Merial Boschung's Blog

Over the course of this year, we have studied in depth the power of the life narrative to act as a platform for marginalized voices to challenge the socio-political hegemony that so often silences them. By publishing counter-narratives that challenge dominant tropes about disability (as seen in Ryan Knighton’s Cockeyed), sex work (discussed in Maggie De Vries’ Missing Sarah), raciality (taken up in Fred Wah’s Diamond Grill and Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis), and other such topics, these life narratives are vibrant affirmations and reclamations of identity that is often misunderstood – and therefore misrepresented – by society.

The concept that stands out to me the most as I reflect upon the aforementioned life narratives is the concept of the “hyphenated” identity, which I take up in my previous post. Fred Wah explains that, although the hyphen is “literally about being racially mixed” (178), the application of the “inbetweenness” of hybridity is not limited to race alone (179) – it can apply to other spheres as well. Reflecting on this concept, I notice that each of the stories we have studied (these being Cockeyed, Persepolis, Missing Sarah, and Diamond Grill) are written by those who each come from their own place of hybridity. Furthermore, I notice that each author claims their hybridity and reveals how it differs from the identity establishments assigned to the author by society: they break the cages of generalization that cover so many groups and individuals. As they challenge their respective ‘prescribed’ identities, these authors remind me that it is impossible to generalize the story and identity of an individual by their appearance, social sphere, or socioeconomic standing. Each author speaks to their own uniqueness within the context of wider collective groups, rescinding efforts by dominant narratives to silence them.

For example, in Cockeyed, Knighton discusses his life under the diagnosis of retinis pigmentosa, where he wrestles with semi- to full-blindness and thus lives between the worlds of the blind and the sighted. In the final chapter, “Losing Face”, Knighton describes his transition from expressing emotions facially to expressing and absorbing expression through his other senses. Knighton presents this description in a way that compares the two forms of expression, but accepts his own inbetweenness rather than longing for another reality. “My face characterizes me as serious and dour… according to my students.” Knighton writes (256). “But that isn’t how I feel… I’m not indifferent… from the world around me but from my face itself” (Knighton 256). Here, Knighton presents the generalization given him by his surroundings and refutes it by revealing his reality. He claims his in-between identity as his own.

Similarly, in Persepolis, Satrapi challenges the perception of Middle Eastern populations as being ‘savage’ in the way she frames her story “dieglectically” (Chute 97) from a child’s point of view. I suggest that the connotations of innocence, blunt social justice, and dreamlike thought are intertwined with the concept of a child; thus, a story told from this perspective (and with these connotations) inherently reveals the existence of individuals who are not war-hungry, or corrupt, or brutally violent. Satrapi’s story outlines the trauma experienced by the Iranian population at the hands of a group of extremists – not the trauma experienced by a nation of savage warriors. Satrapi, living between the worlds of extremist revolutionaries and socialist families, says that she “won’t ever forget” who she is (148), no matter where she ends up. I suggest that she finds her place as a socialist revolutionary of her own kind: fighting against extremism, and against brutality.

Finally, in De Vries’ Missing Sarah (which I also discuss in a previous post) De Vries actively deconstructs societal misrepresentation s of sex workers – specifically of her sister, Sarah, who lived between the worlds of white-walled, middle- to upper-class West Point Grey and the poverty-stricken Downtown Eastside in Vancouver. In the very prologue of the narrative, De Vries explicitly shares her purpose for writing this narrative:

“If we can start to leave the gritty image of the sex worker behind and begin to see real people, real women, to look them in the eye and smile at them and want to know who they really are, I think that we can begin to make our world a better place for them and for us, for everyone.” (De Vries xv)

This quote, I think, is applicable to any marginalized or stigmatized group or individual, including those authors of Persepolis, Cockeyed, and Diamond Grill. The life narrative provides an incredible platform for these individuals to share their stories: to humanize themselves as “real people” (De Vries xv) in the eyes of society – however appalling it is that this must happen in the first place.

