Reconstruction Vol. 11, No. 4
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In the Jaws of the Leviathan: Genocide Fiction and Film by Joya Uraizee. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2010 / Shazia Rahman
<1> Joya Uraizee’s new book, In the Jaws of the Leviathan subverts many official, state-sanctioned discourses about genocide and mass murder which can often legitimate violence, represent survivors as merely victims and westerners as unambiguously altruistic. Because such narratives of genocide “silence the variety of voices within each culture” in a way that is “misleading, counter-productive, and false,” Uraizee analyzes novels and films from Pakistan/India, Nigeria, Chile, and Rwanda to argue that the techniques these texts use of “interactive gazes, direct metaphors and multi-vocal narrative structures” in fact “do create a sense of shared understanding or solidarity” (65). Of course the novels and films are not equally effective in counteracting more stereotypical representations of genocide and Uraizee’s compelling examination of eight different texts meticulously relates not only a strong theoretical framework and a clear history of each incident of mass violence but also important information about the production of each text such as whether it was commercial or consumer-driven or not. Thus, Uraizee concludes that in more commercial novels and films violence is depicted “generally and indirectly, even when the representation is quite graphic” causing “discomfort” in the viewer or reader (2). However, in the experimental novels and films especially those made or written by women, violence “is represented directly” and is “individualized or humanized” in a way that keeps us from becoming voyeurs and helps us interact “with the survivor in a dynamic way” (3).
<2> Uraizee’s research is enhanced by the similarities she finds in genocides across the geographical differences between Africa, South Asia, and South America. She writes that “genocides are more systematic than mass killings and...religious or ethnic differences can be repeatedly used, both by governmental and non-governmental bodies, to justify what is really overt political mass violence” (6). Each of the four incidents in each of the four locations she studies reveals this one similarity: that religious or ethnic difference between two groups is simply an excuse to justify the more politically-motivated violence of one group against another for perceived socio-economic gain. In addition, Uraizee’s first and introductory chapter lays the groundwork for the book by explaining why she analyzes particular metaphors (in fiction) and looks (in films). She writes, “I would argue that the looks and metaphors just described enable us, as bystanders and readers, regardless of our race or ethnicity, to come to terms with both the horror and the resilience of the survivors. These metaphors and looks call for solidarity, while atthe same time providing knowledge about the material conditions of the survivors” (4). Ultimately, the book is cohesive in its argument and important in its findings.
<3> However, some chapters are much more effective than others. The chapter on the 1947 partition of British India is by far the best in the book because of its nuanced reading of the novel Cracking India and the film Earth. Despite the fact that other critics have been quite convincing in their critiques of Cracking India, Uraizee concludes that the novel is still better than the film. She writes, “Partly because Ayah becomes objectified in the movie, I would argue, the novel is more successful than the film is at generating a network of gazes or responses shared between the perpetrators of the violence, the survivors, and us, the spectators or readers (both Western and Indian)” (11-12). Uraizee argues that only in the novel is Ayah able to achieve a “limited degree of agency” but also a “means to represent herself” (16). Moreover, through her careful analysis of the history of partition, she concludes that Sidhwa’s novel is more accurate than Mehta’s film in its depiction of the way in which the violence spread. Uraizee writes, “From the point of view of how the violence affected people’s lives, Sidhwa’s depiction of it as very widespread is more precise than Mehta’s description of it as one person’s personal failing” (20). She is critical of Mehta’s overt focus on the character of Ice-candy man rather than “the complexities of sectarian war” (26). Even as she is careful to point to the flaws in the novel, Uraizee makes a compelling argument for it in light of the much-acclaimed film version.
<4> However, the following chapter on the Nigerian-Biafran war is less compelling than this one because it contains no references to the content of the previous chapter even though there are many connections to be made in terms of the issues of division of land and bodies in both incidents of mass killings. Otherwise, Uraizee’s analysis of the novel Destination Biafra and the three documentary videos entitled The Nigerian Biafran War I, II, III is fascinating. She is, however, very critical of both the novel and the videos arguing that in both “what results is graphic representations of violence that turn us into rather distant on-lookers, unable to ‘work through’ the trauma that results from the violence” (30). Apparently, none of these texts is as successful as Sidhwa’s novel but the chapter doesn’t refer back to it to connect the two chapters.
<5> The chapter on Chile is well-integrated into the book in that it refers to previous chapters as well as later ones and offers an excellent analysis of Allende’s novel and August’s film The House of Spirits. Uraizee concludes that “both Allende and August show how postmemories or, more accurately, memory chains, can be used to connect past and present agonies to future survival and peace” (50). However, like the chapter on Pakistan/India, she finds that the novel is more successful than the film at making the “link between looking, writing, and surviving” (41). The novel does this by emphasizing the importance of writing to connecting to the past and to surviving in the future.
<6> The chapter on Rwanda is also effectively linked to the larger project and provides a much-needed examination of the film Hotel Rwanda and Alfredo Jaar’s book of photographs, memoirs, and art called Let There Be Light: The Rwanda Project 1994-1998. This chapter’s comparisons between a photographer and a filmmaker are particularly compelling to read in terms of representational practices. Even though I expected Uraizee to critique the film in light of Jaar’s book, I was surprised and interested to read her defense of the film and found myself convinced by her analysis. Uraizee concludes that “both texts present the relationship between survivors and spectators through presence (facts and images) and absence (fictionalizations and darkness), both by bearing witness and by sharing compassion” (64). Compassion is a key theme that comes up again and again in Uraizee’s book and I appreciate her attention to it. In her reading of Jaar’s book, Uraizee is careful to point to his compassion in not wanting to display all his photographs.
<7> In the final analysis, I must admit that I wanted Uraizee’s book to be longer, to say even more than it already does about genocide around the world, its representations in fiction and film, and why all of this matters. In fact, I wanted both the introduction and conclusion to elaborate further on longer histories of colonialism, imperialism, and globalization showing how we got here in the first place and why we are often so willing to believe the simplistic discourse of genocide victims as merely victims. I realize that all of this was not part of the scope of Uraizee’s book but it is a very slim volume and I do believe a chapter with a broader, historical focus that situates the content of the book not only in representational practices of film and fiction but also in world history would have made the book even more convincing than it already was. Nevertheless, within the scope of Uraizee’s interest in representational practices, this book is excellent. After all, it engages clearly and consistently with the very important question, how should we represent genocide given the world in which we live?
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