Dreams, Realities & New Horizons: A Utopian and Dystopian Reading of Migration Literature

Abstract

The aim of this BA thesis, Dreams, Realities & New Horizons: A Utopian and Dystopian Reading of Migration Literature, is to analyse recent works of migration literature in order to explore, highlight and amplify the voices of migration literature authors, more specifically non-western authors writing about migration to Europe, and the social and political reflections, critiques, and criticisms these routinely marginalized voices raise. This is done by conducting acritical utopian and dystopian reading of works that fall outside that genre, applying the strategies of analysis traditionally used to uncover the social and political critique that lies behind the dystopian fiction in the author’s reality. The two works of migration literature focussed on in this research are Igiaba Scego’s Adua, published in 2017 about Somalis in Italy, and Murat Isik’s Wees Onzichtbaar (Be Invisible) about Turkish immigrants in the Netherlands, also published in 2017. The thematic analysis of these texts is assisted by a typology that combines the internal, psychological journeys of the protagonists with their physical journeys of migration. The psychological elements link to the emotional states of each novel’s characters, often influenced by the intercultural and multilingual situations generated by the characters’ physical locations and places of residence. Finally, discourse analysis in the form of a discussion section connects the results to their meanings. The encountered themes of racism, discrimination, identity and freedom are considered in relation to the investigated utopian and dystopian themes, and examined against the backdrop of societal and political contexts of the authors both in the relevant countries and in Europe more broadly. Further themes of violence, colonialism, decolonization and sexism are also encountered and unpacked, in a bid to facilitate a deeper dive into the authors’ contribution to public discourse.

Introduction

In a world of unstoppable globalisation and technological development, our contemporary times are marked by themes of travelling and migration. Never has one corner of the world been so closely connected to another by rapid travel possibilities and digital communication, nor have our communities been as diverse as they are today. With the growth of the human population and pressures of modern life, it is imperative for cities, states, and supranational organisations to have functioning, effective and egalitarian systems to cater for their citizens. However, old problems persist, even in modern societies: May and June of 2020 saw the outbreak of riots and protests across the globe against institutional racism and the unmitigated violence against Black, Indigenous and People of Color^[1], both in historical communities as well as migrant communities (see Cave, Albeck-Ripka & Magra 2020). In a world so full of utopian opportunities and possibilities, dystopian realities continue to confront all societies and all communities. To combat this, the voices of the marginalized and discriminated against must be heard and amplified, as much in the media as in policy as in academia. The connection between literature and politics was described by John D. Lindberg in 1968 as,

“a multilane freeway with traffic flowing freely in both directions: Any work of literature is in part a product of sociological and political factors, to the extent that the writer's personality has been shaped by the sociological and political environment of his time. Conversely, important works of literature or whole literary movements have had profound effects on society by setting up or destroying taboos, conventions, and social prejudices, thus contributing to changes in values which in turn have brought about social and political change.”

Essentially, literature acts as a mirror to society and politics, simultaneously influencing and being influenced by each other. The study of literature entails reading deeper into the meaning behind the words, the story, and amplifying the voice and messages of the author. There is much insight to be gained into the lives and experiences of migrant, BIPOC, and other non-Western authors, and so this dissertation aims to expose and amplify the experiences of migrants in Europe through the analysis of migration literature. The aim of this research is to examine the works of authors with a migration background with the purpose of highlighting the social and political reflections, critiques, and criticisms these routinely marginalised voices raise through the powerful medium of art. This is most effectively done from a bottom-up perspective, in which the author and their works are the focus, and the academic interpretation is the supporting factor. All facets of the migration journey are important: the motivations that spur the relocation are a key factor in the analysis of the perspectives, expectations and eventual actions of the migrant, and greatly influences their approach to society and their own future. Evaluating these facets in terms of ‘utopia’ and ‘dystopia’ proves useful in reaching a negotiated new horizon that encompasses both the dreams and realities addressed in migration literature.

Theoretical Framework

Migration literature has become a fixture in the European literature landscape: we live in an age of migration, of globalisation that moves us apart and brings us together, and of mobility into, out of, and within Europe. No longer is migration literature located in the margins, but rather it has entered the realm of what Gebauer & Schwarz Lauster call wide acknowledgement and even “canonical status” in many European countries (2010, 2). Demarcating what can be classified in the category of ‘migration literature’ is, however, a challenge that scholars of literature and migration face. Earlier distinguished into categories such as ‘migrant literature’ and ‘immigration literature’ to denote the writings of those coming into Europe, in opposition to the ‘emigré literature’ or exile literature of (often more educated, wealthier) writers who had left their home countries either by force or voluntarily (ibid, 4; Seyhan 2010, 11), migration literature has become a contemporarily preferred term that includes migrants more broadly. Irrespective if the author is an emigrant or an immigrant, the classification of migration literature now acknowledges the text itself for fulfilling criteria of themes or language use, and includes works by those “excluded from the dominant language and culture” of a nation, such as indigenous writers (Gebauer & Schwarz Lauster 2010, 5).

Furthermore, migration literature cannot be regarded as simply part of other national literatures: unlike some modes of writing and communication that belong to their site of inscription (road signs, ancient paintings and carvings, or graffiti), modern literature is written to be shared, sent around, distributed; it could be considered nomadic, even (Lock 2010, 23-24). The departure of migration literature from falling under ‘national’ classifications is also described by the argument of Glesener for its classification as a ‘new world literature’: “migration literature transcribes the experience of everyday life in a globalized world and reflects on the challenges of existence in multicultural and multilingual contexts” (2016). It is attached to the notion that writers, as migrants themselves or as the children of migrants, present narratives that connect histories, cultures, languages and experiences that do not heed borders - their literature is not confined to their country of origin, nor to their host country, and if the works are ultimately translated into multiple languages and published across the globe, then specific territorialisation means very little. Even if certain novels and works may be more attached to a certain country in Europe, such as France, for example, the literature of France is still literature of Europe. The mobility of literature in this technological era is paralleled by the mobility of its authors, especially in the case of the European Union, and thus it constitutes that the literature of migration is indeed an integral part of European literature. As Schneider frankly states, “... so is a vision of European literature incomplete that does not include literature of immigration” (2016, 327).

