I liked the first half of this book. It felt reminiscent of The House on Mango Street in that it felt more like a collection of vignettes bound by a neighborhood in evocative poetic language that brought a languid sweltering summer to mind than a novel. For its first half, it felt both time-bound and timeless. My only complaint was that I wished diaspora fiction understood that class was an integral part of how it experienced its construct of 'Pakistaniyat' and interrogated that, instead of simply relating all traumas to nationality. I understand that the US flattens all immigrants until they're only their nationality (and monolithic representations instead of people often resisting their home country's homogenizing state project) but I expect the descendants to be more rigorous and critical and to not regurgitate that kind of imperialism.
I wish diaspora fiction reflected on middle-class morality, colonialism, ethnicity (Pakistani diaspora fiction features almost no mention of ethnicity ever), caste, color, etc., instead of simply attributing everything their parents did to one structural force: being Pakistani. I wish it interrogated the characters’ racialization, especially as they grew older and learned their history. I want it to have arcs where characters question lies their parents spun about what it meant to be 'truly Pakistani' to justify their brutality and making it sound as though tyranny was innate to them. Part of your reflection and growth should involve questioning your parents’ construction of your identity by learning your history.
The characters’ races are mainly arbitrarily noted. Some are Dominican while others are just Spanish speaking. Ed is straight-up Korean in a first impression but Angela is described as Greek in a roundabout way.
For the first half, I was only mildly concerned the story doesn’t interrogate how diaspora kids orientalize Pakistan and act like it’s the same everywhere when their parents have been influenced by one very specific neighborhood and time and only passed that on. But I was willing to overlook it. No writing project is perfect.
That goodwill evaporated entirely by the second half.
The second half reads less like a snapshot recollection of memories and more like chapters of a whole story, speeding up for the central conflict to be fantastically (as in a proper fantasy) to be resolved in basically a chapter. The author seemed to rush because you would see all the massive holes in the fairy-tale ending if you lingered long enough to peer closely. This is not a burden I would place on this specific story's shoulder but I do wish that Muslim queer fiction would tackle this better, especially because it could be a blueprint for someone to replicate in real life. I think doing the 'parents accept me!' or this oversimplifies the conflict, which is usually won by lying through your teeth as you grow up, accumulating power and establishing independence over years.
But that didn’t kill my goodwill. I still feel irrational for having this response and am wondering if I should just take the review down. What killed my goodwill were the essentialist myths about 'Pakistani people', about how 'Pakistani people don't smile' and how 'young women from Pakistan were much smarter than [diaspora girls], more able to navigate the ways of the world, or at least the ways of the Pakistani people'. Isn't it nice to be hit with an age-old orientalist myth about the worldliness of Old World women and the innocent naivete of those in the New? Just when you're trying to have a good time?
The only two Pakistanis from back home in the story are both enforcers of patriarchy defined only in relation to the men in their lives. They obey mindlessly, unlike the younger diaspora girls. This is about the younger of the two, the Hafiz Saab's wife. All the other references to Pakistanis back in the homeland frame them as another burden: greedy families who just want gifts from returning expats, backward know-nothings who think all diaspora Pakistanis 'live in a mansion' when they ask to stay in their relatives' homes, and brown predator men (of course) who heartlessly want a green card and prey on younger girls.
Don't you love reading fiction that degrades you like you'd never pick it up and find out? It's like walking in on people bitching about you except they don't stop. Isn't it wonderful to see yourself being the fob or bogeyman in diaspora writers' stories, as if you're not fleeing the same fate as them? I understand that the character is just a child who doesn't know any better but a character can still be held accountable by the narration, IF the narration knows better. In this case, I did not feel like the narration cared about the harm it was perpetuating.
Is Dur e Aziz Amna the only Pakistani diaspora writer with any reflexivity? Who understands that becoming a nationality is a project of alienation that people fight? Is she the only one who can see how both Pakistan and the U.S. alienate their subjects and subjugated and that people are often caught in the middle, miserable with both? Do diaspora writers realize they can be unhappy with both their nationalities? Do they realize we're unhappy too?
2 weeks ago, I excitedly talked to my roommate about the possibilities of diasporic South Asian queer fiction, which would not have to go up against the same socioeconomic and legal constraints as us, how they could inject fresh life into languages. I am no longer hopeful.
I feel at fault for expecting reflexivity and thoughtfulness from people so obsessed with their own alienation that they never think of those they alienate. Are Pakistanis back home supposed to read this and not be appalled by their characterization not as actual people but as a specter that always haunts the diaspora, that they can project their worst fears onto? Why do diaspora writers refuse to be considerate enough to contextualize their diaspora-ification as a project of alienation and separation that hurts us too?
Most publication opportunities available to immigrants cater to Americanized descendants and it's mind-boggling to see how many of those descendants are happy not knowing anything about their parents' country. How can you only fuel American cultural stereotypes about a minority population, stereotypes that affect the most powerless and never the people you actually want to hurt? You internalize American imperialism and strip non-citizens of their voices and autonomy all over again, by condemning them to be only specters and not full people who challenge your self-centered perception of the world and of suffering.
You are not curious about the neighborhoods your parents come from, the languages and dialects they speak, the families that shaped their cultural imagination. You cannot individuate between them and see how they weaponize larger ideological narratives to disguise their own personal agendas. You believe them when they say this is what it means to be Pakistani and you say our invisibilized bodies are wardens too, when we’re prisoners like you. Pakistan is a threat for diaspora kids, sure, but there’s no thought spared for the millions of women back home, stuck with the men these same kids fear. The only suffering that matters structurally is the diaspora girl’s and it’s never placed in a lineage. Do you not think we're also not threatened with 'returns'? Why do we become the enactors of the same fate we fear? Because you can't imagine anyone except you suffering?
When you say Pakistanis back home believe everyone lives in mansions, you haven't paid enough attention to how expats often lie about their financial circumstances to not trouble their own parents or to play up their seniority/authority in family relations. When you think they only want extravagant gifts, you ignore how the cost is repaid in the free board, food and transport provided for the long stays during vacations back home. You know only one side of the story and I am so profoundly disappointed in the utter lack of interest in knowing more. These relations are maintained for strategic reasons. If you want to write about them, start asking questions.
If you wish to actually critique 'Pakistani' cultural norms, you would study enough history to realize that seeing it as a monolithic entity serves ITS purpose and not yours. If you believe in its lie of hegemony and sameness and don't see it as a violent state project that people resist and redefine all the time, you give it what it wants. There is no Pakistani and those within its borders all differ from each other. Many don't even want to be here.
The longer I stay in the US, the more I see how little diaspora descendants care to establish relations with newly arrived immigrants like them: not to hear alternate histories to decode the cultural silences in their household, to learn/renew the language, to have a cultural community outside their families, to be challenged on their American imperialism and cultural fragility soothed only by being the only experts/narrators/vanguards of their identity.
I’m sick and tired of the selfishness of diaspora literature and for the essentialist myths it constructs about us without us. You could choose to see solidarity in our struggles but you can't even see struggles beyond your own. There can be no headway in the diaspora (in their politics, in their art, in community and personhood) if their entire sense of politics is the way they’ve been failed and nothing about how they’ve failed others.