As I read each of these life narratives this year, these generalizations about marginalized populations (which remove any sort of individuality to those who might fall under discriminatory umbrella terms like “sex worker”, “terrorist”, or even “blind”) became so much more apparent to me, and were deconstructed for me in powerful ways. I was made much more aware of the complexity of the hyphenation that affects so many in such a variety of ways. Ultimately, my understanding of the important work of life narratives in the wake of these complex counter-narratives has deepened significantly, and my hope is that a broader audience will take up an acknowledgement of, and an interest in, the important work of self-representation in this literary platform.

Works Cited

Chute, Hillary. “The Texture of Retracing in Marjane Satrapi’s “Persepolis”.” Women’s Studies Quarterly 36.1/2, Witness (2008): 92-110. Print.

De Vries, Maggie. Missing Sarah: A Memoir of Loss. Toronto: Penguin Canada, 2008. Print.

Knighton, Ryan. “Losing Face.” Cockeyed: A Memoir. New York: Public Affairs, 2006. 255-261. Print.

Satrapi, Marjane. Persepolis. New York: Pantheon Books, 2003. Print.

Wah, Fred. Diamond Grill. Edmonton: NeWest, 2008. Print.

In his biotext Diamond Grill, Fred Wah argues that the concept of the hyphenated identity (identity that rests between two worlds) poses a “problem for multiculturalism” because it is a “sign of impurity” (178) rather than an acknowledgement and celebration of cultural intersectionality. This impure hybridity can thus often reinforce dominant hegemonies within multicultural societies where those of ‘pure’ racial heritage are superior to those of a mixed ethnic background. A hyphenated individual’s cultural identity is not fully situated in any racial heritage, which can cause cross-cultural friction within the individual. They are placed therefore in a “marginalized position” (179), for they have little cultural stability or security upon which to fall back. I want to suggest that this “inbetweeness” (Wah 179) has the power to encourage the hyphenated individual to seek inclusion and acceptance in whichever part of their identity is of a more dominant status in regards to society – and thereby reinforce and regenerate societal hegemonies of race and status.

In Diamond Grill, Fred Wah discusses his experience of life during the 1950s and onward in Nelson, British Columbia as a ‘hyphenated’ individual – hyphenated, in his case, because he is part Swedish and part Chinese. Throughout the text, Wah describes the confusion he feels as a man who appears to be White, but who has a Chinese name, heritage, and family. Longing for invisibility and transparency (136) arises within him as a result of his hybridity, for these shields are what allow him to be, as is his professed preference, “racially transpicuous” (136). Although Wah does not appear to be entirely ashamed of his heritage, he prefers to remain as inconspicuously White as possible when in public (137) – assumedly because of the racial discrimination experienced by the visibly Chinese during this historical period. This preference for his Caucasian identity is arguably most apparent in the way that Wah separates his White friends from his Chinese community as a boy. For example, Wah recalls a high school experience where his “buddies at school call [the Chinese boys] Chinks and geeks and I feel a little embarrassed and don’t talk much with the Chinese kids” (136). This embarrassment results in Wah’s self-alienation from his cultural heritage, for he says “I’m white enough to get away with [not talking to the Chinese boys] and that’s what I do” (136). Rather than acknowledging the uniqueness of his mixed cultural heritage and witnessing to his friends about cross-cultural equality, Wah chooses to identify (however incompletely, as he does this more so as an act of embarrassment than of true inclination) with the dominant ethnicity in this societal context. True intersectionality is thereby unfortunately lost in this exchange.

