Diasporic Cross-Currents in Michael Ondaatje’s Anil’s Ghost and Anita Rau Badami’s The Hero’s Walk HEIKE HÄRTING IN HIS REVIEW of Anil’s Ghost, Todd Hoffmann describes Michael Ondaatje’s novel as a “mystery of identity” (449). Similarly, Ari- tha van Herk identifies “fear, unpredictability, secrecy, [and] loss” (44) as the central features of the novel and its female protagonist. Anil’s Ghost, van Herk argues, presents its readers with a “motiveless world” of terror in which “no identity is reliable, no theory waterproof” (45). Ondaatje’s novel tells the story of Anil Tessera, a Sri Lankan expatriate and forensic anthropologist working for a UN-affiliated human rights or- ganization. Haunted by a strong sense of personal and cultural disloca- tion, Anil takes up an assignment in Sri Lanka, where she teams up with a local archeologist, Sarath Diyasena, to uncover evidence of the Sri Lankan government’s violations of human rights during the country’s per- iod of acute civil war. Yet, by the end of the novel, Anil has lost the evi- dence that could have indicted the government and is forced to leave the country, carrying with her a feeling of guilt for her unwitting complicity in Sarath’s death. On one hand, Anil certainly embodies an ethical (al- beit rather schematic) critique of the failure of global justice. On the other, her character stages diaspora, in Vijay Mishra terms, as the “nor- mative” and “ exemplary … condition of late modernity” (“Diasporic” 441) — a condition usually associated with the figure of the nomad rather than the diasporic subject — and thus raises questions about the novel’s regu- latory politics of diasporic identity. In contrast, Anita Rau Badani’s The Hero’s Walk represents the forma- tion of diasporic identities as an empowering process shaped by multiple changes on the local level rather than by transnational mobility. Set in a fictive seaside town in Tamil Nadu, southern India, Rau Badami’s novel narrates the story of a genteel but impoverished Brahmin family. In the midst of globally induced environmental catastrophes and local processes of social disintegration, Sripathi Rao, the father of the family and the novel’s 44 SCL/ÉLC protagonist, has to cope with the death of his estranged daughter, Maya, and the arrival of his Canadian granddaughter, Nandana. Interestingly, the novel is not primarily concerned with Maya, who used to live with her fam- ily in Vancouver and is perhaps the novel’s most conventional diasporic subject. Instead, it examines how Sripathi’s multiple displacements and re- rootings, and Nandana’s reversed journey to the Old World, mediate diaspora through the characters’ everyday life experiences and locally de- fined events. In the novel, however, the local neither equals antimodernist traditionalism nor provides a source of romantic liberation ideologies. Rather, it designates, in Arif Dirlik’s words, a critical “site for the working out of the most fundamental contradictions of the age” of global capital- ism (23). As such, the novel’s renderings of the local facilitate competing readings of diaspora as alternative configurations of social space and human connections. This paper, then, argues that Anil’s Ghost and The Hero’s Walk advance conceptual cross-fertilizations between Canadian literature and diaspora studies and intervene into current discourses of diaspora. To this end, my analysis of these novels employs a supplementary and comparative reading strategy. The former avoids a mimetic reading practice of literary and non- literary texts and, instead, theorizes diaspora through the dissonances that might emerge through such a practice. The latter, a comparative reading practice, yields two specific conceptual and historically situated genealogies of diaspora. In particular, while Ondaatje’s novel envisions diaspora in largely ahistorical terms as a condition of Anil’s nomadic identity, cultural relativism, and political failure, Rau Badami’s novel fashions patterns of diasporic identification — rather than identity — around moments of still- ness and disruption that generate new forms of communal and individual autonomy. Thus, to discern the particular cultural and political dynamics of diaspora, it is necessary not only to emphasize the dialectical relationship between diasporic and non-diasporic people, but also to distinguish be- tween forced diasporas, flexible transnational diasporas, and what I call intra-national diasporas. As my reading of The Hero’s Walk suggests, the latter term refers to a form of diasporic identity that is not necessarily bound to transnational border crossings. Instead, it thematizes the ways in which the effects of environmental