For the purpose of this study, I build upon the definitions of the aforementioned scholars to delimit what migration literature entails and how it fits into the current literature landscape. I define it here as literature produced in a dimension broader than simply national, by an author of migration background, that delivers intimate insight about intercultural and multilingual circumstances; it is literature that acts as a mirror for authors, as migrants or children of migrants, to hold up to society and present unique but recognisable journeys, tell marginalised stories and share the struggles that accompany migration.

To expand this definition and to progress in this research, is also useful to consider Behschnitt’s description of migration literature as a category of public discourse, in which migration authors participate in the “public debate and inscribe themselves into the discourse on literature, migration and cultural diversity” (2010, 81). When considering that which is classified as migration literature, what mark does it leave on public discourse?; more pertinently, what do the authors intend to add to the discourse surrounding the themes of migration, cultural diversity and society through their literature? Questions such as these are answered through the analysis of migration texts, as many have done (see Gebauer & Schwarz Lausten 2010). In many cases, however, these studies are focussed strongly on the broader societal context in which the text is found, and use the text as a sort of support on the researcher’s hypothesis on literature and society. Researchers, scholars and academics - namely those who have tertiary education - are predominantly from the West and more developed countries (Roser & Ortiz-Ospina 2020), and difficult to deny is that this influences the perspectives and conclusions in existing research. To combat the gaps that may be left by a top-down approach (in which a researcher uses migration literature to support external conclusions), this study rather takes a bottom-up approach: the migration literature is analysed to discern more specifically what the author - often less likely to have a Western background - is saying about society and what they aim to add to the public discourse.

A literary genre well known for its intention of delivering societal critique is dystopian literature. Described by key dystopian scholar M. Keith Booker, literature in this genre is situated in opposition to utopian thought and is typically interpreted as a cautionary tale about the pitfalls of ‘arrant utopianism’ (Booker 1994, 3). He goes on to explain that dystopian literature is generally acknowledged to constitute critique of social conditions or political systems “through the critical examination of the utopian premises upon which those conditions or systems are based or through imaginative extension of those… into different contexts that more clearly reveal their flaws and contradictions” (ibid). According to Rosefielde, it is what occurs through “attempts to construct unrealizable ideal systems” (in Claeys 2017, 5). Essentially, dystopian fiction entails a dialogue with ‘utopian idealism’ as the key to its social criticism, and utilizes defamiliarization^[2]as a key strategy to underline and magnify the problematic elements of the fictional society, in direct relation to the perceived societal problems of the author's reality.

As mentioned, dystopia does not exist on its own; rather, it is a response and an antithesis to utopia. Seen since ancient times in works by Plato, in the Renaissance through Thomas More’s (in)famous contribution, and more recently as in works by Owen or Wells (Coverley 2012), utopia as a concept and literary genre is the base that the study of dystopia is built upon. It entails what Booker calls a ‘quest’ for the ideal society (1994, 3); a simultaneously good and non-existent place, depending on whether the word is traced back to its Greek origins as ‘eutopia’ or ‘outopia’ respectively (Coverley 2012). By and large, the utopia is not a current place, rather it must be travelled to and attained.

By these standards and definitions, migration literature - or at least some works of migration literature - could be considered as dystopian fiction. Indeed, it does not prove difficult to encounter a dialogue with utopian idealism in examining the narratives for motivation behind migration in works of migration fiction: it is typically driven by the dream and search for a better life in a good-place, and characterised by the journey travelled to get ‘there’. A critique of social conditions and political systems appears in the narrative description of how utopian expectations are left unmet, and as the dream of utopia fades into a reality of dystopia. However, two related factors exclude migration literature from dystopian classification. Firstly, dystopian literature falls under the broad genre of speculative fiction, a relative to science fiction, which “move readers to imagine alternative ways of being alive” in a world related, but not identical, to our own (Thomas 2013, 4). Migration literature, though fiction, tends to be rooted in a recognisable reality and is often written in a biographical style, without the fantastical, mystical, or otherwise alternative elements that are characteristic of science and speculative fictions. As the related second point, migration literature does not fulfil Booker’s defamiliarization criteria, again since it tends to be set in realistic conditions. It forgoes the literary technique that most dystopias rely on to emphasise their social or political critique, rather presenting a recognisable, familiar setting for the story.

This said, however, there is valuable insight to be gained in examining migration literature from a dystopian perspective and as dystopian fiction. Just as dystopias can be read and studied for the purpose of uncovering the author’s perceptions and critiques on the reality behind their fiction, so migration fiction can be studied to uncover, through a bottom-up approach, its author’s intended messages. Evaluating the utopian suppositions that motivate initial actions, and diving into the dialogue with utopian idealism in migration literature, provides a beneficial foundation from which to analyse the (dystopian) obstacles and challenges faced post-migration. Furthermore, migration literatures substitutes the use of defamiliarization for a strategy of refamiliarization: instead of constructing a new, unfamiliar place or setting to highlight certain things, rather a familiar situation and setting is used and a new voice - that of the migrant protagonist - is used to remind the reader of the realities and struggles that exist behind the fiction. This research combines theoretical approaches to the study of migration literature in a unique way so as to exploit the focus that a utopian and dystopian reading of migration literature can bring to the author and their perceptions of society and politics.