Similarly, in Maggie De Vries’ biography of her sister Sarah’s life, Missing Sarah, De Vries explains the confusion seen in her sister’s actions as a result of her adoption into a Caucasian family and community as a person of mixed race. Sarah would grow up to eventually run away from home and move to Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside – a place of dire poverty, but also of vibrant and unique culture. In the transition period between Sarah’s residence with her family and her move to the East Side, De Vries describes an incident where Sarah, a young teenager, arrives home with white makeup on her face (52). When confronted about it, Sarah reacts extremely defensively. De Vries comments on this exchange: she says that the “white world of West Point Grey… was not a comfortable home for [Sarah],” and that the physical differences from her family and community caused her to feel completely isolated (53). Thus, just as Wah chose to identify with the dominant ethnicity, Sarah also attempted to choose to appear more like the dominant ethnicity at the time due to her racial hyphenation.

These two experiences of cross-cultural friction within racially hyphenated individuals are prime examples of how hegemonic societal structures can push one to believe that identification with the dominant group is the only, or the right, thing to do. However, both of these instances occur while the individuals are still young. It is important to note that both Sarah and Wah find their belonging – even as hyphenated persons – as they grow and mature. De Vries says that Sarah felt she belonged on the Downtown Eastside with other “people with a whole range of backgrounds” (De Vries 53), just as Wah has become a “bard” of hyphenated identities. I argue therefore that, although societal hegemonies can be a heavy influencer of identity early on in one’s life, this does not mean that an individual cannot rest in the ‘inbetweeness’ of a mixed ethnic background.

Works Cited

De Vries, Maggie. Missing Sarah: A Memoir of Loss. Toronto: Penguin Canada, 2008. Print.

Wah, Fred. Diamond Grill. Edmonton: NeWest, 2008. Print.

It is generally understood that archives are important sites of historical cultural, legal, and social documentation for groups, nations, and individuals worldwide. Without archival documentation, a society’s ability to form its own identity and obtain its own ancestral knowledge would be “severely compromised” (Carter 221). Rodney Carter discusses the discrimination enacted against marginalised groups’ access and inclusion in the state-sponsored archival world, and suggests that these groups thus create alternative archival sites in order to “preserve and share their own stories” (231). These alternative sites operate beyond “the mainstream”, which refers to the dominant archival discourse generally controlled by the state (Carter 224). Alternative sites would thus require non-governmental archivists which allow marginalized groups to share their history “from their own perspective while maintaining control over their own documentary heritage” (231). Taking autobiographical websites such as StoryCorps and Humans of New York into consideration, I argue that these are strong examples of alternative popular archival sites. They intervene in public discourse differently than would a state-sponsored archive by providing a well-balanced representation of a wide array of cultural and socioeconomic demographics.

StoryCorps and Humans of New York are both modern autobiographical websites whereby stories of everyday citizens from around the world are able to share small anecdotes of their lives. These websites include documentation of a wide demographic of people – both belonging and not belonging to marginalized populations – with a seeming purpose of bringing together all such demographics by recognizing each other’s common humanity. In regards to their archival characteristics, both of these sites arguably contain “historical records relating to a place, organization, or family” (Cambridge) in the way that they feature stories of humans’ lives – lives which are inextricably linked to institutions, places, organizations, and events. Furthermore, because these stories are posted on the Internet, which is a public domain, StoryCorps and Humans of New York become sites where these “historical records are kept” (Cambridge) and thus provide the public with access and insight into the lives of those past and present.

Neither of these websites, however, is owned by the state – which Carter explains is the key difference between an alternative and a formal archival site. StoryCorps is founded by David Isay, a radio-show host and author (Third Coast International Audio Festival). Humans of New York is founded by Brandon Stanton, a regular photographer (Humans of New York). These two sites are founded with intentions of bringing about collective, cross-cultural understanding and respect from a grassroots perspective (as opposed to a formal, state-sponsored archive, which may only exist, I argue, to provide factual evidence of a person’s existence and placement in history). While a formal archive may include documents such as immigration papers and journal entries which do not necessarily provide readers with adequate contextual information, StoryCorps and Humans of New York are platforms on which the option to contextualize a person’s story is readily available.