and economic global restructuring, along with the disintegration of received local forms of national and cultural identifi- cation, transform the micro spaces of social life. These changes frequently affect both the dislocation of given identities and the formation of new personal and political affiliations. Divided into two parts, then, my paper first discusses diaspora as a contested and, at times, disempowering category ONDAATJE AND RAU BADAMI 45 of cultural knowledge production and, second, investigates diaspora’s po- tential to act as a political practice able to generate public spaces of politi- cal dissent and agency. Locations of Diaspora Diaspora and diaspora writing denote highly contradictory and contested categories through which to make and unmake cultural and national identities. Diasporas can be at once cosmopolitan and particularist, transnational and nationalist, interventive and parochial, depending on their position within their new national home, their communal affiliation with their ancestral homeland, and their internal differences of class, gen- der, and race. Despite their various differences among and within each other, historically diasporas have been distinguished into old and new diasporas. While the former term refers to the massive dislocation and dis- persal of people through slavery, imperialism, and indentureship, the lat- ter denotes intersecting communities of migrants and refugees and their descendants or what Mishra calls the “diaspora of late capital … whose overriding characteristic is one of ‘mobilitity’” (“Diasporic” 422).1 Simul- taneously, we need to note that mobility, as such theorists as Gayatri Spivak and Pheng Cheah aver, must be considered as the privilege of diaspora that makes the concept complicit with both premature anti- localist attitudes towards the nation-state and the demands of a global, deregulated economy. Another term scholars of diaspora recognize as a distinctive marker of diaspora is the “homeland” — sacred or imaginary — and its related dis- courses of an original trauma, a return movement, and a common fate and history.2 For example, in the context of Canadian literary criticism, Victor Ramraj explains that diasporic writings “are invariably concerned with the individual’s community’s attachment to the centrifugal homeland” (216). Although Ramraj aptly reminds us of the symbolic rather than literal sig- nificance of the homeland, he nevertheless locates the idea of the homeland at the centre of a communally and individually defined diasporic conscious- ness. Being perpetually unmoored and in a state of transition, “diasporans,” Ramraj argues, along with anthropologist Victor Turner, are “liminal persona[e]” (216). Like Homi Bhabha and Stuart Hall, Ramraj sees home as a discursively constructed category of diasporic writing and cultural be- longing. Yet, his emphasis on the “centrifugal” effects of the homeland re- calls the nephew’s search for his elusive Uncle Melech in A.M. Klein’s The Second Scroll, the allegorical figure of both the history of the Jewish diaspora 46 SCL/ÉLC and a perpetually postponed Jewish homeland (rather than Zionist nation- state).3 My point here is not that the gaze back or towards an ancestral homeland tends to generate, as Mishra observes, “racial absolutism” (“Diasporic” 424), but that, in critical discourses of diaspora, it can also act as a foundationalist narrative of diasporic identity. Such an understanding of the idea of the homeland risks foregoing the task of interrogating the totalizing effects of diaspora’s dominant identity markers, even if these markers are instrumental to the “ideological work of self-consolidation” (the phrase is Keya Ganguly’s).4 For this reason, it is crucial to examine how and to what effect Anil’s Ghost challenges and/or reinforces such dominant ap- purtenances of diaspora as the ancestral homeland and global mobility. In Ondaatje’s novel, a central location of diaspora becomes legible at the precise moment when Anil unexpectedly disappears from the nar- rative. Her unexplained exit from the novel raises questions as to what extent her presence in Sri Lanka will shape her life once she returns to the United States. How much would the memory of Sarath, the Sri Lankan anthropologist teamed up with Anil to identify the skeleton of a politi- cal murder victim, and Gamini, Sarath’s brother, become a part of her life “back in the adopted country of her choice” (285)? Will her visit to Sri Lanka have the same tragic effects on her life as it had on Sarath’s? Cer- tainly not. After all, Sarath cannot escape his torturers and killers, while Anil is able to flee from Sri Lanka’s bloody