British and American Representations of 9-11

by Oana-Celia Gheorghiu

  The relevance here of the concept of hybridity does not necessarily mean that Waldman wrote her novel with this theory in mind, but only that she seems to have intersected with it when she posited the question of what the Americans reaction would be if a Muslim interfered, even in a positive manner, with their trauma induced by the acts of other Muslims . Attempting to visually represent their (here including his, as an American) ‘mourning and melancholia’, but also to appease them, in the hope of psychological recovery, Mohammad Khan takes a turn to sheer otherness , becoming, all of a sudden, that ‘Muslim menace’ Said mentions in relation to post-9/11 Western civilisation. Waldman is undoubtedly familiar with Said’s theory of Orientalism—there is a very subtle reference to his wife, Mariam Said, present at a celebrity party in Khan’s support, eye-rolling at the ‘attempt to disentangle ’ (Waldman 2012, 198) the Jewish/Palestinian problem, brought into discussion by an ignorant British baroness who tells Khan that she has always supported the Palestinian cause. The separation of the Jews and Palestinians was a matter of interest in Said’s writings, especially towards the time of his death , in 2003, and even though reference could have been made to his annotated Orientalism, which he asserted as oriented, in the twenty-first century, towards the vilification of Arabs in particular and Muslims in general, Waldman seems prone to concealing intertextuality in plain sight.

  Even in the absence of this short and oblique reference to Said, it is easy to recognise that Waldman fictionalises numerous instances of discursive Islamophobia manifest in political speeches, media interventions and public points of view. From the very onset of the conflict, when the jury learn the name of the winner of the architecture competition, their reactions point to the libellous identification of any Muslim with the terrorists : ‘I’m not sure I want it [the memorial ] with the name Mohammad attached to it. They’ll feel like they’ve won’ (2012, 22) or ‘there are safeguards built in, right, against criminals. Or terrorists’ (23). As soon as the information that a Muslim has won the competition leaks to the press, the image the tabloid media publish is that of a terrorist . Even after his disclosure, when Khan proves that he is not ‘some one-eyed, bearded killer’ (116), as journalist Alyssa Spier describes him during the openly anti-Islamic radio show of Lou Sarge, even when his right to enter the competition is, theoretically, accepted, he is not granted absolution. Journalists start digging into his past, refuse to call him ‘Mo’, as his friends do, because ‘Mo didn’t have the ring—theological, historical, hysterical—of Mohammad’ (122). Mohammad Khan is often not called by his name, so representative for Islam , being often introduced as ‘the Muslim’, which points to his becoming the metonymical representation of the Other . In Gauthier’s view, Khan’s otherness is enhanced by his refusal to explain the rationale, influences and significance of his design. His focus extends to the readers, whose assessment of Khan may turn ambivalent, because of the proximity he creates between perpetrators and victims (2015, 207). Thus, empathy is lost and readers start regarding Khan as the Other , the ultimate unsympathetic character: ‘Just as the otherness of Arab and Muslim -Americans was heightened after 9/11, so too is the designer’s. Waldman thus creates a scenario where ambivalence exists on both sides’ (209).

  Media manipulation , which Waldman knows first-hand through the nature of her profession, and the political statements devoid of ‘palliative liberal sentiments’—‘The governor […] emerged to express grave concern about the possibility of a Muslim memorial-builder’ (77, my emphasis)—lead to a series of aggressive and defensive reactions, which trigger a continuum of events that represent plot development. Even Khan, though determined to assert his rights and copiously sarcastic in his conversations with those who suggest that he withdraw from the competition, is unable to separate himself completely from the murderous fundamentalists. What he considers determining for both his and their development is the influence of the environment, the societal control mechanisms acting upon each of them:These men who had given vent to their homicidal sanctimony had nothing to do with him, yet weren’t entirely apart. They represented Islam no more than his own extended family did, but did they represent it less? He didn’t know enough about his own religion to say. He was the middle-class Muslim son of an engineer, a profile not all that different from some of the terrorists . Raised in another society, raised religious, could he have become one of them? The question shuddered through him and left an uneasy residue. (35–6)