It is in this way that these two forms of alternative archives intervene differently in public discourse: they are vibrant platforms whereby humans – with stories and experiences – can share their history “from their own perspective while maintaining control over their own documentary heritage” (Carter 231). The subjects of these alternative archives have agency in what they do and do not share (Carter 231), and thus have the ability to speak out against marginalization, discrimination, violence, or any other symptom of hegemony and inequality. I argue that these websites are thus, in a way, platforms whereby populations who may otherwise be denied access to “[participation] in the archives” (Carter 217) can intervene in public discourse by sharing their history. StoryCorps and Humans of New York are not coined by “the powerful” (Carter), but by everyday citizens who care to document the everyday lives of a variety of individuals – no matter their race, gender, religion, or age. These are powerful alternative archival sources with a strong pull to help the marginalized resist being “silenced through force” (Carter 218).

Works Cited

“About.” Humans of New York. Brandon Stanton, n.d. Web. 23 Feb. 2017. <http://www.humansofnewyork.com/about>.

“Archive.” Cambridge Dictionary. Cambridge University Press, n.d. Web. 22 Feb. 2017. <http://dictionary.cambridge.org/dictionary/english/archive>.

Carter, Rodney G.S. “Of Things Said and Unsaid: Power, Archival Silences, and Power in Silence.” Archivaria 61 (2006): 215-33.  Archivaria. Association of Canadian Archivists. Web. 23 Feb. 2017. <http://archivaria.ca/index.php/archivaria/article/view/12541>.

“David Isay.” Third Coast International Audio Festival. Third Coast International Audio Festival, n.d. Web. 23 Feb. 2017. <http://www.thirdcoastfestival.org/explore/person/david-isay>.

In 2003, Iranian-born author Marjane Satrapi published Persepolis, a graphic narrative of her childhood experience of war-torn Iran throughout the 80s. Through clear, minimalist sketches which often reflect ancient Persian art, Satrapi challenges the impossible feat of expressing the many traumas of her past – one of which is a ruptured relationship with her nation. Assuming that one’s nation is a primary source of one’s identity, it seems therefore that Satrapi is attempting to deal with the traumatic effects of being cut off from her nation by reflecting traditional national art in her graphics. She is reconnecting herself with her nation pre-revolution, or redefining her identity as Iranian, in order to move forward into her future.

In Hillary Chute’s article “The Texture of Retracing in Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis”, the author discusses Satrapi’s style of drawing, noting that Satrapi “specifically references ancient Persian miniatures, murals, and friezes” in its simplicity and symmetry (98). Satrapi’s artistic reference is intriguing: she reflects her ancestry in a story which depicts the complete detonation of this very concept – of the Iran that she once knew. The juxtaposition of the act of creation (i.e. drawing traditional sketches, or creating art) and the story of destruction seems to suggest that Satrapi is attempting to reconnect herself with her national roots. This reconnection is an endeavor that would most likely only be challenged by one who feels deeply affected by a ruptured relationship with their sense of identity.

Sociologist Ross Bond explains that “residence, birth and ancestry” are the main components of national identity and that if one has a strong connection with all three markers, their sense of identity will most likely be significantly stronger (611). Would it not, then, be traumatic for one who may have started out with a firm hold on these three areas to then have them redefined against one’s will by the use of force and law? This forceful redefinition is what happened to Marji. She was born into an Iran that was not initially as violent as it grew to be over the course of her childhood.  If, as Ross explains, the interconnection, and the knowledge, of one’s residence, birth, and ancestry is essential to one’s sense of identity, then Marji must have thus, in a way, lost sight of her identity by means of the brutish redefining of her residence and history. I want to suggest that, in reflecting ancient Persian art in her sketches of the story of Iran’s turmoil, Satrapi is taking a defiant stance as a member of a nation. She communicates that war-torn Iran may be a present ordeal, but no attempt at the redefinition of the Iranian nation can override the ancestral identity that unites them all.