theatre of war. In fact, the pri- vilege of her mobility marks her as a cosmopolitan traveller in the post- national world of what Arjun Appadurai calls the “global modern” (21). Her absence stands as a reminder of the “American or the Englishman,” who, as Gamini bitterly remarks, “gets on a plane and leaves [at the end of the movie]. … He is going home. … That’s enough reality for the West. It’s probably the history of the last two hundred years of Western political writing. Go home. Write a book. Hit the circuit” (285-86). The sarcasm of Gamini’s words clearly speaks to the hypocritical attitude with which the West frequently denies its complicit and often instrumental role in civil conflicts in the so-called “Third World.” But his words also remind us that such privileged diasporic positions as Anil’s are easily harnessed to the economic and ideological demands of the global market- place and dominant identity politics. Taking a similar critical perspective, Barbara Godard’s essay “Notes from the Cultural Field: Canadian Literature from Identity to Hybridity” examines the ways in which contemporary global transformations have reshaped the dominant discourses of identity in Canadian literature and cultural theory. Godard suggests that although the geographical “impera- ONDAATJE AND RAU BADAMI 47 tive in Canadian literature discourses” persists, the “discursive constitu- tion of space” is no longer performed within the boundaries of the Ca- nadian nation-state (211). Instead, through their multiple national investments and subject-positions writers such as, for example, Dionne Brand, Nino Ricci, Rohinton Mistry, and Michael Ondaatje produce cross-cultural social imaginaries. To Godard, who considers multi- culturalism a reactionary rather than liberating force of the Canadian nation-state, this by-no-means new movement from a nationally to a transnationally defined notion of cultural identity reflects the extent to which Canadian literature caters to the economic politics of global capi- talism. “‘Culture’,” she argues, has become an “autonomous and self-regu- lating force” and acts “as a counterforce to democracy within an all- encompassing ‘economy’ to whose ends it is subordinate” (211). Like Ondaatje’s Gamini, Godard alerts us to the marketability and profitability of diasporic concepts of identity in the global trade of cultures.5 While Godard’s critique is timely, her tendency to subordinate lit- erature to the economically polarizing and culturally homogenizing effects of global capitalism risks depriving literature of its potentially interventive power. Similar to other critics who adhere to the homogenization thesis of globalization,6 Godard seems too quick to abandon the possibility of reading diasporic texts for the ways in which they, in Smaro Kamboureli’s words, mediate “between various realities” (ix) and imagine global citi- zenship as a commitment to political dissent and economic justice. Fur- thermore, Godard’s tendency to use the terms diaspora, nomadism, and cultural hybridity interchangeably underscores the epistemological slippages between these concepts. It also invites us to redefine our criti- cal vocabulary in ways that both avoid reducing “diaspora” to an aca- demic fad and foreground the theoretical purchase these terms have on their own. Notwithstanding, then, the contested status and terminologi- cal proximity of the terms diaspora, nomadism, and cultural hybridity, a preliminary — and admittedly simplified — distinction between them helps to clarify my reading of diaspora in Ondaatje’s text. Although all three of these terms function as metaphors for multi- ple and heterogeneous forms of belonging, each of them has a specific genealogy and tends to politicize identity formation to different degrees. Grounded in the eighteenth-century rhetoric of race and the practice of scientific racism and later adopted as a biological metaphor employed to destabilize founding narratives of cultural originality and racial purity, the term cultural hybridity evokes a plethora of contradictory meanings. One of the most influential and controversial articulations of cultural hybridity 48 SCL/ÉLC is Homi Bhabha’s understanding of the term. In his early work, Bhabha conceptualizes hybridity as a strategy employed to subvert colonial authority through the play of cultural difference, ambiguity, and mimicry. As many theorists have convincingly argued, Bhabha’s notion of hybridity lacks a material and historically specific grounding, a theory of anticolonial resist- ance, and a socially viable account of postcolonial agency.7 For these rea- sons, cultural hybridity has been rightly theorized as a hegemonic