The central objective of this study is to gain deeper insight into the societal and political struggles faced by migrants and their families, as portrayed in migration literature. A qualitative approach to this research is taken to best interpret, contextualise and gain in-depth insight into issues at hand. Two novels that belong to the genre of migration literature, as defined above, were selected to be the focus of this study: Murat Isik’s​ Wees Onzichtbaar (Be Invisible) ​and Igiaba Scego’s ​Adua​, both published in 2017. These novels contain similar themes regarding family relations, social relations, and identity, and thus make them ideal for this study, in addition to being written and published amid the so-called European ‘migrant crisis’ of 2015. Additionally, both authors are the children of migrants to European countries from outside of Europe; Isik grew up in the Netherlands to Turkish parents, and Scego in Italy to Somali parents. Neither of the books are classified as autobiographical, yet both carry strong biographical motifs (Kastelijn 2020; Monster 2018), while the diversity of the migrant experience is acknowledged from the perspectives of a female and a male author. The similarities and differences between these works are the strengths that allow for a balanced, insightful examination into the themes they present.

As discussed above, an effective way to achieve the objective of this study is to conduct an in-depth utopian and dystopian reading of the selected works. The qualitative processing of the texts is done through a typology that assists in thematic analysis of the utopian and dystopian motifs found in the books. As we recognize from our definition of migration literature, there is an important element of internal, psychological reflection in the recounting of an external, physical migration journey. This relationship between place and mentality, with its utopian and dystopian components, constitutes the basis of this investigation. The psychological elements link to the emotional states of each novel’s characters, often influenced by the intercultural and multilingual situations generated by the characters’ physical locations and places of residence. Thus, the typology is based on a set of interactions applied to each of the novels: the degree to which physical space and actual mobility carry utopian and/or dystopian themes, and the degree to which emotional growth and mental journeys carry these themes. A subsequent discourse analysis in the form of a discussion section connects the results to their meanings. The encountered themes of racism, discrimination, identity and freedom are considered in relation to the investigated utopian and dystopian themes, and examined against the backdrop of societal and political contexts of the authors both in the relevant countries and in Europe more broadly. Through this, it is possible to arrive at a conclusion on the societal and political critiques these authors present, in a bottom-up mode, through their migration literature.

Analysis Part 1: Scego’s ADUA

Igiaba Scego is a journalist, writer and academic, born in Rome in 1974 to politically engaged parents from Somalia. Her father, a former ambassador and foreign minister, emigrated with his family to Italy in 1969 after the coup d’état of Siad Barre established a one-party communist state-turned-autocracy in Somalia (Brioni 2020, Mari & Solis 2015). Scego’s work since her debut in 2003 has been very much focussed on the research and retelling of migration stories, with spotlight on the experiences of second-generation African migrants living in Italy. Her fifth and most recent novel, Adua, is a literary culmination of Scego’s work on the many identities and struggles that Africans in Europe must navigate, the present implications of Italy’s colonial past, and the racial discrimination that persists in the West.

The two main characters in Adua, father Zoppe and Adua herself, undergo internal journeys stimulated by their own utopian dreams, their external relocations, and the dystopian realities of their situations. The key theme in Adua that propels the migration dream is the utopian notion of freedom: both main characters in this novel are searching for escape, comfort and freedom and believe that this will be achieved through migration to Italy. In the end, however, the utopian ideals longed for by both generations of Somali migrants, Zoppe, and later Adua, are crushed and refuted by the dystopian realities that await them in their new environments.

In the third-person chapters of the same name, we meet Zoppe in the 1930s - a Somali man who moves to Italy to work as a translator for the purpose of earning enough money to return to his homeland, get married to his betrothed Asha, build his own house and live comfortably, free and carefree, with his future family. His utopian dream, the dream that motivates his movement and gives Zoppe his purpose, is to achieve freedom through fortune. His skills as a translator - being fluent in at least six languages, and knowledgeable in several minor languages - make him a “linguistic ambassador, a mediation, he would never hurt anyone” (Scego 2017, page 25); a title he expects will bring him much respect in Italy, least of which for his usefulness in working with the Italians and against his fellow Africans in their preparations for the Second Abyssinian War of the mid-1930s. Zoppe’s travel to Rome promises him his prosperity, but upon his arrival he is met with dystopia: the discrimination, social outcasting, and brazen racism that results in police brutality confronts Zoppe, and almost immediately embitters him to the Roman life he now led. The reader’s first introduction to Zoppe in the novel is amid a violent attack against him by three Italian officers, while he is already curled up and bleeding on the ground. After months of living there, he realises that his ideas of “blonde girls” and “hordes of friends” were simply imagination, and that a “Negro in Rome had to keep vigilant” (29). Through the third-person narration of Zoppe’s chapters, an important note is shared with the reader in the form of advice from a fellow African: it was simply best to disappear, to make himself invisible. The dystopian life of violence and silence he comes to live in Italy is far from the utopian open-air palace he expected to encounter, and the reader joins him as he begins to question if his collaboration with the Italians is worth his own pain for the fortune he has yet to garner.

Let alone the freedom he was chasing, Zoppe’s physical freedom is stolen in Rome: soon after his arrival, two white Italians are arguing about the texture of Zoppe’s hair, and a physical altercation ensues. When Zoppe steps in to break it up, the police arrive and arrest only him for being the cause of the fight, and implicitly because he is the odd one out. Without fortune and now without any semblance of freedom, Zoppe longs for his hometown and its slowness, and the importance he felt there. In a twisted way, this wish is granted when his freedom from prison is bought by an Italian Count, and Zoppe knows that if he ever wanted to see his home again, he would need to fall in line and earn his own ‘freedom’ back from his new master. Count Anselmi says to Zoppe, “[Your tongue] will be useful in Africa, and if it proves itself, it will be well-compensated” (98), and so Zoppe relocates once again, not of his own free will, but still in pursuit of the fortune that will make his utopian future a reality. Zoppe becomes the equivalent of a slave to his buyer: running errands, transporting luggage, accompanying his master on every travel, without leave nor financial compensation. These travels also take disenchanted Zoppe back to the Horn of Africa, to Ethiopia, to assist his Count in the translation of political discussions.