Satrapi herself comments on the ties she feels between her identity and her nation. In an interview conducted by Asia Society’s Nermeen Shaikh, Satrapi discusses her relationship to the West and to Iran. “I am not made with [the European] culture,” she says. “I will always be Iranian; I was made in Iran, if you see what I mean” (Satrapi). Satrapi goes on to explain that her past was “stolen” from her, and that, as an exiled person, she must go back to her past in order for her to secure her own future (Satrapi). In an effort to deal with her own trauma, Satrapi recognizes that when the entirety of one’s life is so brutally ruptured, it is vital that one has a sense of deeply rooted identity upon which to fall back. Without a sense of one’s beginnings – of one’s “residence, birth, and ancestry” (Ross 611) – there will be no apparent trajectory of one’s life. In her reflection of traditional Persian art, therefore, Satrapi reconnects herself to, and relocates herself in, the culture in which she was made. She rebuilds her knowledge of ancient Iran and, in the process, rebuilds her identity as an exiled member of a nation.

Works Cited

Bond, Ross. “Belonging and Becoming: National Identity and Exclusion.” Sociology, vol. 40, no. 4, 2006, pp. 609–626. www.jstor.org/stable/42856885.

Chute, Hillary. “The Texture of Retracing in Marjane Satrapi’s “Persepolis”.” Women’s Studies Quarterly 36.1/2, Witness (2008): 92-110. Print.

“Marjane Satrapi: ‘I Will Always Be Iranian’.” Interview by Nermeen Shaikh. Asia Society. AsiaSociety.org, n.d. Web. 10 Jan. 2017.

In Maggie de Vries’ narrative Missing Sarah, de Vries creates a space for her murdered sister Sarah, a sex worker on the Downtown Eastside, to share her experiences by including excerpts of Sarah’s journal in the narrative. In an excerpt on page 180 of Missing Sarah, de Vries includes an entry which describes the slow degeneration of Sarah’s identity as she works on the streets, illuminating the deep detrimental effects of perpetually enforced societal stigmas on an individual’s sense of self. This deterioration is encompassed by Debbie Wise Harris’ concept of “strategic silences”, as discussed in Yasmin Jiwani and Mary Lynn Young’s article Missing and Murdered Women: Reproducing Marginality in News Discourse. Sex workers are silenced by these societal stigmas, and are thus represented as unworthy in the eyes of the public.

In her journal entry, Sarah describes the deep, traumatic transformation of identity she experiences as a sex worker in Vancouver by means of a careful choice of diction. First, Sarah employs words that describe the loss of her old self – “erosion,” “deadening,” “lost cause,” and “nothing” (de Vries 180) – emphasizing not only a loss of identity, but also of the hope of ever returning to it. Earlier in Missing Sarah, de Vries states that “girls don’t start defining themselves as prostitutes overnight” (76) – they only embody this identity once they turn their first trick. This change is time-consuming, and one can thus assume that it is a perpetual transformation of a sex worker’s concept of self. Sarah describes her new identity with terms such as “dirty, slutty, and cheap,” as well as “whore” and “junkie” (180) – all of which are derogatory terms. Sarah says that these are terms by which she labels herself “now” (de Vries180) – but as a result of what?

This question brings us to reality: the identity of a sex worker is dictated by societal stigmas. Operating under the assumption that humans are socialized into rather than born with identities, it is impossible for a woman to label herself as a “whore” or a “junkie” from the minute she develops thought and speech. No: these are derogatory societal stigmas which perpetuate the perception that sex workers are, to use Sarah’s choice of diction, “dirty, slutty, and cheap”. Over time, as Sarah faced these stigmas daily, she evidently internalized these opinions of herself, thus experiencing the aforementioned “erosion of feeling” (de Vries 180). It is at the point of this internalization that the concept of “strategic silences” comes into play. Although Jiwani and Young discuss stigmas surrounding Aboriginal sex workers, this theory can also be applied to any sex worker. The authors state that, as sex workers are silenced by societal stigmas, their backgrounds are forgotten. This contributes to their representation in society as “deserving of violence” (Jiwani, Young 899), for their families, friends, and personalities are disregarded.

