Mastering martyrdom.
How effective are jihadi recruiters?
Amelia Braddick
HOME FIRE by Kamila Shamsie Bloomsbury Publishing Books, 264pp., £8.99, May 2015, 978-1-4088-8679-3
In December 2017 I went to see the Imperial War Museum’s chilling exhibition ‘Age of Terror: Art Since 9/11’. Displayed was a marble sculpture by Ai Weiwei and a glazed ceramic vase by Grayson Perry, but one piece that particularly stuck with me was Jitish Kallat’s ‘Circadian Rhyme 1’ (2012-2013). This thought-provoking sculpture is comprised of miniature figures of the public – no more than eleven inches tall – being searched by airport security. Put simply, a circadian rhythm is a person’s internal rhythm in relation to sleeping and eating combined with other daily activities. Therefore, the title of the piece is ironic as it implies that this level of security has become a part of people’s daily routine, and it is perhaps no accident that it is with airport security that Home Fire by Kamila Shamsie begins.
The eldest daughter of Adil Pasha, a Jihadi who died on route to Guantanamo, is questioned about her reasons for travelling to Massachusetts. They are innocent: Isma Pasha wishes to study for a PhD at Amherst College. Yet, due to racial stereotyping and her family’s history, she is questioned at Heathrow airport for two hours on subjects including: ‘Shias, homosexuals, the Queen, democracy, the Great British Bake Off, the invasion of Iraq, Israel, suicide bombers [and] dating websites.’ This is no surprise for Isma however. In the weeks coming up to her flight we are told that her younger sister, Aneeka, had prepared her for the inevitable battle with emigration. Shamsie addresses significant issues right from the start of the novel when the uncomfortable question is put to Isma: ‘Do you consider yourself British?’ It seems absurd that not adhering to “British values” involves whether or not one is a fan of the Great British Bake Off or dating websites. It is with awkward interactions such as these that Shamsie manages to effectively illuminate culture conflict, as throughout the rest of the novel her characters (and her readers) debate what it actually means to be British. There is always a separation made by the media when reporting on terrorism in the U.K. Terrorists who are not white are made ‘rhetorically unBritish’ and a clear distinction is made to signify that they are not just British, but ‘British of Pakistani descent’ or ‘British passport-holders’. Shamsie questions why they are not just described as ‘British terrorists’, especially if they have only ever lived in this country.
The 7/7 terrorists were never described by the media as “British terrorists.” Even when the word “British” was used, it was always “British of Pakistani descent” or “British Muslim” or, my favorite, “British passport holders,” always something interposed between their Britishness and terrorism. (p. 62).
Heritage and identity are just two of the subjects discussed in Home Fire, but perhaps there are just too many themes here. In under three hundred pages the novel attempts to consider a range of political and social issues, including conservative tradition, social stigma, sexual manipulation, liberalism, prejudice, radicalization and religion. The text perhaps would appear more authentic if Shamsie selected just two topics to focus on. However, how she would choose those two matters in isolation is questionable, as arguably they are all intertwined with one another. It would be a difficult task, but perhaps with significant thought, the problem could have been resolved.
Nevertheless, the identity politics included in Home Fire tragically reflect today’s climate: Shamsie’s fiction contextualises the truth. In his hypothesis ‘Clash of Civilisations’, Samuel Huntington argues that the feeling of not belonging and being an outsider is frequently experienced amongst those who have dual nationality. This theory can be applied to Parvaiz Pasha. His mother figure, Isma, relocates to America for her PhD; his twin sister Aneeka, with whom he shares a special bond, is beginning a law degree; and his family home is about to be rented out to strangers: Parvaiz feels isolated and alone. He is a perfect target for Farooq.
It is ironic that Parvaiz is not radicalised online, but rather in person, considering that social media is featured multiple times within the novel, as well as Skype and text messages. For example, in the final section, tweets are included to display the severity of abuse that anonymous people send online with hashtags such as ‘#PERVYPASHA’. Additionally, Aneeka makes a reference to ‘GWM’ (Googling Whilst Muslim), implying that because of her religion she is wary of what she looks up on the internet. During her talk with Politics and Prose, Shamsie admitted to being cautious when researching ISIS for this novel. When exploring recruitment websites, she would then visit at least two celebrity gossip websites in case the UK government were tracking her search history: like her protagonist Aneeka, she too is GWM.
Shamsie highlights how easy it is for vulnerable teenagers to become brainwashed by recruiters in “real life”. Perhaps men like Farooq are now aware of the strict surveillance online, so they return to “old fashioned” ways of recruiting. However, she cleverly echoes the online surveillance in the text, as the readers are monitoring the characters.