concept of identity management that supports the expansion of global capital. For capital not only accommodates but thrives on cultural difference and multiculturalism, with which hybridity is frequently associated. As Stuart Hall (1993), Ajiz Ahmad (1992), and, more recently, E. San Juan, Jr. (1998) have persistently argued, “capital ethnicizes peoples to promote labor segmentation[, resulting in] hybridity and other differential phenom- ena” (San Juan, Jr. 6). At the same time, I feel reluctant to abandon the culturally empowering aspects of hybridity, namely the concept’s ability to question the legitimacy and, in Dionne Brand’s words, the “romance of origins” (Land 35). In fact, Bhabha’s more recent work rethinks cultural hybridity in ways that account for earlier objections to the concept and intervene into unequal power relations. “The concept of hybridity,” Bhabha explains, “describe[s] the construction of cultural authority within condi- tions of political antagonism or inequity.” “Hybrid strategy,” he argues, “opens up a space of negotiation where power is unequal but its articula- tion my be equivocal … Hybrid agencies deploy the partial culture from which they emerge to construct visions of community” and “versions of historic memory” (“Culture’s” 34). In this context, cultural hybridity serves to (de)construct cultural authority, build communities, and produce memory in the midst of particular investments of power and political lo- calities. Thus, cultural hybridity functions as both a conceptual tool through which to interrogate the constitution of diasporic belongings and a discursive reading practice through which to examine the structure of colonial desire that underlies the making of national and diasporic imaginaries.8 It is in the latter sense that the notion of cultural hybridity overlaps with my reading of diaspora in Rau Badami’s novel as a concept of identity that is independent of transnational mobility. Yet, with its alleged “antilocalist” bias (Cheah 302), cultural hybri- dity frequently conjures a triumphalist rhetoric of postnationalism and evokes a form of cultural nomadism. If cultural hybridity, as I have dis- cussed it, is anchored in a critique of both colonial modes of representa- tion and the imperial legacies of Western modernity, the concept of cultural nomadism is encumbered with modernist and orientalist tropes ONDAATJE AND RAU BADAMI 49 of the desert and the nomad. In her astute study of transnational forms of identity formation, Questions of Travel: Postmodern Discourses of Dis- placement, Caren Kaplan convincingly argues that the metaphor of the nomad belongs to those “tropes that continue to construct colonial spaces in postmodern, poststructuralist theories” (65). She observes that “from T.E. Lawrence to David Lean,” and I would add Michael Ondaatje’s The English Patient, “the philosophical/literary trek across the desert leads to a celebration of the figure of the nomad — the one who can track a path through a seemingly illogical space without succumbing to the nation- state,” while the “desert symbolizes the site of critical and individual emancipation in Euro-American modernity” (66). In this context, the figure of the nomad emerges outside cultural particulars but, instead, represents a radical form of displacement that is intrinsic to modernity’s experience of dislocation, loss, and uncertainty. More frequently, however, the metaphor of the nomad serves as a dominant referent in Deleuze and Guattari’s postmodern discourses of displacement and cultural identity. In particular, and perhaps most prob- lematically, Deleuze and Guattari conceptualize the nomadic subject as a rhizomatic and deterritorialized subject. The former suggests an assemblage of infinitely combined identity fragments, which are posited in equal rela- tion to one another and emphasize movements rather than bodies as the central sites of identity formation. The rhizome signals a volatile form of identity that lacks memory, location, and history. Furthermore, as a deterritorialized subject, the figure of the nomad, Kaplan suggests, partici- pates in “a utopian discourse of letting go of privileged identities and prac- tices” and must “emulat[e] the ways and modes of modernity’s ‘others’” (88). The figure of the nomad, then, is the subject of high modernism, for it seeks redemption through modernity’s colonial disjunctures, finds origi- nality in a dialectic of cultural and spatial absolutes, and is able to choose language experimentation (i.e., “becoming minor” in the Deleuzian sense) over the historical and material realities of the global migrant, while con- veniently forgetting that deterritorialization