  As far as the public reaction is concerned, Waldman proves most skilful in mimicking a reality that has polarised Western society for many years: the great divide between the Westerners who feel threatened by the proximity of Muslims, based on their limited awareness of this religion or on its material representation , the headscarf, and the liberal supporters of #NotAllTheSame. A case in point is the string of headscarf-pulling episodes, which begins with Sean Gallagher losing his temper during a demonstration at the site of the attacks, and which is further multiplied by copycats all around the country, who start harassing Muslim women in the streets and removing this culturally specific clothing item from their heads. Symptomatic of the stereotypical representation people have of Muslims is the reproach of Sean’s mother: ‘It’s Muslims that are supposed to mistreat women’ (210). The aggressors pose as entitled to liberate women with their act: ‘In Iran, Saudi Arabia, they force women to wear headscarves, to submit. This is America . What these men pulling off the headscarves are doing it’s an act of liberation.’ (217). With her naïve misconstruing of Islamic traditions, Debbie, the founder of the organisation Save America from Islam , is constructed as an embodiment of counter-fundamentalism , based on the same amount of ignorance and radicalism as that of the suicidal terrorists themselves. Counterbalancing her statement with the opinion ironically expressed by a Muslim , ‘Yes, our women feel so liberated they’ve stopped going outside’ (217), Waldman unsubtly gives the narratorial tenor a disregardful attitude targeted at Islamophobia . She seems, otherwise, intent on reviewing the hasty generalisations people have continually made about Muslims since 9/11, bringing into prominence the most dangerous one, that of regarding any Muslim as a terrorist . As Gauthier correctly synthesises it: ‘The population’s lack of knowledge about Islam short-circuits their capacity to contemplate other scenarios. In their minds, all Arabs are Muslims, all Muslims are Islamists, and all Islamists seek the destruction of the Western world’ (2015, 43). Waldman is sarcastic about such attitudes—‘Radical Islam was their freelance obsession’ (2012, 167)—and displays a liberal New York Times-esque predisposition to accentuate the ridiculousness of Islamophobia by crowding the novel with exaggerated statements, like ‘They’re trying to colonize this hallowed ground’ (167). Everything in the Islamophobic camp is presented in a negative light, which greatly helps in the assessment of The Submission as a piece of Western writing not affected by Orientalism.

  The liberal attitudes are represented by Khan’s supporters, who start wearing green (Islamic) ribbons—which is again presumptuous, as it wasn’t Khan’s Islamic heritage that was supposed to be defended, but rather his rights as an American —and taking part in fancy fundraising dinner parties. It is, however, relevant to mention that the narrator’s tone is just as ironic and dismissive of these tolerant attitudes as it is of the radical ones, which indicates an aspiration towards balance:The Committee to Defend Mohammad Khan, the Mohammad Khan Defense Fund, the Mohammad Khan Protection League – all of them lacked only one ingredient, which was Mohammad Khan. He didn’t want to compromise his independence, didn’t want to shoulder any donors’ associations, didn’t want to be some radical-chic pet, a Black Panther with a beard in place of an Afro, but they organized on his behalf even without him, staged press conferences, plays, fund-raisers, and seminars in his name. (197)

  The Muslim community, through MACC (Muslim American Coordinating Council), a body ‘basically formed as a coalition against [Islamophobia ]’ (Khadem 2015, 70), gather around Khan, despite their irritatio
n at the statements of agnosticism and indifference to the Muslim cause formulated by the architect: ‘He’s shown no interest, here at least, in taking on issues that matter to Muslims. All he’s done is to remind us that he’s not particularly interested in Islam —that he’s not political, that he’s secular’ (Waldman 2012, 102). Their endorsement, aside from the wave of Islamophobia that has drawn their attention, is purely political, and points, once again, to the power of the fourth estate: ‘The media attention allows us to talk about other issues that impact Muslims’ (103). Although Khadem sees the abbreviated name of the council as a reference to MacDonald’s (hence, to Americanism ), combined with Mecca, so as to prove that ‘one can be deeply American and sternly Muslim at the same time’ (2015, 70), this interpretation seems rather far-fetched, and the denomination of this council is more likely to be sought for in the real-life organisation the American Muslim Political Coordination Council, which brought together, in 2000, members of the American Muslim Council, the American Muslim Alliance, the Council on American-Islamic Relations, and the Muslim Public Affairs Council (Musaji 2014). The reasons why the name of the council is slightly altered in the novel may be at least threefold: to avoid possible legal issues, to accentuate fictionalism, or to give prominence to the determiner ‘Muslim’, instead of ‘American’ , as is the case with the organisations listed above. The members of this fictional council, unsullied by accusations of terrorism , are concerned with the welfare and rights of American, feel ‘lesser Americans’ because ‘Eid [the end of Ramadan] is not a school holiday’ (Waldman 2012, 102), but also venture into occasional critiques of American foreign policy:But does America want to live in peace with Muslims? […] Since we’re talking about memorials, where is the memorial to the half-million Iraqi children killed by U.S. sanctions? To the thousands of innocent Afghans killed in response to this attack, or the Iraqis killed on the pretext of responding to this attack? […] We keep hearing that it takes three hours to read the names of the dead from this attack. Do you know how long it would take to read the names of half a million dead Iraqi children? Twenty-one days. (101, emphasis in the original)19

