Step Across This Line

by Salman Rushdie

  MAY 2000: J. M. COETZEE

  Just occasionally, a work of literature offers its readers a clearer, deeper understanding of the opaque events being reported in the press and on TV, whose shadowed truths the half-light of journalism fails to illumine. E. M. Forster’s A Passage to India taught us that the great public quarrels of history can make it impossible for individuals to construct a private peace. History forbids the friendship between the Englishman Fielding and the Indian doctor Aziz. “Not yet, not yet,” Aziz demurs. Not while imperialism’s great injustice stands between us. Not until India is free.

  After World War II, many German poets and novelists felt that their language had been reduced to rubble by Nazism, as thoroughly as the bomb-devastated cities. The “rubble literature” they created sought to rebuild German writing brick by brick.

  Now, as the aftermath of Empire is acted out on the white-owned farmland of Zimbabwe while Kenya and South Africa watch with trepidation, J. M. Coetzee’s acclaimed fiction Disgrace is proposed as another such age-defining work, a lens through which we can see more clearly much that was murky before. Disgrace is the story of David Lurie, a white professor who loses his job after sexual-harassment charges are laid against him by a female student with whom he has had a joyless series of sexual encounters. Lurie goes to stay with his daughter Lucy on her remote smallholding, where they are violently attacked by a group of black men. The consequences of this attack profoundly shake Lurie, darkening his view of the world.

  There is something in Disgrace that harks back both to the Forsterian vision of the Indian struggle for independence and to the Germans’ rubble literature. In Lucy’s apparent readiness to accept her rape as her assailants’ way of working out on her body the necessary revenges of history, we hear a much harsher, more discordant echo of Dr. Aziz’s “not yet.” And Lurie believes (like, one must conclude, his creator) that the English language is no longer capable of expressing the Southern African reality.

  The bone-hard language Coetzee has found for his book has been much admired, as has the unflinchingness of his vision. The book unquestionably fulfills the first requirement for a great novel: it powerfully creates a dystopia that adds to the sum total of the imagined worlds at our disposal and, by doing so, increases what it is possible for us to think. Reading about Lurie and Lucy on their dangerous, isolated patch of land, we can more readily grasp the condition of those white farmers in Zimbabwe, as history comes calling for its revenge. Like the Byronic Lucifer—in whose name both “Lurie” and “Lucy” can be found—Coetzee’s protagonist “acts on impulse, and the source of his impulses is dark to him.” He has, perhaps, a “mad heart,” and believes in something he calls “the rights of desire.” This makes him sound passionate, but in fact he’s cold and abstracted to an almost somnambulist degree.

  This cold detachment, which also permeates the novel’s prose, is the problem. “Rubble literature” didn’t just strip language to its bones. It put new flesh on those bones, perhaps because its practitioners retained a belief in, even a love for, that language, and for the culture in which their renewed language was to flower. Lacking that loving belief, the discourse of Disgrace sounds heartless, and all its intelligence cannot fill up the hole.

  To act on impulses whose source one claims not to understand, to justify one’s plunges at women by one’s “rights of desire,” is to make a virtue of one’s psychological and moral lacunae. For a character to justify himself by claiming not to understand his motives is one thing; for the novelist to collude in that justification is quite another.

  Nobody in Disgrace understands anyone else. Lurie does not understand Melanie, the student he seduces, nor she him. He doesn’t understand Lucy, his own daughter, and she finds his deeds and his “case” for his actions beyond her. He doesn’t understand himself at the beginning, nor does he get any wisdom by the novel’s end.

  Inter-racial relations are conducted at the same level of ignorance. The whites don’t understand the blacks and the blacks aren’t interested in understanding the whites. Not one of the novel’s black characters—not Petrus the “gardener and dog-man” who works with Lucy, and certainly not the gang of assailants—is developed into a living, breathing character. Petrus comes closest, but his motives remain enigmatic and his presence grows more menacing as the novel proceeds. To the novel’s whites, its black inhabitants are essentially a threat—a threat justified by history. Because whites have historically oppressed blacks, it’s being suggested, we must now accept that blacks will oppress whites. An eye for an eye, and so the whole world goes blind.