In sharing her experience of identity loss and transformation, Sarah is able to speak on behalf of sex workers to humanize their experiences and defy these strategic silences. Her testimony acts as a warning against the internalization of these stigmas, and it points to a deep need for change in society’s treatment of those working in the sex industry.

Works Cited

De Vries, Maggie. Missing Sarah: A Memoir of Loss. Toronto: Penguin Canada, 2008. Print.

Jiwani, Yasmin, and Mary Lynn Young. “Missing and murdered women: Reproducing marginality in news discourse.” Canadian Journal of Communication 31.4 (2006): 895.

I think it is safe to assume that whenever one does anything in their everyday, others’ opinions of them greatly influence their actions. Is this influence also a factor for an author of a life narrative, but on a wider scale? And, if it is, what does this experience suggest about the legitimacy of any life narrative?

These are questions that float through my mind as I read Kay Schaffer and Sidonie Smith’s “Conjunctions: Life Narratives in the Field of Human Rights”  in comparison with G.T. Couser’s “Signifying Bodies”.

In short, I do believe that writers of life narratives consider others’ opinions of their works, although I do not believe that this is a restrictive or delegitimizing sentiment. In Schaffer and Smith’s article, the authors describe an element of unpredictability in the circulation and reception of a life narrative. Simply put, there is no way for the author or publisher to truly know how their audience will react, nor who their audience will eventually be (Schaffer, Smith 18). As a result of this unpredictability, I would argue that the writer is actually freer to portray their self and situation just as they are. They do not need to write to please the masses because there is no way that they would be able to do so in the first place. What this leaves is an unhindered writer, such as Stella Young. She shares her opinion regarding “inspiration porn” frankly: she does not sugar-coat her anger at the segregation of disabled people. She is free to portray herself and her situation just as they are, because she does not control her audience or their reception of her work.

There is a point to be made, however, which questions whether the freedom of the authors of life narratives actually inspires them to portray themselves truthfully, or whether it causes them to overly dramatize their self or situation. In his section titled “Rhetoric and Self-Representation in Disability Memoir”, Couser describes many types of “persuasive speech or writing” styles in the disability memoir (Couser 33), each of which portrays the author’s ‘trauma’ or experience somewhat problematically. Be it idealist positivity (rhetoric of “triumph”) (33) or extreme negativity (“gothic rhetoric”) (35), the dramatization of one’s life narrative discredits the legitimacy of their published narrative. It can cause the reader to wonder:

“Did they really experience this, or are they just over exaggerating?”

There is a sense here that, although it is completely up to the writer to portray themselves as they like due to the unpredictability of circulation and reception, there is still a general expectation that one who bears witness to a traumatic event must be respectful and honest about it.

In the end, the author of a life narrative is in a position of freedom. Because of the possibility for individuals to experience similar forms of trauma, however, it is important for authors to be honest in their storytelling. Mutual respect will ultimately be the determining factor for the positive reception of a life narrative.

Works Cited

Couser, G. Thomas. “Rhetoric and Self-Representation in Disability Memoir.”Signifying Bodies: Disability in Contemporary Life Writing. Ann Arbor: U of Michigan, 2009. 33. Print.

Schaffer, Kay, and Sidonie Smith. “Conjunctions: Life Narratives in the Field of Human Rights.” Human Rights and Narrated Lives (2004): 15-20. Print.

Reading through various disability narratives, I am struck by a humbling realization: this is the first time in my life that I have ever been made aware of the disabled person’s perspective. Judging by the rhetoric of emancipation employed by the writers, I think it is also safe to assume that my situation is not unique, but that most non-disabled people have simply never – or rarely – considered disability from the ‘other side’s’ point of view. The question that arises from this realization, now, is how does the disabled writer point out this lack of understanding, and, consequently, how do they seek to change it?