  Despite their rather stereotypical inclination towards traditionalism, the MACC board team up with Iranian-American lawyer Laila Fathi, a woman who wears short, colourful skirts, and refuses to cover her head, in spite of the hijab-wearing female members. She deals with the legal aspects of some judicial cases meant to support Muslims in their relation to the American states—including Asma’s—and ends up representing Khan in his struggle to have his commission accepted, but also having an affair with him—a serious subversion of Muslim-imposed modesty. Her construction counteracts the stereotypical representation of the submissive, almost invisible Muslim woman.A Muslim , but unlike any Muslim Asma knew. Her dark hair, unlike Asma’s, was uncovered. The skirt of her snug-fitting turquoise suit struck just above the knee. Her pale legs were bare; her heels, which matched her suit, high. Her lips were painted the color of a plum. Asma would have liked to ask her questions all day, most of them having nothing to do with the attack, but Laila Fathi had no time. Her words came fast, her phones rang often; her calendar, which sat open at her elbow , was full. (Waldman 2012, 94)

  One could also notice in Waldman’s novel a certain propensity towards feminist attitudes, perhaps unacknowledged as such, but definitely present in the descriptions of the feminine characters . The governor is a woman with White House ambitions, which are eventually accomplished, as in the last chapter, set 20 years later, she is ‘Vice President Bitman’ (2012, 371); Claire Burwell is an Ivy League educated lawyer who resents being relegated to the status of stay-at-home mum and ‘social secretary for [her] four-year son’; the journalist Alyssa Spier dreams of becoming a successful independent career woman like Carrie Bradshaw, a pop icon of the early 2000s, of Sex and the City fame; and Laila Fathi has, as already shown, overcome the limitations imposed on her gender by her religion . The Submission remains, however, a realist novel , which is why its universe is also populated with conservative women such as Elaine Gallagher, an Irish mother of six who mourns the loss of her eldest son in the attacks, or of the women present on the Muslim American Coordinating Council—although their very presence on the board of a decision-making body points either to their emancipation and empowerment, or to their adherence, if only to a certain degree, to American (Occidental) values. But nowhere is the feminist attitude more present than the construction of otherness that is Asma Anwar.

  As already mentioned, Asma Anwar is a Bangladeshi illegal, living in Brooklyn, in an area mostly inhabited by her countrymen, some of them legally, others , lacking the official documentation which would allow them to reside in America . The neighbourhood, unofficially dubbed ‘little Dhaka’, is organised as an enclave and has an equally unofficial political hierarchy. At the time of the attacks, Asma, a pregnant woman married to Inam Haque, a Bangladeshi with higher education who used to work under a fake name and Social Security number as a janitor at the WTC (perhaps an oblique critique of the opportunities of the American Dream), finds herself not only confronted with her husband’s demise, but also with deportation and with the lack of acknowledgement of his existence: ‘The undocumented also had to be unaccounted, officials insisted. The consulate could not abet illegals, even posthumously. They were very sorry about Inam, “if indeed he has existed”’ (Waldman 2012, 88). From her abrupt introduction into the plot, in the eighth chapter of the novel, to her dramatic exit, in the twenty-second, Asma is constructed as a subversive reinterpretation of the submissiveness of Muslim women.

