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Kamila Shamsie, Home Fire, Riverhead Books, 2017. 288 pgs.

In almost every literary discussion I have had with fellow readers, whenever South Asian literature has been mentioned, Kamila Shamsie’s novel Home Fire came up more often than any other. So, I deduced Home Fire must be Shamsie’s best-known work, perhaps because it won the Women’s Prize for Fiction 2018 and was shortlisted for the DSC Prize for South Asian Literature 2018, among other accolades. Having come to this novel a little later, after devouring Kartography (2002), Burnt Shadows (2009), and Best of Friends (2022), and others, it was a choice made, partly because of literary peer pressure, for want of a better term. As someone who is highly sceptical of most prizes—literary or otherwise—it was after much deliberation that I finally read Home Fire. Whether I was disappointed or not is not the point here, but the intricacy of a divided world in which love and politics are entangled portrayed in the book makes it a significant read. There is no magical realism or postmodern complexity. It’s perfectly suitable for adaptation as a film, but there is a subtle kind of complexity and it wants the reader to think and rethink the multiple ways in which love and political aspirations can collide and become disastrous.

The beginning of the novel is rather dramatic. Eamonn Lone, the son of the British politician, Karamat Lone (who scapegoats British Muslims to gain popularity), meets Isma Pasha at an American university and they get along very well. The meeting is rather abrupt and is orchestrated to prove a point though nobody knows what it was about. They somehow bump into each other. Isma wears a headscarf and disagrees with him on many things, but none of this repels Eamonn, despite his “modern” upbringing. Just when the reader might be expecting romance between the two, the narrative shifts to Isma’s sister Aneeka, and it becomes all about her and Eamonn. The shift from the United States to the UK is as sudden as the shift in Eamonn’s interest from one sister to another. There is a certain kind of oddity with which the novel begins, and the inconsistency becomes obvious right from the beginning.

Aneeka’s relationship with Eamonn starts off on even more absurd terms. On their first meeting, she takes him home and they sleep together. But though Aneeka knows what she wants out of this random encounter, Eamonn is completely unaware. The sexual relationship between them soon becomes an emotional connection. This social and personal entanglement makes their love story extremely problematic, but it still surpasses social boundaries and overcomes them. The last scene of the book that depicts a funeral and Eamonn and Aneeka’s meeting is quite cinematic, and one can visualise their meeting as being like many a South Asian romantic film.

Home Fire lacks the literary sensibility that Shamsie’s other novels have, but it’s a substantial book in many ways. Aneeka’s twin brother, Parvaiz Pasha, becomes involved with ISIS and the family find themselves in a difficult situation. While the sisters are keen to protect their brother and the reputation of the family, they also know what is right and wrong. They denounce ISIS while also questioning the premise of Parvaiz’s involvement with them. The rabid Islamophobia in the West has repercussions for the lives of innocent Muslims. The description of a Muslim man’s involvement with ISIS makes the book a instructive read for anyone who might tend to Islamophobia, in however subtle a way. The novel asks relevant questions about America’s involvement in the rise of Islamic terrorist groups, even if it’s not mentioned directly.

I was drawn towards Shamsie’s portrayal of the complexity of human relationships, especially romantic relationships, against the backdrop of a highly volatile world. Given how her novels tend to involve multiple geographical spaces, it’s no wonder that this novel also depicts Pakistani Muslim immigrants and their struggles in a hostile global world. The Pasha family and their saga of sadness and displacement are as personal as much as it is political. Home Fire is a longing to return home, a home that has become elusive because of the fragility of identities and the hierarchical world order. A Muslim identity is prone to suspicions, and when in a position of power, people are expected to denounce their Muslim identity, as Karamat Lone does:

My own family’s heritage is Muslim. Myself and my four brothers were brought up to believe in God, but I do not practice any religion. My wife is a practicing Christian and the only religion practiced in my house is Christianity. I think we should recognise that Christianity is the religion of our country.

Karamat Lone represents the grateful assimilator, who easily gives up his Pakistani Muslim identity for political gain. Shamsie herself has stated elsewhere that the novel is a rewriting of Antigone, albeit a South Asian one. Karamat Lone fantasising about his son’s intimate moments is subversive, given how social dynamics work in South Asia. His political ambitions make him betray his roots, but he always remains an outsider. The alienation of South Asian immigrants in the UK finds expression in the novel, but it is the depiction of ISIS and the voyeurism it evokes that make it a compelling read for those who are either indifferent to Islamophobia or given to it.

How to cite: M, Fathima. “The Politics of Love: Kamila Shamsie’s Home Fire.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 29 Aug. 2024, chajournal.blog/2024/08/29/home-fire/.

Fathima M received her PhD in English from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. She teaches literature at a minority institution in Bangalore, India. She is fond of bookstores and long walks in empty parks. [Read all contributions by Fathima M.]