Often in newspapers and online articles about radicalism, the question ‘why do people get radicalised?’ goes unanswered, but Shamsie delivers some possible reasons in Home Fire, forcing readers to confront a subject they may not wish to contemplate. It is obvious that terrorist attacks on innocent people are sickening and wrong. Teenage radicals are considered ‘evil’ and ‘immoral’, but if their minds truly have been warped – like Parvaiz Pasha’s – then does this alter anything? Should it? Surely the recruiters, men like Farooq, who prey on vulnerable young people are the true ‘evil’ ones, especially as he glorified Parvaiz’s Jihadi father and subjected him to horrendous torture techniques. In an interview with The Update, Shamsie argues that people don’t realise how ‘sophisticated and complex their recruitment is’ and so she shows us that sophistication at work in Farooq’s treatment of Parvaiz. When in Syria, Parvaiz’s nom de guerre is ‘Mohammed bin Bagram’, or, ‘son of Bagram’, to remind him constantly of why he travelled to Syria in the first place. This form of emotional torture is intended to make the reader pity Parvaiz, yet most will not allow themselves to think like this as nobody wishes to sympathise with a terrorist. Shamsie expertly raises this debate in her novel by boldly confronting taboos. Although Parvaiz is just a fictional character, whilst reading events from his view point, one cannot help hoping that he will be allowed to be integrated back into society, to perhaps go through a de-radicalisation programme. He immediately shows regret when abroad and is desperate to return home to Preston Road, Wembley, even if it means risking imprisonment. When he is killed, some readers may find themselves urging Karamat Lone to allow his body to be buried on British soil. Others may oppose this, agreeing wholeheartedly with Karamat Lone: once you betray your country, your citizenship rights are no more. The fact that this novel can provoke two strong, distinct emotions shows that the readers are engaging with contemporary politics and contemplating taboos, which was Shamsie’s intention for her work.
Home Fire is loosely based on Sophocles’ Antigone. However, it is not necessary for the reader to have any prior knowledge of the classical play: the novel stands on its own. Recently, in the literary sphere, there has been an increase in reworkings and adaptations of myths, fairytales, and historic plays, with Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber (1979), Canongate publishing revisions since 2005, and Jeanette Winterson’s The Gap of Time: The Winter's Tale Retold (2015). Shamsie’s addition to the trend was welcomed enthusiastically, awarded with the 2018 Women’s Prize for Fiction. In an interview with Foyles, Shamsie stated that today ‘the Greeks are speaking to us’. Greek tragedy does indeed seem timeless because within the plays, characters face disputes with the state, family, love and loyalty. Similarly to Khaled Hosseini’s novel The Kite Runner, Shamsie expertly combines the political with the personal within her text. The reason why it is so effective is because the politics is explored on an individual level, without any dehumanising statistics or broad generalizations.
Adaptations and rewritings have to be accessible for readers who are familiar with the original story, and for those who are not. The most obvious parallels between Home Fire and Antigone are the similar names for the characters: Isma is Ismene, Aneeka/ Antigone, Parvaiz/ Polynices, Haemon/ Eamonn and Karamat/ Creon. Additionally, Isma, Aneeka, and Parvaiz are the children of Adil Pasha, an early jihadi, just as Ismene, Antigone and Polynices are the children of Oedipus. Both fathers have a stained past which casts a shadow over their descendants. However, the greatest similarity between the two plots is not apparent until the final third of the novel. As Polynices declares war on Thebes, Parvaiz Pasha declares war on the U.K. Both families of the rebels have to accept the consequences of the betrayal and refrain from burying their loved ones. Antigone disobeys Creon, Aneeka challenges Karamat, and their acts of defiance have similar disastrous results.
The five sections mimic the five acts of the play, a feature that Shamsie admits not to have realised whilst writing her adaptation. In an interview with Foyles, she explains that she was going to originally write the novel from just Isma’s perspective. However, Isma is not as knowledgeable as she likes to believe and therefore, the five parts are necessary to provide the reader with accurate information. This may reflect Shamsie’s desire for the public to acknowledge all viewpoints of an argument before engaging in debate, especially online.
Shamsie’s subtle modernisations in her text allow a twenty-first century audience to connect with an archaic society. For example, when Antigone tells Ismene to ‘broadcast’ the fact that she buried Polynices, Aneeka’s ritual for Parvaiz is literally broadcasted. Moreover, the inclusion of tweets successfully updates the Greek tragedy. However, Shamsie’s hamartia is that she tries to discuss far too many issues within the confinement of three hundred pages. Perhaps if the novel was extended, it would cover the topics sufficiently and not appear fragmented and scattered throughout the text.
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