  This, then, is the novel’s acclaimed revelatory vision: one of a society of conflicting incomprehensions, driven by the absolutes of history. Certainly it’s coherent enough—coherent in its privileging of incoherence, striving to make of its blindness a sort of metaphorical insight.

  When a writer’s created beings lack understanding, it becomes the writer’s task to provide the reader with the insight lacked by the characters. If he does not, his work will not shine a light upon darkness but merely become a part of the darkness it describes. This, alas, is the weakness of Disgrace. It doesn’t, finally, shed enough new light on the news. But the news does add a bit to our understanding of the book.

  JUNE 2000: FIJI

  They are trying to steal our land.” Such is the emotive accusation made by the failed businessman George Speight and his gang of hooligan usurpers against Fiji’s Indian community in general and the deposed Mahendra Chaudhry government in particular. By one of the bitter ironies of the Age of Migration, Speight’s insistence on the basic cultural importance of land is very easy for people of Indian origin to grasp. (However, he goes too far, and by his insistence on what might be called the racial characteristics of land—for Speight plainly assumes that the land is, in its very nature, ethnically Fijian—he tips over into bigotry and folly.)

  Land, home, belonging: to Indians these words have always felt more than ordinarily potent. India is a continent of deeply rooted peoples. Indians don’t just own the ground beneath their feet; it owns them, too. An orthodox Hindu tradition goes so far as to warn that anyone who crosses the “black water”—the ocean—instantly loses caste. The so-called Indian diaspora, which has taken Indian communities and their descendants from their over-populous country across the world in every direction and as far as, well, Fiji, is therefore the most improbable of phenomena. Yet the journeyings of Indians all over the planet is one of the great sagas of our time, an epic replete with misadventures. Idi Amin’s vicious expulsion of the Ugandan Asians, the tensions between the black and Indian populations of Trinidad and South Africa, “Paki-bashing” in Britain, the tough treatment of Indian workers in Gulf states, and now Fiji—it’s tempting to conclude that the world has it in for these hardworking migrants and descendants of migrants, that their single-minded dedication to bettering their families’ lot somehow comes across as reprehensible.

  In the United States, many Indians speak almost shamefacedly of their lack of racially motivated trouble; not being the target of American racism, they have been until recently almost invisible as a community, and this invisibility has perhaps excused them from persecution. But there have been triumphs, too. With each generation, Indians have become more fully a part of Britain without losing their distinctive identity; while in America, the virtual takeover of Silicon Valley by Indian whiz-kids has got people’s attention and earned their admiration.

  In Fiji, the century-old Indian presence has been a success story. Indians have built the sugar industry that is the country’s main resource; and—as the ethnic Fijian opposition to the Speight coup demonstrates—relations between the communities are by no means as bad as the rebels make out. In the Fijian Parliament, the Chaudhry government was supported by fifty-eight out of seventy-one members. Twelve out of eighteen members of the sacked cabinet were ethnic Fijians. Even among Speight’s hostages, fourteen of the thirty-one prisoners are ethnic Fijians. Thus the Chaudhry gove
rnment was in no sense a sectarian government of Indians lording it over Fijians. It was a genuine cultural mixture. Since its deposition, however, the Speight rebels, abetted by the craven Great Council of Chiefs and by the martial-law regime of Commodore Bainimarama, have dragged Fiji back toward its racially intolerant past. There has been much violence. Many Indians now say they’ll have to leave. Meanwhile, the quality of debate deteriorates by the day. Speight’s mob points approvingly to Mugabe’s land grab in Zimbabwe, and says that the British should be responsible for the Indians they brought to Fiji, just as they “should” recompense the dispossessed Zimbabwean whites.