Perspective in the disability memoir is explored in two areas: first, by revealing the disabled person’s perspective; second, by emphasizing the need for a change of the non-disabled person’s perspective. Professor G. T. Couser lends a helping hand in understanding the ideal rhetoric of disabled writers – the rhetoric of emancipation – whereby they challenge society’s existing marginalizing institutional constructs (Couser 33). This liberates them of other peoples’ discriminatory attitudes. We see this rhetoric employed in Ryan Knighton’s Cockeyed, when he describes an event that occurred during his trip in New Orleans. Two men, about to mug him, stop when they realize Knighton is blind, and they apologize (Knighton 93). Although he was spared from harm, Knighton comments that he feels a piece of his “dignity” had been stolen from him (Knighton 94): he doesn’t feel he needs special attention from anyone, in any situation, because of his ‘disability’. Knighton directly contests society’s constructed label of him as disabled: just because he is blind does not mean that he is unable to defend himself. In the description of this simple interaction, Knighton reveals that, from his perspective, non-disabled people must stop regarding the disabled as frail, fragile, and, ultimately, unable. By revealing his personal viewpoint, Knighton employs the rhetoric of emancipation to point out the marginalizing attitude society holds toward the blind. He sets himself free from the constraints of both his own embarrassment and from the effects of society’s discriminatory constructs.

It is evident that there is a deep need for social change regarding the way disabled people are perceived and treated in today’s society. Thankfully, by means of the rhetoric of emancipation in personal storytelling, disabled writers are able to identify and challenge the inequality that is woven through the fabric of our society. As a result of the disability memoir, a shift in the non-disabled person’s perspective is made possible, and the voice of the marginalized grows louder in sphere of the non-disabled world.

Works Cited

Couser, G. Thomas. “Rhetoric and Self-Representation in Disability Memoir.”Signifying Bodies: Disability in Contemporary Life Writing. Ann Arbor: U of Michigan, 2009. 33. Print.

Knighton, Ryan. “Whatcha Got.” Cockeyed: A Memoir. New York: Public Affairs, 2006. 93-94. Print.

As one explores the peritext of Malala Yousafzai’s I Am Malala, the author’s ability to communicate powerfully – even without words – is striking. By means of her cover photos, she purposefully employs visual symbolism to underscore her power as a spokesperson for women’s rights.

When one examines the cover of Malala’s autobiography, one is immediately
struck by the brightness of her headdress and the confidence in her stare. With a pink hijab draped elegantly around her head and shoulders, she smiles knowingly at the camera. This causes one to wonder what lies behind that smile. Does Malala possess some sort of knowledge of which the reader is unaware?

In my opinion, her enigmatic expression is not directed so much to the reader as it is to her oppressors. In the text itself, Malala recounts that she and her female classmates were “advised to wear plain clothes” instead of their school uniforms (Malala 156) in order to hide from the Taliban. The Taliban require “that women wear a long veil… which covers them from head to toe”, and ban women from wearing brightly coloured clothing (Rawa). Even so, here we see Malala: face uncovered, and clad in vibrant colour. This image expressly defies the suppression of the Taliban. She stares into the camera, smiling, as if to say, ‘I am still here – in spite of your attempts to silence me’.

Shifting attention to the back cover of the book, Malala’s defiance of Taliban suppression is further illustrated by the photograph of her and her father. Her clothing is still eye-catching, but now it is the direction of her gaze that communicates the significance of this picture. Here, Malala is portrayed through a more ambitious lens: she looks admiringly at the man who fuels and empowers her fight for women’s education and equality. Because her father is a symbol of perseverance, Malala is not only gazing at a family member but at the embodiment of her goals and dreams; she is focused on her reason to push through the seemingly insurmountable obstacles she faces. Similarly, it is not merely her father who stares proudly into the camera, but perseverance itself. This is striking, as it projects an image to the world of confidence and persistence in the face of extreme adversity.

