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249 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1996
These things matter, although there is no gainsaying postcolonial reality. It was not just littered beaches that made me lament, not just mis-remembering what seemed a more orderly way of conducting our affairs than the reckless self-indulgence of our wordy times, when we can chat away every oppression and every dereliction, not just a nostalgia for the authoritarian order of Empire which can make light of contradictions by issuing dictats and sanitation decrees, but because as I wandered over the rubble of the damaged town I felt like a refugee from my life. The transformations of things I had known and places which I had lived with differently in my mind for years seemed like an expulsion from my past.
In Gurnah’s treatment of the refugee experience, focus is on identity and self-image, apparent not least in Admiring Silence (1996) and By the Sea (2001). In both these first-person novels silence is presented as the refugee’s strategy to shield his identity from racism and prejudice, but also as a means of avoiding a collision between past and present, producing disappointment and disastrous self-deception. In the first of these two novels, the prejudiced narrator choses to hide his past from his English family and invent a life story better suited to their commonly constructed world. But it is a twinned silence since he is also hiding his life in exile from his family in Zanzibar, who are unaware that he has a new family in England and a seventeen-year-old daughter.
‘I still am,’ I said. I couldn’t be bothered to explain. ‘And while I was away I began to understand that that is how I think of England. My life with her. And I began to be afraid that we have allowed things to go too far between us, and when I came back she would no longer be there and she would have taken what I know of my life here away with her. It’s more complicated than that, but what you said about disappointed love sounded familiar.’
In the meantime, the moneybags who rule our world can continue with the anguished business of watching our antics on TV, and reading about our ineptitudes and murders in their newspapers, secure in the knowledge that a small donation here to fund a translation project and a modest shipment of arms there will keep the plague in the thirsty borderlands of their globe and away from their doors.
"Arab African Indian Comorian: we lived alongside each other, quarrelled and sometimes intermarried...In reality we were nowhere near we, but us in our separate yards, locked in our historical ghettoes, self-forgiving and seething with intolerances, with racisms, and with resentments. And politics brought all that into the open."
As if I was not already lost and stolen and shipwrecked and mangled beyond recognition anyway. As if home and belonging were anything more than a willful fiction when there was no possibility of them being real again. As if they were anything more than debilitating stories that turned everything into moments of reprise that disabled and disarmed.
...for his uncompromising and compassionate penetration of the effects of colonialism and the fates of the refugee in the gulf between cultures and continents.