Even in a land more familiar, still Zoppe feels humiliated by the Count and the blue turban he is made to wear. He holds onto the hopes and dreams of returning to his betrothed with enough money to start their life together, while in reality his tongue swells up and his throat is chronically dry from the translating he does day in and day out at the behest of his master. Later, Zoppe accompanies the Count to Mogadishu - the capital of Somalia to where young Zoppe would often visit with his father. The final chapter of Zoppe’s story takes place in this Somali city so close yet so far from his hometown of Magalo, and details the dystopian pinnacle of his career as a translator: he and his master meet with an Ethiopian dignitary in secret, and Zoppe translates, witnesses, facilitates the purchase of African support in the upcoming war. The dignitary promises weapons, troops, provisions and even assassinations, and Zoppe, in his ultimate moment of dystopian reality, realizes that his own freedom and that of his brothers is being sold here too. These collaboration conversations against Somalia entangled Zoppe in what was to come regarding the Italian occupation of his homeland.

The reader is not enlightened as to what happens next from Zoppe’s perspective but is invited to piece together the rest of the story through Adua’s first person account of her life, her father, and their relationship. The mother of Adua and her older sister is indeed Asha, Zoppe’s betrothed, thus Zoppe was able to return to Magalo and marry her. And, of course, they procreate, he gets the family he wanted, and finally is able to build the house, which he names Labo Dhegax, ‘Two Stones’, for which he betrayed his country. These parts of Zoppe’s utopian dream come true, but even after his troubled travels, the reality of his life back in Somalia remains dystopian. Through Adua’s retelling of her childhood with her father and through the ‘Talking-To’ chapters in which the reader witnesses the chastisements - rants, even - that Adua receives from Zoppe, we see that he has become excruciatingly bitter towards life and love. The reader learns that he harbours incredible resentment towards his wife, particularly because he blames her for dying and leaving him behind. Asha dies giving birth to their second daughter, and this causes Zoppe to unleash his anger and frustration on Adua instead, resenting Adua’s resemblance in face and spirit to her mother. The beginning of Adua’s story, still in Rome and past the age of forty, entails the discovery of the deed to her father’s house in Magalo, that after his death has become legally hers. The reader learns that the house has been squatted in for many years, since the years of war, implying that her father had hardly lived there - despite what it cost him. To Adua’s surprise, this house has been valued over a million American dollars since “peace is breaking out” following the civil war of 1991, and with the pestering of her repatriated friend Lul, Adua too considers returning to Somalia to leave her Roman dystopia behind (15).

Adua feels silenced and helpless in many aspects of her life when the reader meets her in the opening chapter of the novel - so much so that she feels that the only way to vent her frustrations is to deliver her monologue to the Bernini’s Elephant statue at Piazza Della Minerva in Rome. Unlike her father or anyone else in her life, she feels this statue listens as she describes what precipitated her departure from her mother country. Here she can recount her childhood and violent coming-of-age experiences between Somalia and Italy. Starting at age seven or eight, Adua tells her inanimate listener and the eavesdropping reader that her childhood was happy with the family of nomads with whom she and her sister Malika thought they belonged. However, it is suddenly uprooted by the return of her real father, a man she does not recognise. He brings Adua and her sister to a town she does not know, and here Adua feels oppressed - not only by the harsh words and expectations of the “man who impregnated [her] mother” (33), but also in the constrictive society under the regime of Said Barre. Straight away, Adua’s stubbornness and refusal to simply obey this new man causes fiery friction between the two, but she is beaten into submission to the point that she faints: “When I came to, I had become an actress. No one would ever see my real face again” (55).

She describes life in her new city, Magalo, as almost revolving around the small-town movie theatre built by the Italians^[3] in which people, women especially, would gather to escape their daily lives. The Talking-To chapters are a second-person account in Zoppe’s voice, scolding Adua for mundane things, such as her elbows on the table or not smiling with her teeth, while insulting her and her mother, and Adua too finds escape from the daily dystopia fabricated by her father in admiring the beautiful actresses in the films she goes to see. Before the Siad Barre regime began, Italians living in Magalo would walk around like “beautiful Grace Kellys” (84). She explains that she simply wanted to dream, dance, fly; she wanted the makeup and the lights; the passion; she wanted to escape: “Italy was everywhere in my life… Italy was freedom” (84). The visions of respectful, blue-eyed gentlemen and soft, well-loved women enticed Adua to pursue an acting career in the West; she wants to escape her life for a new one of fame and ultimately freedom. Italy, an attainable relocation due to its colonial relations with Somalia, seems to her to be the answer. The small city and school did not teach the children about fascism or post-colonialism, nor did Adua’s father attempt to enlighten his daughters about the entwined history of Italy and Somalia, let alone his own history. When her father is arrested for his political views, the town turns against the family and Adua finds herself as a social outcast in her father’s hometown. She and her sister do not get along, and their father’s new wife is only a few years older than they are; even Adua’s school friends no longer make eye contact.

Adua finds the escape route towards her fame and freedom utopia through Omar, a prominent goods-trafficker known by Adua for smuggling Western music and magazines into Magalo. He is handsomely compensated by two Italian film-makers when he introduces Adua to them, the ‘big beauty with the nice legs’ (116-117), and Adua jumps at the chance to accompany them back to Italy. No goodbyes, with only a suitcase, Adua lets herself be swept away by Arturo and Sissi, the husband-wife team, while they organise her passport, documents, and final exit from the land she had called home until then. However excited Adua was about leaving Magalo, the rebellious freedom she feels about effectively running away soon gives way to subservience to the husband and wife that had bought her. The utopian ideals about fame and freedom begin to break apart when she arrives in Rome, and realises she knows nothing about the film she is supposed to be the star of, as she had not been allowed to read the script for many months and no one reveals anything to her. Reminiscent of her own father’s experience with ‘freedom’, Adua is peddled by traffickers and sold to the couple who abuse her, and the film they are producing is not the Norma Jean beginning Adua dreamt of, but rather a venture in soft-core pornography.

