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307 pages, Kindle Edition
First published November 15, 2016
Jamilla comes from a family of Pakistani immigrants, orthodox Muslims compared to her friend Ameena’s Indian parents, who are westernized and divorced. Their story is told by Jamilla to an unnamed writer, an author insert for Khair. This device lends her narrative a sense of realism and seems to indicate that we should read it as first-hand account, a “true story”. However, it is not really a sensationalist true crime story or account by a survivor of some shocking ordeal. Rather, the novel plays down the media sensationalism of the jihadi bride cases, making a sustained attempt at understanding these girls on their own terms. Khair summons Jamilla’s voice with the insight and empathy which lies at the heart of literature: the magic that brings characters to life and expands our ability to understand the feelings and perspectives of others.
The serious, hijab-clad Jamilla and the rebellious Ameena (with a smoking habit and an eye for the boys), are clearly foils for each other, representing opposite types. This difference in background and temperament turns out to have consequences for the way they are “radicalized”, their motives in going to Syria, and ultimately the climax of their story. Other characters in the novel represent different Muslim identities, and though some at times drift close to stereotype (like Jamilla’s father, a Pakistani cab driver, bitter and put-upon), most are infused with individuality. Perhaps the greatest strength of the novel is its lucid and astute observations on the differing mindsets and motivations of its characters, as when a mutual diatribe against the hypocrisy of Western policies in the Middle East leaves Jamilla’s brother, Mohammad, feeling validated in his righteousness (his personal failures and grievances conveniently projected onto an unjust world), while Ameena, in contrast, turns this same anger and resentment against herself in an indictment for not doing anything to fight the injustice.
Although the paraphernalia of Islamic fundamentalism (martyr-praising YouTube videos, Quran-thumping imams, jihadist Twitter-recruiters) is present, it is clear that the determining factor in Jamilla and Ameena’s fateful decision has more to do with their limited sense of agency, in particular in relation to their male peers. If Ameena’s rejection by her schoolgirl crush, smarmy white boy Alex, is symbolic of rejection by the wider British society, the attempt by Jamilla’s family to maneuver her into an arranged marriage with a suitable Muslim boy, Iskandar, is equally emblematic of the Muslim community’s confinement of women. (That the names of both these boys refer to Alexander the Great, all-conquering male of west and east, is probably no coincidence.) Perhaps the most hair-raising aspect of the novel is that by the time Jamilla and Ameena decide to run off to Syria, it seems an almost reasonable choice.
Of course, the reality of jihadi life is not what they imagined. Ameena’s husband, Hassan, is aptly described as making a career out of fanaticism. His gun-toting swagger is subtly contrasted with Jamilla’s memories of James, the school friend she always perceived as somewhat emasculated, only now coming to a belated appreciation of his openness and generosity of spirit. The only boy to ever relate to the girls as people in their own right, James is ultimately incapable of reaching them as they become radicalized. His impotence functions as the reverse of Hassan’s hypermasculinity, the cruelty of which eventually sets in motion not only the girls’ disillusionment with Daesh, but also the remarkable twist at the end of the novel.
Just Another Jihadi Jane raises some pretty profound questions about the causes of extremism and its relation to more moderate forms of belief. It’s also a novel about friendship and the ability to know what goes on in another person’s mind. Would someone like Ameena really have reacted the way she does? Would someone like Jamilla really have reasoned the way she does? Maybe not. But you have to wonder.