you think it’s helpful or harmful if, say, a white American man wrote a story about a South Asian woman/an indigenous community/a black family? Is there anything inherently problematic about it?
Is it possible to capture the spirit of the subjects and properly relay the experiences of a group you don’t belong to?
Can you draw parallels between Brian Fay’s argument in “Do You Have to be One to Know One?” and Shamsie’s essay?