She loses her will to fight and her self-respect on the night that Arturo and Sissi rape her, under the guise of teaching her to play the part for which she had so carefully been selected. Adua, however, refuses to release the utopian dreams that had brought her thus far: “I would have paid anything to be like Marilyn. At least, that’s what I thought then” (137). She lets herself be dragged along, introduced to distributors who want special favours, stripped and paraded. Just as her father was bought for his tongue, so Adua was bought for her body, and neither of them achieved the utopian freedom for which they paid so dearly. While the specifics of Zoppe’s story are mostly unknown, Adua reaches her negotiated utopia later in her life: she helps her much younger refugee husband flee north, out of Italy, and loses her father’s turban that signified both his and her slavery to circumstance and shame. Upon his departure, Ahmed - who she nicknames Titanic for his treacherous journey across the Mediterranean - gifts Adua a video camera and tells her that she must film whatever she likes; that she must go ahead and tell her story. It becomes clear that the essence of Adua’s utopia was not truly fame or riches, but the freedom to be herself and to be heard.

Discussion: Scego, Italy, and beyond

The key themes that Scego presents through her telling of Zoppe’s and Adua’s stories are the search for freedom, the pains of colonialism and decolonization, and the disease of racism and racial discrimination in our world today, and that which connects it all: migration. These elements are especially visible from a bottom up approach to analysing the text, and Scego’s key messages become clear through this dystopian perspective. It is important to note that while the version used for this research is Jamie Richards’ translation from 2017, Scego first had Aduapublished in 2015. For many across the world, the year 2015 marked the climax of the so-called ‘migrant crisis’ in Europe, as over a million refugees, asylum seekers and other migrants fought their way across the Mediterranean and through Turkey and Albania (BBC 2016; Pew Research Center 2016). This adds to the context of Adua’s contemporary reality as she takes in Ahmed, her Titanic, as a husband to guarantee his indefinite stay in Italy. Scego implicitly addresses the desperation of the ‘new’ migrant community to get further north into Europe - to Sweden, or Germany - while the ‘older’ migrants deal with their own types of desperations. Adua herself is considering another relocation, back to Somalia, to escape the feelings of oppression and unbelonging in Rome; but, just as every other time, she wonders if indeed she will feel at home in a place she hasn’t lived in many years. The way that Scego describes the journeys of both Zoppe and Adua into Italy carry the dark overtones of racism that is considered by both protagonists to be normal in the end: Zoppe accepts that he will be abused, rejected, or simply ignored because of his skin colour, despite his qualifications and inherent humanity. Adua accepts her maltreatment due to the feelings of second-classness that have been put upon her by the whites around her, despite her intelligence and talent. Scego confronts her readers with the verbal, physical and sexual violence that happens to these people of colour, in contrast with the characters’ seemingly nonchalant attitude towards it. The atrocity of racism, racial discrimination and exploitation is juxtaposed with an explicit display of accustomedness that Scego uses to spotlight the unnaturalness of it, calling attention to the behaviours that people should rather not be accustomed to, and indeed be actively against.

This connects back to Scego’s commentary on colonialism and decolonisation, with focus on Italy’s interference in Africa. Through Zoppe’s experiences of slavery and (forced) collaboration with the Italians and against Africa, Scego addresses the injustices and behind-the-scenes dealings that came from Italy’s presence in Somalia and Ethiopia specifically. She denounces the notion that the colonizers had claim on the bodies of Somali men and women in addition to their land. Even in the decolonisation of Somalia, in the time of Adua’s adolescence, the mythical elegance, sophistication and modernity portrayed by colonial remnants in Magalo are what lure Adua into the traffickers’ trap. Scego acknowledges the power of shame to impact and traumatise across generations (Rand 2019), and Zoppe’s shame about his past means that he avoids teaching his children about his experiences. Adua inherits and perpetuates this cycle of shame many years later in postcolonial Somalia and falls victim to the same and new violence that Zoppe did.

The notion of freedom is another key theme that the utopian and dystopian analysis of Scego’s Adua reveals. The original migrations and relocations of Scego’s characters are in search a utopian good-place that fulfils the needs they feel that their current location does not offer: for Zoppe, he chases the freedom that he thinks finance allows for, and Adua pursues fame in the search for freedom from small town where she is not respected. Their respective journeys to their utopias begin in tandem with the commencement of dialogue with utopian idealism. At every turn, our protagonists are let down by the intolerant and degrading society they enter, and for Adua especially, it takes until the last of her chapters to uncover her true utopian desire: to be heard and also listened to - to have freedom of individuality without fear of judgement or retribution. Scego facilitates Adua’s journey to a negotiated utopia: one that does not align perfectly with her original dream, but is the outcome of overcoming obstacle over dystopian obstacles - it is a reality in which she can freely tell her story and educate others, just as Igiaba Scego does.

Analysis Part 2: Isik’s BE INVISIBLE

Murat Isik is a lawyer-turned-writer that made his literary debut in 2012, with a novel based on his family history as part of a marginalised ethnic minority group in Turkey, the Zaza people^[4]. Born in Izmir, Turkey in 1977, his family emigrated to Germany and then to the Netherlands in the early 1980s. For much of his childhood, Isik grew up in the Bijlmermeer neighbourhood of Amsterdam and bases much of his second fiction novel on his experiences there (van Beek 2017). Wees Onzichtbaar (Be Invisible) won the prestigious Libris Literatuur award and two Book of the Year prizes in 2017, and the Boekenhandels award in 2018 (Ambo Anthos 2020). He considers himself as a Turkish-born Dutchman, and through his 2017 work addresses the confusions and conflicts that arise from not living where one comes from, and not feeling a sense of belonging where one lives.

