Someone, somewhere, seems to have decided that racist dress-ups should be the theme for this year’s Book Week. In Western Australia, a mother posted a photograph on Facebook of her “pastey White” (sic) son plastered in blackface to resemble his AFL hero Nic Naitanau. In the Northern Territory, a private college was forced to apologise after one of its teachers granted permission for a student to dress as Adolf Hitler for a Book Week parade – which unfortunately took place in front of a group of exchange students from a Melbourne Jewish school.
And then at the Brisbane Writers Festival, acclaimed American journalist and novelist Lionel Shriver donned a sombrero at the conclusion of her opening address to illustrate her entitlement to inhabit the personas of fictional characters from diverse ethnic backgrounds. The art of fiction, Shriver claimed, requires writers to try on other people’s hats – that is to say, to narrate stories from outside one’s own experience, including one’s racial and ethnic experience.
Like the mother who dressed her child in blackface despite her friends telling her that it was “a horrible idea”, Lionel Shriver anticipated that her words would cause offence. Writers, she said, must defend their right to offend others. And offence was certainly taken by a range of black and minority ethnic readers and writers both inside and outside the festival.
"We have to resist the pressure to translate our personal histories into exotic stories for the consumption of “mainstream"
But writers like Maxine Beneba Clarke, Alice Pung, Omar Musa and Nam Le do not allow themselves to be confined to characters who share the same background as themselves. They face a different set of pressures to the “climate of fear” that Shriver claims prevents white writers from creating stories about black or ethnic characters. Rather, they – we - have to resist the pressure to translate our personal histories into exotic stories for the consumption of “mainstream” (meaning white) readers. To dress ourselves up in our own culture according to the stereotypes of outsiders.
I question my own authority to assume the fiction writer’s hat in discussing this topic. One published short story, another in progress and a long-abandoned half-finished novel locked away in a bottom drawer does not begin to match Shriver’s record as an internationally famous novelist. My non-fiction writing ranges from academic papers to journalism to opinion pieces to memoir. However, Shriver’s address made me reflect on why I am attempting to come to grips with the rise of anti-Muslim organisations like Reclaim Australia through the lens of fiction and why I do not consider this to be an act of cultural appropriation on my part.
" I am not appropriating whiteness; its discourse is blasted into my brain"
I have written non-fiction reports about a number of far-right events over the past few years. My attempts to interview their female supporters seldom got very far. Despite their placards proclaiming their commitment to feminism, they would usually allow a large and aggressive male to take over any conversation with an outsider. The exception was a woman who I described in my report as “a sixty-something door bitch” who was reluctant to admit me to a lecture by a visiting right-wing politician. During the lecture itself, the women in the audience seemed to enter an almost sexual rapture as they listened to the hate-filled diatribe against multiculturalism, against immigrant “ghettos” – and of course against Muslims.
I couldn’t stop thinking about this woman and other women like her, even after writing about them in media articles and academic papers. And so I started writing a short story narrated by a woman who shares their opinions, their fears, and their distorted view of the world. In “trying on” the security woman's hat, I do not expect to develop any great sympathy for her point of view. But I do want to try to look at the world – and myself – through her eyes in an attempt to understand what it is that she sees when she looks at Muslims like me.
"I want to try to look at the world – and myself – through her eyes in an attempt to understand what it is that she sees when she looks at Muslims like me."
In doing so, I am not appropriating whiteness; its discourse is blasted into my brain at a very high volume every day of the week. My narrator is based on the people who send me hatemail, who confront me with baseless accusations when I speak in public, who have succeeded in making themselves and their distorted worldview all too familiar to me and to other Muslims. The power dynamics are entirely different to those that are at play when a privileged white writer narrates in the voice of an Afghan asylum seeker or an African American youth.
I do not suggest that white writers cannot depict characters from diverse backgrounds. However, if a writer regards the creation of such characters as nothing more complex than trying on an exotic piece of headwear (an exercise that has been undertaken by many journalists and writers in their attempts to “understand” Muslim women), then the result will be nothing more than stereotypes. Rather than playing dress-ups, I recommend that writers utilise empathy, an awareness of the histories and inequalities at play – and a willingness to listen when others tell you that you have ventured onto territory where you are not welcome.
Shakira Hussein is the author of From Victims to Suspects: 'Muslim Women since 9/11'. She tweets at @shakirahussein.
