The huge ambition of Kamila Shamsie’s fifth novel is announced in the prologue. As an unnamed captive is unshackled and stripped naked in readiness for the anonymity of an orange jumpsuit, he wonders: “How did it come to this?” The vastness of the question as applied to a prisoner in Guantanamo is a challenge to which this epic yet skilfully controlled novel rises in oblique and unexpected ways.
Unfolding in four sections, the novel traces the shared histories of two families, from the final days of World War II in Japan, and India on the brink of partition in 1947, to Pakistan in the early 1980s, New York in the aftermath of Sept. 11 and Afghanistan in the wake of the ensuing US bombing campaign. At its heart is the beautifully drawn Hiroko Tanaka, first seen in Nagasaki in August 1945 as a young schoolteacher turned munitions factory worker whose artist father is branded a traitor for his outbursts against the emperor and kamikaze militarism. She falls in love with a lanky, russet-haired idealist from Berlin, Konrad Weiss, with whom she shares — along with other key characters — a love of languages. But their romance is curtailed by the flash of light that renders Konrad a shadow on stone and burns the birds on Hiroko’s kimono into her back, a fusion of “charred silk, seared flesh.”
Hiroko finds refuge in Old Delhi, in the twilight of the raj, with her dead fiance’s sister Ilse and her English husband James Burton. Hiroko is drawn to Sajjad Ali Ashraf, a dashing Muslim employee who agrees to teach her Urdu. Her hosts discourage their romance, yet the couple grow closer as partition sunders Sajjad from Delhi as shockingly as Nagasaki was lost to Hiroko.
In Karachi, the saga of the Weiss-Burtons and Tanaka-Ashrafs shifts to Hiroko and Sajjad’s son Raza, a linguist given to impersonating Afghan refugees from the Soviet invasion of 1979, and James and Ilse’s son Henry, a Kipling-like figure mourning a lost Indian childhood (his daughter is named Kim). As Harry Burton, Henry has transferred his idealistic allegiance to his adoptive US, becoming a covert CIA operative in cold-war Pakistan. Raza’s naive bid for a kind of gap year in Afghanistan’s training camps with his Afghan friend Abdullah brings adventures with gunrunners and poppy growers, but also sobering loss for the family and enduring guilt for Raza.
After Hiroko decamps to New York, disgusted by nuclear posturing between India and Pakistan, and encounters Abdullah as a taxi driver, the final section alternates between an apartment she shares with Kim, overlooking the smoldering fires of Ground Zero, and Afghanistan, where Harry and his interpreter Raza have joined forces in a private security firm. CIA backing for the mujahideen’s resistance war, and abandonment of them once the Soviet army withdrew, is seen as a grim policy failure whose legacy is being reaped in “Jihadi blowback.” But pivotal to the novel’s final betrayals, guilt and loss is a conversation fraught with suspicion and misunderstanding between Kim and Abdullah.
Through its succession of seemingly disparate, acutely observed worlds, Burnt Shadows reveals the impact of shared histories, hinting at larger tragedies through individual loss. There are minor flaws in plotting, and occasional excesses, but the subtlety lies in repeated patterns of allegiance and estrangement, betrayal and atonement, in the echoes between kamikaze pilots and suicide bombers, or between Ilse’s alacrity in branding Sajjad as a rapist in the novel’s Forsterian vignette and Kim’s suspicion of Muslims after 9/11.
The historical threads between Nagasaki and Guantanamo are implicit, though crucial. In Hiroko’s view, all it takes to wipe people out without scruple is to “put them in a little corner of the big picture” — whatever the “war” in the frame. A similar logic informs a chilling conversation about interrogation techniques. “What wouldn’t I do if I thought it was effective?” Harry muses. “Almost nothing. Children are out of bounds. Rape is out of bounds. But otherwise ... what works, works.” Tellingly, he asks not to be quoted to his daughter.
The identity of the Guantanamo captive remains unclear till the powerful denouement, as events unfold with a malign logic whereby even a man’s stooping for a cricket ball can be fatally misconstrued. Any reader anticipating a predictable yarn about the radicalization of Islamist youth may feel cheated. Far more, I suspect, will feel challenged and enlightened, possibly provoked, and undoubtedly enriched.
Nov. 11 to Nov. 17 People may call Taipei a “living hell for pedestrians,” but back in the 1960s and 1970s, citizens were even discouraged from crossing major roads on foot. And there weren’t crosswalks or pedestrian signals at busy intersections. A 1978 editorial in the China Times (中國時報) reflected the government’s car-centric attitude: “Pedestrians too often risk their lives to compete with vehicles over road use instead of using an overpass. If they get hit by a car, who can they blame?” Taipei’s car traffic was growing exponentially during the 1960s, and along with it the frequency of accidents. The policy
Hourglass-shaped sex toys casually glide along a conveyor belt through an airy new store in Tokyo, the latest attempt by Japanese manufacturer Tenga to sell adult products without the shame that is often attached. At first glance it’s not even obvious that the sleek, colorful products on display are Japan’s favorite sex toys for men, but the store has drawn a stream of couples and tourists since opening this year. “Its openness surprised me,” said customer Masafumi Kawasaki, 45, “and made me a bit embarrassed that I’d had a ‘naughty’ image” of the company. I might have thought this was some kind
What first caught my eye when I entered the 921 Earthquake Museum was a yellow band running at an angle across the floor toward a pile of exposed soil. This marks the line where, in the early morning hours of Sept. 21, 1999, a massive magnitude 7.3 earthquake raised the earth over two meters along one side of the Chelungpu Fault (車籠埔斷層). The museum’s first gallery, named after this fault, takes visitors on a journey along its length, from the spot right in front of them, where the uplift is visible in the exposed soil, all the way to the farthest
The room glows vibrant pink, the floor flooded with hundreds of tiny pink marbles. As I approach the two chairs and a plush baroque sofa of matching fuchsia, what at first appears to be a scene of domestic bliss reveals itself to be anything but as gnarled metal nails and sharp spikes protrude from the cushions. An eerie cutout of a woman recoils into the armrest. This mixed-media installation captures generations of female anguish in Yun Suknam’s native South Korea, reflecting her observations and lived experience of the subjugated and serviceable housewife. The marbles are the mother’s sweat and tears,
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