is always “reterritorialization, an increase in territory, an imperialization” (Kaplan 89). The high modern- ist and postmodern configuration of the nomad in discourses of cultural difference is, at least in my mind, diametrically opposed to the critique of Western modernity and the reorganization of social and cultural space undertaken by current concepts of diaspora. As a mode of cultural critique, diaspora helps to formulate a “new set of questions” (Brydon, “It’s Time” 14) about the relationship between the Canadian nation-state and its constitutive communities. For example, 50 SCL/ÉLC “how,” Diana Brydon asks, “can [diaspora] help us to rethink and reenact local and global belongings” (23)? In a recent article, Brydon insists that one way of approaching the question productively consists in “wrenching [the term diaspora] away from the grip of nationally-formed imaginaries and identity politics toward an alternatively conceived view of space and of human relations within it” (“Detour” 114). In other words, diaspora facili- tates a critical inquiry not only into the limits of transnational forms of identity but also into specific modes of inhabiting and reconfiguring social and national space. Such negotiations of diasporic space, as James Clifford underscores, “are always gendered. But there is a tendency for theoretical accounts of diasporas and diaspora cultures to hide this fact, to talk of travel and displacement in unmarked ways, thus normalizing male experience” (313). Conceptualizing diaspora as an analytical category of cultural knowl- edge production, then, also requires an analysis of the “kinds of thinking and acting” diaspora “might repress” (Brydon, “It’s Time” 23) and the ways in which differently gendered identities are performed against “the claims of new and old patriarchies” and nationalities (Clifford 314). In a less ab- stract sense, then, we must ask what kinds of knowledge the notion of diaspora produces in the novels at hand. How, for example, does diaspora normalize transnational lifestyles and identities? Anil’s Ghost represents and, as I suggest, regulates diasporic identity through both the construction of Anil as a nomadic subject and its nar- rative’s modernist configuration of history. First, Anil’s transnational mobility and her sense of an absolute cultural and social displacement mark her as a nomadic character, while projecting a critique of the po- tentially disempowering effects of diasporic identity concepts. Second, the narrative links Anil’s character to the political failure of non-governmen- tal organizations to intervene effectively into the human rights violations committed by Sri Lanka’s government. To establish this kind of analogy, however, the narrative represses some of the most vital and empowering aspects of diaspora identity in favour of a nomadic configuration of iden- tity, thus subordinating Anil’s potential agency as a diasporic woman to the novel’s modernist aesthetic and philosophical agenda. The novel’s critique of diaspora, however, not only accounts for Anil’s character de- velopment but also shapes its narrative form. The latter is reflected in the narrative’s dramatization of history as a form of personal amnesia and an anarchic force of violence, which, in Ondaatje’s literary universe, shapes individual and collective histories alike.9 From its first pages, the novel presents Anil as a global citizen whose forensic work for a human rights organization takes her from war-torn ONDAATJE AND RAU BADAMI 51 Guatemala to the Congo and eventually back to Sri Lanka, her country of origin. Anil initially left Sri Lanka to study in England. During her “years abroad” (54), she “had courted foreignness” (54) and the clarity that pre- sumably lies in being a distant observer of cultures. As a cosmopolitan trav- eller rather than a diasporan, Anil “was at ease on the Bakerloo line or the highways around Santa Fe. She felt completed abroad. … And she had come to expect clearly marked roads to the source of most mysteries” (54). While her “freedom of mobility” (Bauman 3) marks her as a diasporic per- son, it does not enable her to acknowledge her cultural difference and limi- nal position in the colonial metropolis in self-empowering or critical ways. Indeed, the narrative frequently suggests that Anil’s experience of cultural and social displacement presents a cultural impediment that keeps her sus- pended in a state of perpetual foreignness and transition rather than allow- ing her to inhabit multiple cultural and historical spaces at once. She remains caught in the zone of the nomad, “in the middle, between things, interbeing, intermezzo” (Deleuze and