The physical, external journey that facilitates the emotional journeys of the Metlu family is not a singular event, but rather a series of relocations: the family moves from Izmir, Turkey, first to Germany, and then to the Netherlands soon after. This physical relocation is each time instigated by the husband of Asena and father of Metin and Nevra, Harun. Due to his philosophy as an atheistic communist that did not fit well with society in Turkey^[5], Harun flees to Germany to seek political asylum. Originally hoping to simply leave his family behind and live a bachelor-style life, Harun’s troubles finding work and housing prompt him to invite his wife and children to join him, citing a rumour that applying for asylum as a family could guarantee securing accommodation. However, the plan does not come to fruition and the family is forced to drift from host to host, living in spare rooms and trying to be as propitious as possible. Asena is left alone to take care of the young children, keeping them quiet and invisible, as she herself tries to take up as little space as possible. Metin explains that even if the children of their hosts would pick on him or Nevra, no fuss could be made: the best option was to simply keep their mouths shut for the sake of peace and invisibility. This unsustainable lifestyle, exacerbated by Harun’s reluctance to find work in ‘the capitalist system’ and his evening spending habits, pushes Harun to relocate to the Netherlands, where he can receive benefits and welfare payments. He finds a flat in the supposedly up-and-coming neighbourhood of the Bijlmermeer and has old friends deliver his wife and children there from Germany. Harun is indeed the instigator of these external journeys, his utopian ideal too is finding freedom - from the oppression he feels as a communist in Turkey, but also from the restrictions of family life as he perceives them.

However, as his first relocation doesn’t prove to be his utopia, he sacrifices one part of his dream - living as a bachelor - and his family joins him, even then he can’t manage to build the life for which he left Turkey. To Harun’s credit, he does not give up: he relocates once again, this time to Amsterdam, where he finally finds accommodation for himself and his family, receives welfare from the government, but remains unemployed. The key setting in this novel is the non-fictional Bijlmermeer neighbourhood in which the Metlu family resides: the utopian ideals that provoked its construction in the 1960s also stimulated the utopian hopes of those who would come to reside there^[6].

Harun’s sought-after freedom utopia still is not realized; the social obligations to his wife and children hinder his vision of a free life, thus he leaves them alone in the Bijlmermeer flat each night to spend time drinking with his communist friends, gambling away the welfare cheques and abusing his “roommates”, refusing to be the husband and father they need. Asena, on the other hand, also brings her own utopian dreams along on the physical journeys - she dreams of a better future for her children, that she can raise them to be successful in their education and go to university. Even though their marriage was on the brink when Harun left Turkey, Asena joins him again in Europe in the utopian dream for a successful and wholesome family life - despite her husband not sharing these goals. For this reason, Asena’s early years in Germany and the Netherlands are marked by her subservience to her husband, with little self-confidence due in part to the verbal, emotional, and eventually physical, abuse she tolerates from Harun, and in part due to her isolation from the language and culture that surrounds her and her children. Nevra and Metin learn Dutch and make friends at school - while confronted with racism and bullying there, especially shy Metin - which gives each of them a sense of community outside of the family flat. Their mother, however, has no opportunity to create her own community and thus suffers under the authoritarianism of Harun to the point where she must beg him for even a grocery allowance to feed the children. Essentially, Asena sees herself as no more than a mother - not as a woman nor a citizen - and passively accepts the trampling of her own happiness, the dystopian reality of her personal life in the Bijlmer, to work towards the utopian dream she holds for her children.

While living in the Bijlmer, young, sensitive Metin also struggles finding his place and sense of belonging in his direct environment. His utopian dreams are simple: he wants to fit in, he wants to be seen, but most importantly he wants to make his parents - especially his harsh, absentee father - proud. Metin wants to fulfil their utopian dreams. His father’s (anti)religious opinions block Metin from truly befriending the friendly Christian family that also live in the Bijlmer nor some other Turkish children who come from Muslim families. By the time he reaches high school, Metin has started lying to his schoolmates and his best friend Kaya about being Muslim in order to feel less different. The constant underestimation by teachers at school and the bullying and name-calling from peers inhibit Metin’s educational performance, but the pressure from his parents to succeed academically means that Metin never shares his troubles with them. His father’s quiet anger and his mother’s sometimes naive optimism keeps Metin under their influence, and when the dystopian obstacles from his external environment - the schoolyard torment and violence, along with the lack of teacher support for his writing talents - he struggles invisible and alone. Only when Metin receives a negative advice on following pre-university education does Harun step in on behalf of his son, but not because Metin specifically wants to continue his studies; rather because his parents believe success to be a law degree.

The utopia crumbles as time goes on, and gives way to the other dystopian realities that Metin encounters: the flats in the Bijlmermeer empty out as residents flee to more lively, liveable, environments, and the only new inhabitants are squatters in the form of addicts and junkies that take up residence instead; it is more common than normal to see splinters of bones on the pavement where ‘jumpers’ have made their final landing; even Metin’s beloved neighbour Mr. Rolf succumbs to social decay as he puts the fight for (what’s left of) the Bijlmer ahead of personal care. The corridors, stairways and elevators originally intended as connecting pathways for close-knit communities instead become obstacle courses of drug paraphernalia, puddles of human fluids, and shivering bodies with nowhere else to go. Even the green oasis that the expansive and densely planted gardens were meant to be, even they become a breeding ground for criminal activities. The dystopian reality of the Bijlmermeer leads to the Metlu family relocating one more time, fleeing just as all the others that had lived there. What was once their new home in their new country in their new future, the apartment is broken into by burglars not once but three times, and the final semblance of safety in the Bijlmer is broken along with the kitchen window; the dystopia outside seeps inside, tarnishing the utopian dream that the Bijlmer once held and forces the family to face the dystopian reality their environment has become. When Metin and Nevra almost encounter the thieves on the third occasion, they sit down with their parents and make it clear that none of them feel safe anymore, and that relocation, once again, is needed to escape the dystopia. Harun makes them all wait until he is paid a moving allowance from the government, and eventually the family finds a house in the Reigersbos neighbourhood of Amsterdam.