  The fundamentals of the land question have been thoroughly obscured by such nonsense. The obvious truth is that, after a hundred years, Fiji’s Indians have every right to be treated as Fijian, as the equals of ethnic Fijians. Preventing Indians from owning land was and is a great injustice—most of Fiji’s land, particularly on the main island of Viti Levu, is owned by Fijians but held by Indians on ninety-nine-year leases, many of which are coming up for renewal—and the Speight idea of taking over the sugar farms as the Indians’ ninety-nine-year leases expire compounds that injustice.

  British Indians have fought to be recognized as British; Uganda’s Indians were grievously wronged when Amin threw them out as “foreigners.” Migrant peoples do not remain visitors forever. In the end, their new land owns them as once their old land did, and they have a right to own it in their turn. “We don’t want Fijians fighting Fijians—our common enemy is the Indians,” Speight says, but the final irony may be that his brand of ethnic cleansing is leading Fijians and Indians in western Fiji, the most prosperous part of the country, with most of the sugarcane operations, some gold mines, and the best tourist resorts, to make common cause against him. Secession is being seriously discussed. The choice facing Fiji’s remarkably inept political class may therefore soon become a stark one: abandon the fundamentally racist notion that your land is ethnically tied to one racial group, or lose the best of that land to those who find your bigotry, and your weakness, impossible to bear.

  JULY 2000: SPORT

  France is the most powerful nation in Europe and probably, at present, the world; though Brazil would dispute that. The Germans, usually so organized and efficient, are in an uncharacteristic mess. Italians have flair but are profoundly defensive by nature. The Dutch are sometimes quarrelsome but, at their best, by far the most artistic of the Europeans; Belgium is dull by comparison. Spain is highly gifted but consistently under-achieves at the highest levels. Denmark, Norway, and Sweden seem to be in decline. Yugoslavia and Croatia can both be guilty (like Argentina) of hidden brutalities. Turkey, Nigeria, and the leading Arab nations are rapidly approaching parity with Europe and South America, while Japan and the USA remain very much second-class nations. And the English—alas, the English!—are pedestrian, tactically naÏve, and, of course, hooligans.

  The world according to soccer, like the whole sports-page cosmos, differs somewhat from the picture of reality to be found on the news pages but is instantly recognizable, except in the few remaining soccer-free corners of the globe. And in our sound bite–dominated era, the crude national stereotypes generated by sport have begun to inform the way we look at the “real” world as well as the narrower arena of sport itself. They even affect the way we—including those of us who lack any vestige of sporting prowess—look at ourselves.

  Sporting success can have the most astonishing social, and even political, effects. A couple of years ago there was much talk of France’s loss of cultural and national confidence, of a sort of crisis of French identity. The World Cup victory two years ago, and the Euro 2000 triumph last week, has silenced all such talk. And the genius of the French Muslim superstar Zinedine Zidane, scorer of the goal that won the World Cup and now the inspiration of the European champions, has done more to improve France’s attitude toward its Muslim minority, and to damage the political aspirations of the ultra-right, than a thousand political speeches could hope to achieve.

  Sporting failure likewise generates ripples far beyond the playing field. Thus England has reacted to its soccer team’s mediocrity and its supporters’ violence by plunging into a what’s-wrong-with-us fit of self-criticism reminiscent of the gloomy worldview of A. A. Milne’s immortal donkey, Eeyore. Not only can England’s soccer players not play soccer, their tennis players can’t play tennis, and one of them’s Canadian anyway. In this Eeyore-ish mood, even victories look like less extreme forms of failure. The England cricket team actually wins a Test match, but the true Eeyore points out that when England lose, as they usually do, they get thrashed, but when they win, which is rare, they win by a whisker. The England rugby team beats mighty South Africa; Eeyore ripostes, ah, but they can’t do it regularly, it’s just a flash in the pan. The world heavyweight boxing champion is British, but Eeyore points out that Lennox Lewis, too, speaks with a transatlantic twang.

  About one thing all commentators seem clear. A nation’s sporting performance, its prowess or its ineptitude, like the behavior of its fans, has origins far removed from the closed universe of sport itself. It has deep roots in the Culture.