The images on the front and back covers of Yousafzai’s I Am Malala are like two sides of the same coin, each with its own unique message. Both sides, however, are vital. It is impossible to make change without defying the oppressor and persevering to achieve one’s goals. You cannot have one without the other. The peritext communicates a visual representation of Malala’s story, thereby underscoring her individual agency to speak, to be heard, and to make change.

Works Cited

“Some of the Restrictions Imposed by Taliban on Women in Afghanistan.”Rawa. Rawa.org, n.d. Web. 06 Oct. 2016.

Yousafzai, Malala, and Christina Lamb. I Am Malala: The Girl Who Stood up for Education and Was Shot by the Taliban. N.p.: n.p., n.d. Print.

Beginning in 1960, one of the world’s most brutal civil conflicts arose in Guatemala between the militant government and the peasant population (Nobel Womens Initiative). In her autobiography I, Rigoberta Menchú: An Indian Woman in Guatemala, the author describes her experience of this war as she traveled through her country to unify the Maya and ladinos. What strikes me is how, even though Menchu emphasises the importance of open discussion in conflict resolution, she simultaneously withholds significant information from certain groups, challenging the modern value of transparency in political affairs.

Sprinkled throughout her autobiography are Rigoberta’s reflections on the prejudice between the ladinos and the Indians. The Maya view ladinos as “traitors” (Britannica). But Menchu comes to understand “the barrier which has been put up” between the two groups as she engages in discussion with a ladino (Menchu 165). The growth of this friendship is a turning point in Menchu’s development. Without these conversations with her ladino friend, her beliefs surrounding ladinos wouldn’t have changed. This would have lead division to prevail between the two groups of civilians who ought to be working together against the government’s oppressive regime. Notwithstanding, Menchu’s praise of the power of open discussion is somewhat contradicted by the fact that she also keeps certain secrets from forces opposing her community. Menchu states that the Indians had “hidden [their] identity because… [they] wanted to protect what governments ha[d] wanted to take away from [them]” (Menchu 170). Essentially this means that nobody can steal what they don’t know exists.  For example, in order to stay ‘under the radar’, the Mayan community adopted certain aspects of foreign culture, such as believing in Christian doctrine, however they “[didn’t] perform only Christian ceremonies” (Menchu 171). Menchu thereby facilitates discussion with certain groups to integrate peace and cooperation, yet hides aspects of herself and her culture from other groups to avoid confrontation and persecution.

At first glance, this behaviour seems hypocritical. Nevertheless, I don’t believe that ‘semi-truthfulness’ in this sense necessarily discredits Menchu’s legitimacy as a leader so much as it raises this important political question: In an age where political transparency is high on the list of civilians’ priorities, is it ever appropriate for a leader or government to withhold information from certain groups of people?

Menchu’s motives for secrecy were tethered to the threat of murder, torture, and disappearances, so I believe that it was right for her to keep her secrets. We see similar behaviour from the Canadian government during the 1979 Canadian Caper case, where they refrained from publicizing the hostage crisis until the Americans had safely landed in Canada (Global Affairs Canada). Ultimately, I think it is right for political leaders to withhold information that, if released, would be detrimental to the greater population. Rigoberta Menchu’s story illustrates the challenge we face in balancing the safety of our compatriots with the need for open and honest political dialogue.

Works Cited

Global Affairs Canada. “Ken Taylor and the Canadian Caper.” GAC. Global Affairs Canada, 10 July. 2013. Web. 17 Sept. 2016.

“Ladino.” Encyclopedia Britannica Online. Ed. Editors of Encyclopædia Britannica, Abvram Martine, and Kathleen Kuiper. Encyclopedia Britannica, 04 Apr. 2016. Web. 17 Sept. 2016.

Menchú, Rigoberta, and Elisabeth Burgos-Debray. I, Rigoberta Menchú: An Indian Woman in Guatemala. London: Verso, 1984. Print.

“Rigoberta Menchú Tum.” Nobel Womens Initiative. Nobel Womens Initiative, 2016. Web. 16 Sept. 2016.