Just as each time before, this new place bodes to be safer, more comfortable: the utopia of which each location before has fallen short. Indeed, the neighbourhood is more secure, the apartment bigger; there are no shady corridors or stairways or parking garages. Harun and his family leave the stresses of the Bijlmer behind when they arrive in Reigersbos, and, for a while, they live together as a functional family: Harun finishes his higher education and gets a job, stops going out drinking and gambling, and decides to take on the family-man role he had neglected until then - cleaning, cooking, and socializing with his wife and now university-age children. The family blossoms in their new location: Asena, now employed and speaking the language, is promoted in her workplace and gains the self-confidence that was never available to her at home - especially not in the Bijlmermeer where her physical security was also compromised. As time goes on, she becomes stronger against Harun’s home dictatorship and since having her own money no longer feels the need to let him inside if he stumbles home too late, and more often calls him out on his childish behaviours. The children, now older, have also developed their voices and independent personalities. Nevra no longer flees to her room when a confrontation breaks out in the house, and Metin too moves from having a passive role in his own life to an active one: although he does indeed go on to study law as his parents dreamed, he chooses to follow creative writing classes on the side. He no longer allows his father to interrupt him, nor searches constantly for external approval. Metin’s shift in priority and growth in confidence becomes the basis for his negotiated utopia; that is, an egalitarian and considerate worldview that overcomes the dystopian obstacles present in his, and all, realities.

The growth of Harun, however, does not continue. Despite his success in finding work, he is quickly dismissed for his inability to cooperate with authority or follow the rules, and he returns to his place on the couch reading communist manifestos and making the lives of his family members difficult. After a violent incident of domestic abuse against his wife, Asena’s newfound security, confidence, and independence combined with the matured children’s educated outspokenness, result in Harun’s arrest and eventual expulsion from the Reigersbos apartment. Unwelcome to return, Harun no longer has the in-house dominion he was accustomed to and ultimately feels defeated. Once more, he relocates alone, in search of his utopia: back in his home town in Turkey, he finds an apartment overlooking the bay where he is able to stroll all day and enjoy the warmth and the freedom he was chasing so long. The others, meanwhile, continue to live in their negotiated utopia of calm and content, with freedom of a different kind.

Discussion: Isik, the Bijlmer, and beyond

Similarly, to the key themes that permeate Scego’s Adua, Be Invisible is the vessel through which Isik sends his messages about the pursuit of freedom and the problems of racism, sexism, and violence in society. The utopian and dystopian reading of Isik’s work allows for the bottom-up interpretation of what migrants and children of migrants see to be the problems plaguing both local and global communities.

First released in 2017, the writing and publishing of Be Invisible coincided with the peak and comedown of the migrant crisis in Europe. Inevitably, thus, Isik’s messages through Metin’s voice includes the strong the denunciation of indifference (at best and violence at worst) towards those from abroad: the Bijlmer in the 80s was the formal or informal home to many migrants and refugees, at that time from Suriname and the Dutch Caribbean, that were outcast from other neighbourhoods (Mingle & Bajema 2018). Through his representation of the communities, the lack of integration opportunities, and the simultaneous degeneration of the Bijlmermeer itself, Isik highlights the importance of inclusive and considerate society in the social wellbeing of newcomers and more established members of the community alike. As the root behind social outcasting and discrimination in Be Invisible, racism is what inhibits Metin and Nevra from effectively integrating into their new society - Metin’s underestimation by authority figures and bullying due to his heritage slows his emotional and academic progress, almost inhibiting his ability to follow higher education and in another case, getting him stuck in violent altercations that could have cost him his freedom or his life. This is Isik’s way of representing the types of situations in which societal racism places migrants and their children; cycles that perpetuate stereotypes and behaviours that continue to oppress those who have left so much behind in the hopes for a better future. Many others with migration backgrounds are not as lucky as Metin in having ‘close calls’ - institutionalised racism means that BIPOC are more likely to be surveilled, arrested and incarcerated than non-BIPOC citizens, and have less access to higher education opportunities (ENAR 2019).

Isik adds to the literary discourse about (public) racist violence and at the same moment addresses another violence: domestic abuse and sexism. Through Asena’s story, the reader is exposed to a patriarchal system that keeps Asena confined to the home as simply wife and mother, tied to her loveless, abusive marriage. This issue is not a Turkish nor a Dutch one, but a global one: Rollero et. al. classify violence against women as a “global public health issue of epidemic proportions… a gross violation of women’s human rights [that takes] many forms, such as physical aggression, sexual coercion, psychological abuse, and controlling behaviours” (2019, 1). Be Invisible details the emotional and physical emancipation of Asena over time, as she learns the language and finds her place in Dutch society, but Isik criticises the amount of time it takes for the society to offer solutions and basic inclusion to the migrant woman. Only the man of the house received the welfare, and only he could apply for more. The children were mandated to enrol in school, but no help was offered to her in situations like parent-teacher meetings. Not until the children are almost adults does Asena finally feel confident enough to call the police when Harun assaults her in their house, despite the violence having been directed towards her and the children since their arrival in the Netherlands many years earlier. Isik uses his platform as a migration literature author to present a powerful story of obstacles and overcoming with the intention of exposing the reader to the isolating struggles that women, and especially migrant women, face, while providing a hopeful example of triumph over circumstance.