Guattari 25). Her home is that of a nomad, “ a home,” in Ian Baucom’s eloquent words, “whose rooms are walled by the dislocations of travel” (202). When Anil arrives in Sri Lanka after fifteen years of absence, she in- sists on not being called the “return[ing] … prodigal” (10). For Anil has put her Sri Lankan childhood behind her and “the island,” as the omnis- cient narrator tells us, “no longer held her by the past … She had now lived abroad long enough to interpret Sri Lanka with a long-distance gaze” (11). Anil, then, assumes an ambiguous position vis-à-vis her coun- try of origin, a position that is at once invested with power — inscribed in the technologies of the gaze — and, in contrast to current models of diaspora, marked not by memory but by a disavowal of the past. In fact, all of Anil’s past connections with Sri Lanka seem to be defined by ab- sence, rupture, and failure. For example, her decision to get married to a fellow Sri Lankan student to assuage her feelings of cultural “uncer- tainty” (141) leads to disaster and eventually to her abandonment of her Sinhala language (145) and, by extension, her Sri Lankan past. In con- trast to Rey Chow’s argument that diaspora constructs at once “perma- nent” and hybrid belongings and thereby comprises “the reality of being intellectual” (15), Anil’s diasporic existence frequently generates a state of nervousness and amnesia that detaches her from her immediate environ- ment. It is this state of individual and social alienation that also charac- terizes her relationship with her lover Cullis and her girlfriend Leaf. They are long-distance relationships without commitment and, at times, are almost anonymous in their lack of intimacy. 52 SCL/ÉLC If the novel’s critique of diaspora is primarily enacted through Anil, then her representation as an emotionally and socially impoverished char- acter without social and personal agency negates the possibility of imag- ining diasporic identities in politically and culturally meaningful ways. It is, of course, possible to interpret Anil’s psychological detachments as symptomatic of a traumatized personality. Her alienation might be the inevitable result of her desire to choose a national home on her own terms. For, as Rinaldo Walcott maintains, “to belong entails forgetting and repression of elsewhere” (75) and thus a kind of emplacement, which acknowledges multiple loyalties to culturally competing places of belong- ing. It seems to me, however, that it is precisely this kind of multiple — spatial, cultural, and historical — grounding the novel withholds from Anil. For, as I argued earlier, Anil’s rather truncated character develop- ment derives from its inscriptions into a nomadic rather than diasporic framework of identity. The nomadic constellation of her character also performs the double task of neutralizing Anil’s gender identity and gen- erating a conservatively gendered rhetoric of the Sri Lankan nation-state. Given that the figure of the nomad is often designed as a gender-neu- tral figure, it seems initially surprising that Anil’s gender identity results, in part, from her refusal to accept her initially given names. Instead, she of- fers her brother “a pen set” and “a sexual favour” (68) in exchange for his unused middle name. Anil’s name, then, appears to foreground a certain androgynous quality of her character because its shape and sound conveys a particular “feminine air” (68), while the story of obtaining it speaks to Anil’s masculine, predatory qualities. Here the novel specifically casts Anil in the role of the hunter, underscoring the traditionally male connotations of her name. For, “she’d hunted down the desired name like a specific lover she had seen and wanted” (68). Yet this particular account of Anil’s name relies on received gender norms by equating the feminine with passivity and physical form and the masculine with action and determination. As fore- shadowed in her name, Anil’s character is instrumental in constructing gender stereotypes through the logic of cultural binarisms. For her condi- tion of radical displacement appears as a sort of carefreeness that contrasts the novel’s idealized mother figures, who “bow in affection or grief” (157), and selfless female caregivers such as Lakma, Palipana’s niece. Interestingly, and in contrast to The Hero’s Walk, Anil’s Ghost perpetuates the modern- ist practice of equating the local with the traditional by, first, inscribing this space with received female gender constructs and, second, positioning the figure of the transnationally mobile woman as the abject subject who is outside of the local. Thus, as a nomadic subject, Anil produces, rather than