  The character is perpetually torn between her the traditions and teachings of her heritage, and her inquisitive nature, which sometimes brings her close to blasphemy. Becoming a millionaire overnight through compensation received for the death of her husband, and yet forced to hide her fortune due to political risks and also to avoid possible trouble for her family in Bangladesh, Asma can only think of the way her husband passed away. It is stated in Sharia law that the body of the deceased should be buried facing Mecca, after a ritual bath and shrouding in a linen cloth, without a casket. Cremation is considered ‘haram’, forbidden, an unclean practice, which makes the young widow wonder whether her husband’s soul is going to find peace. ‘Cremation was anathema for Muslims. God had forbidden the use of fire on His Creation, or so Asma had been taught. Then why had God allowed these men to cremate her husband—and claim to have cremated him in God’s name, no less?’ (92). The terrorists’ use of the name of Allah to cause harm prompts her to ask the local imam questions that she would not normally be entitled to ask. She wonders whether the men who killed Inam and 3000 others , who believed that they were fighting for God and that the Qur’an promised them a reward for their deed, would end up in the same paradise with her religious, warm-hearted husband. Her questions, answered with the barely illuminating ‘God knows best’, are just the first step in Asma’s becoming an icon of feminine resistance to submission. Her fate, paralleling Mohammad Khan’s, takes a twist with the submission of the architect’s project: he seems to be heading for submission , in the Islamic sense, while Asma seems to divert more and more from the path of Islamic teachings with regard to the submissive conduct of women. She starts listening to men’s conversations on political issues and, what is more, having her own opinions on these matters, although they generally remain unspoken. Her upbringing and environment remind her, at times, of her place: ‘yet, she yielded to Mr. Chowdhury in the matter of rice. As a woman, she had to’ (130). Reading the translation of an American newspaper article, she learns that ‘Islam means submission —it makes slaves of its followers and demands that people of other religions submit to it, too. Their goal is to impose Sharia, Islamic law, wherever they can, including the United States . They will tell you this isn’t true, but the problem is that Islam also sanctions lying—the Islamic term for this is taqiyya —to help the faith spread or to wage jihad’ (169–70). The word Islam means, indeed, ‘submissio
n’/‘surrender’, but the definition of taqiyya is corrupted in the interpretation of the journalist . According to Esposito’s Oxford Dictionary of Islam (2014) and Oxford Encyclopaedia of the Islamic World (2009), taqiyya represents the acceptable denial of faith in order to avoid religious persecution, and is a concept employed in relation to the Shiite Muslim minority, often persecuted by the Sunni. Without theological knowledge and relying on the Qur’an only in as much as she could grasp it from sermons and prayers, Asma muses that her relatives and imams ‘had [n]ever told her to wage war against non-Muslims or try to impose Sharia […] and certainly no one had ever told her to lie’ (Waldman 2012, 170). Then again, an awareness of her situation makes her add: ‘although they probably wouldn’t rely on women to do that’ (170). The impositions on Muslim widows make her consider remarrying and adopting an American way of life (188), which may again be indicative of an aspiration to hybridity , instead of her present status as an Other living in America , but without benefiting from Americanism in any way.

  Asma’s construction as a representation of otherness is less focused on her being different from the American majority, which she hardly meets. Hers is an otherness within her displaced Bangladeshi world, among her peers, whose focalisation translates into a disapproving understanding of her difference. Mrs Mahmoud, her landlady, tells her that she has ‘been listening to the men talk again’ (174) when she attempts a parallel between the potential withdrawal of Khan’s award and the Pakistani intervention in Bangladesh, the Liberation War and the proclamation of Bangladesh’s independence, in 1971. Not only does she speak and think, but she also acts at times. Her sense of justice prompts her to approach a neighbour abused by her husband, Kabir, and suggest that she find a shelter for women in her situation. Needless to say, this interference is frowned upon in the Muslim community, as is her adventurous walk beyond the borders of her neighbourhood during the ‘headscarf crisis’. Muslim women, frightened by the aggression of white men claiming to perform an act of liberation by pulling off their scarves, refuse to step outside their houses and become ‘as invisible as Hasima, her next-door neighbour, which had to please the Kabirs of the world’ (218). In stark contrast, Asma leaves her child with Mrs Mahmoud, fantasising about going to Manhattan , but she is closely followed by a group of young Muslims, for protection purposes. Asma, however, perceives their protection as imprisonment: ‘Even if she walked all the way to Manhattan , they would be glued to her. She no longer knew who was imprisoning her, only that the prison was well sealed’ (219).