  Culture is what we now have instead of ideology. We live in an age of culture wars, of groups using ever narrower self-definitions of culture both as a shield and as a sword. Culture is touchy. Use the wrong word and you’ll be accused of racism by some cultural commissar or other. (In Philip Roth’s magisterial new novel The Human Stain, the word is “spooks”; in a New York Times report from Akron, Ohio, last week it was “niggardly.”)

  These days everything is culture. Food is culture and religion is culture and so is gardening. Lifestyle is culture and politics is culture and race is culture and then there’s the proliferation of sexual cultures and let’s not forget subcultures, too. Sport, of course, is major culture. So, when British (and, to a lesser extent, other) louts were misbehaving in Holland and Belgium, it was their culture that was held responsible, and nobody saw the irony of using the term to explain the actions of such profoundly uncultured individuals. But if hooliganism is also a culture now, then the word has finally lost all meaning. Which matters only if you think that culture is something else, something to do with art, imagination, education, and ethics, something that broadens perceptions rather than narrowing them, which enables us to see beyond national stereotypes to the richer complexity of real life, in which not all Italians are defensive, not all Germans are efficient, and England, poor England, is not defined by its sportsmen, thugs, and Eeyores; in which “spooks” and “niggardly” are not racist words, and subtlety is valued more highly than sound bites, and a game is just a game.

  AUGUST 2000: TWO CRASHES

  The speed of life is now so great that we can’t concentrate on anything for long. We need capsule meanings to be attached to news events instantly, explaining and pigeonholing their significance, so that we can move on, secure in the illusion of having understood something. In the days after two catastrophic crashes, of the Middle East peace process and the Air France Concorde, an army of commentators has been trying to come up with (on a postcard, preferably) the brief sound bites that bite.

  Of the two disasters, the Concorde crash yields up its Instant Message more easily. It represents, as a thousand pundits have told us, the End of the Dream of the Future. In a world in which no Concorde had ever crashed, this most graceful of aircraft embodied our dreams of transcendence. In the new reality that is still smoldering on the ground in Gonesse, France, our expectations must be lowered. Transcendence kills. The pictures tell us so. In our airplanes, in our lives, in our fantasies of what we might be, we must give up the idea of breaking barriers. For a brief, fabulous period we exceeded our limits. Now we are gripped once more by the surly bonds of earth.

  Unfortunately, the other crash seems, after analysis, to insist on meaning exactly the opposite thing. Everywhere I’ve been in the last week or so, and in much of what I’ve seen, heard, or read, one question has kept coming
up: if it were left to you, how would you solve the riddle of Jerusalem? And the op-ed and dinner-table consensus seems to be that the old place must become a free city, a World City, neither Israeli nor Palestinian but capital of both. Seems fair and ultimately do-able. Yes, we like that idea . . . What’s that you say? There’s a hot breaking news story? Quick, switch on CNN.

  Oh, very well, we can go into this a bit more if you absolutely insist. It’s simple, really. Barak’s government has already given ground, but Israel must have its arm twisted by the United States until it agrees to this essential further concession. And, yes, Arafat was intransigent, in part because Hosni Mubarak persuaded his major backers to insist on the hard-line, we-get-East-Jerusalem-or-bust position. So, the Arab states must have their arms twisted by the United States until they agree to the Only Possible Solution . . .

  You see, sometimes people just have to be bigger than what holds them back. We, they, just have to find it in ourselves, themselves, to transcend. Because peace is the Dream of the Future and cannot be denied . . .

  Instant analysts are thus faced with an apparent black-and-white Message Contradiction. If the “meaning” of the Concorde crash is right, then the puncturing of human dreams is inevitable. There will therefore be no peace in the Middle East. And when the intifada returns in a more violent form—because now the Palestinians can fight with guns, not stones—Israel will retaliate with maximum force, and the region will slip toward war. But if, on the other hand, the post–Camp David, free Jerusalem can be conjured into being, it will give us all new hope, and reinvent the idea of the future as a potential Star Trek utopia in which technological marvels—safer, cheaper Concordes, perhaps Concordes for All—arrive hand in hand with a universalist, brotherhood-of-man philosophy of human relations.