Once again, the utopian dream of freedom is the basis on which all the migrations and relocations of Isik’s Be Invisible is founded. Harun pursues a different freedom than his wife and children do, but their dreams are nonetheless entwined until the very end of the novel. Here, again, is where the dialogue between utopian idealism and dystopian realities meet, each time requiring adaptation and re-evaluation. Just as in Adua, the original utopia that each character dreams of is constantly out of reach - but as we understand from the very word, a utopia is simultaneously no-place and good-place. While many of the utopian elements in the novels give way to darker and more pessimistic circumstances, it is often the release of the ‘what could’ve been’ ideas, the acceptance of the current and the embracing of the future, of new horizons, that allows for ‘happy endings’. Under the definition discussed above, dystopia is the construction of the unattainable, and by relinquishing unattainable goals a more sustainable hope becomes encounterable. As noted, the utopias are very much connected with the movement and eventual settling/relocation of the characters, while the dystopias become present in the life and society of the new place. In this way, we see the external journeys fade from utopia to dystopia almost every time, until finally a compromise is reached between no-place and good-place and a negotiated utopia is realized. For Harun, this negotiated utopia is a bachelor life, but not in Europe. For Asena, her negotiated utopia is a stable and calm life in Europe, but without a traditional family. Metin’s confidence and development from a shy young boy into an educated man is at the cost of his father’s approval and his own desires - to become a writer - but the end of the book is not the end of Metin’s negotiation for his utopia. The utopia place is no fixed location, but a constant journey, and Isik explores the fight for happiness and equality, contributing to the public discourse on what it means to be a migration literature author.

Conclusion

The migration literature that we have seen here, the narratives of making a new life in a new place, have plenty of inherent value. They tell the story of overcoming and adapting, and give each reader insight into the lives of those with a different history. Many studies have concluded that exposure to literature, especially but not only fiction, have allowed for and facilitated increased empathy levels in consumers, and higher empathy can result in more compassionate behaviour within society (see Kidd & Castano 2013, Bal & Veltkamp 2013, Suttie 2019). However, the purpose of this research was not to re-examine the benefits or values of migration literature on its surface, but rather to dive deeper into the story that the marginalised authors of migration literature are intending to tell through the voices of their marginalised protagonists. By reading these novels as dystopian fiction and considering the background of their authors and the context in which they were written, we unlock the social and political critique for which dystopias are famous. Again, although they do not fall truly under the dystopian genre as defined by Booker (1994), the novels by Scego and Isik can be analysed as such for the benefit of studying migration literature from the bottom up: to evaluate the commentary that non-western authors have on western life and society; to investigate how these authors use their work to add to the public discourse. From the analyses of the Be Invisible and Adua, there are several recurring themes and similarities that present themselves as the framework for the critique given by their respective authors. The utopian dreams of freedom that motivate the novels and their characters are used expertly by Scego and Isik respectively to deliver profound and detailed insight into the lives of non-European migrants in Europe. This insight is not superficial and certainly not fictional, and the struggles faced by their protagonists are far from isolated experiences. They relate to the reality of the social and political circumstance nationally, as well as applying to the broader context of the situations in Europe. The experiences, struggles, obstacles, and generally dystopian conditions presented in migration literature serve as looking glasses for readers and critics alike. From here we witness the critique, and sometimes outright criticism, that authors deem important to address about society and politics regarding migration, racism, sexism, and violence. Issues of identity, integration and feelings of belonging inhibit the ability of working together across racial and socio-economic lines, and in an era of globalisation and migrations as now, this is unacceptable. There is of course much more research to be done on this topic: many more migration literature authors have much more to say, and there is much more to learn from non-western authors about how life is experienced across the globe. The reading and supporting of migration literature, as a literature of Europe and therefore of the world, is a step in the direction of understanding and acceptance; especially now in contemporary times, it is as important as ever to work together to make the planet more liveable for all humankind and living things.

^[1] BIPOC: Black, Indigenous, People of Color (The BIPOC Project 2020).

^[2] Defamiliarization, or ostranenie, is the literary device of taking something familiar and placing it in an unfamiliar context in order to promote a new perception of the common (Hartman 2016).

^[3] Until the 1960s, Somalia had been divided into territories controlled by either or both Italian and British forces, and while the British did little in the way of governing and infrastructure there, the Italians prioritized their presence in and the development of their colonies in Somalia (Zapata 2012).

^[4] The Zazaki of eastern Turkey are of ethnically Persian descent, and belong to the religious Alevi tradition, as opposed to the conventional conservative Sunni Muslims of Turkey. The Alevi tradition of Islam does not follow majority of the rules and rituals of the predominant Islamic community and for this reason the Zazaki are often discriminated against and denigrated (Joshua Project 2020, van Beek 2017).

^[5] After the 1980 coup d’état by the Turkish military, radical and subversive groups were targeted by the army including separatists, nationalists, and socialists. Especially oppressed by the military and the government in the 1980s were Turkish communists (Ayan 2019).

^[6] The architects of the Bijlmermeer neighbourhood (shortened to just Bijlmer) intended for it to be the most utopian, modern living space of the times, in which the spheres of work life, family life and recreation were kept entirely separate. Cars were only allowed in the neighbourhood in the separate parking garages, while the apartment buildings had complex indoor walkways (galleries) to link them to each other and to the garages. The gardens and greenspaces between buildings were intended to be lushly planted oases, emulating an escape from the city of Amsterdam and prying eyes. However, the ground floor shopping areas were never rented out, and the common spaces fell into dystopian disrepair as neither the municipality nor the homeowner’s associations had enough funding to maintain them. The growing emptiness and neglect of the 13,000 apartment neighbourhood lead to a rise in criminality, squatting and drug abuse. Ultimately, the government decided to evacuate the residents and demolish the Bijlmer, particularly after a cargo plane from the nearby Schiphol Airport crashed into one of the apartment blocks in 1992, resulting in at least forty-three casualties (Mingle & Bajema 2018).