Excuse the vague title. I figured if I had called this blog post “Magical Realism is a Eurocentric Theory and an Indigenous Ideological Perspective” then people might not click on it. Oh well, you’re here now… let’s get this show on the road.
First of all, I think it’s important to define a couple of key terms:
- Magical Realism – The blending of fantasy or supernatural elements into otherwise realistic texts, representing these elements as normal and natural.
- Postcolonialism – The study of the ongoing impacts of colonialism. In part, it’s about challenging Eurocentric narratives and promoting marginalised voices in order to foster a deeper understanding of the realities and struggles of Indigenous peoples.
Note, these are my definitions and they probably lack nuance. This understanding frames the argument I’m going to make.
According to this website, “Western knowledge tends to be broken into disciplines. Mathematics and linguistics are emphasized, as are logic, rationality, objectivity and the measurement of observable phenomenon.” That doesn’t leave a lot of room for the possibility of the supernatural or spiritual. As such, it isn’t compatible with Indigenous ways of thinking where the metaphysical has great significance.
So, what does this have to do with Indigenous Literature?
Well, texts like Kim Scott’s True Country resonate with some of the ideas in this article by Stephen Slemon, especially the notion that “the badge of magic realism has signified a kind of uniqueness or difference from mainstream culture… and this gives the concept the stamp of cultural authority”. This seems to sit nicely with my definition of Postcolonialism above. Add to this, this comment from a journal article that says, “It is in Scott’s True Country that such magic realism—a poco strategization of ‘Dreamtime’—is employed to evoke the feel of a ‘true story’, a phrase consciously repeated to differentiate the white documented history from the cautiously preserved world views of the Karnama people.”
In other words, magical realism allows postcolonial authors an opportunity to engage with cultural and historical truth as they rewrite the narrative about their peoples.
In one of the opening chapters, the narrator describes “… a basketball tossed up to begin a game.”
But what if the basketball were to continue rising… right up past one returning aeroplane? It would startle the pilot, that’s for sure… What would you see now, so removed and high above, up there with that basketball?” (22)
While this doesn’t seem to hold much cultural or historical significance, it does establish a tone. The welcoming mood and use of direct address connect the narrator to the reader, and asks the reader to see things as an objective witness “removed” from their own cultural trappings.
This naturalisation of the supernatural can also be seen in the plain-stated comment, “My little boy, you know Cecil? He plays with a ghost. My sister I think. She died…” (123) Western readers might be perplexed at the lack of shock or surprise in the dialogue. What this shows, then, is that these sorts of things are normal for the people of Karnama.
As individual comments, these quotes might not seem overly important. More significant are the references to the “Old days” and the melancholy tone in which the narrator claims “people could make magic. That’s true. That’s no story, it’s true story.” (79) The suggestion is that the more watered down their culture has become – as we see them mimicking American movies, get corrupted by alcohol and live in bungalows “not altogether appropriate to the climate or inhabitants” (89) – the less connection they have to their spiritual selves.
The character who seems most attune to his spirituality is Walanguh, an elder. He is spoken about with reverence. One story told of him is of his kidnapping by Djilina, men with “long beards and hair”:
“Djilina… He [Walanguh] was taken by them when he was little, and they grow him up. And he has power, you know? Like magic.” (134)
This story is retold later, along with one where “The whale swam fast with that Walanguh man up on its back.” (168) . Walanguh is isolated for much of the narrative and this solitude is possibly what prevents his spirituality from diminishing. By avoiding the Western ideologies influencing his community, he is able to maintain his connection to his own culture.
It is Walanguh’s connection to the metaphysical world that allows him to sense the death of his sister and, through this, his familial relationship to protagonist, Billy. Walanguh also appears in a dream sequence when he passes away. In this, Billy sees himself “stood among all the people of Karnama” looking up at “the old man, fat like a balloon, drifting along in the sunlight” (170).
Walanguh’s death is significant as it is the catalyst for Beatrice’s transformation from sweet, enthusiastic youth to troubled child. A cultural practice is not observed and the omniscient narrator mourns not just the loss of an important person but the loss of customs and traditions:
“People not believing, people not trusting, people not caring. All falling down, all asking to fall down.”
In adopting Western ways of life, the indigenous population lose faith in the old ways. The narrator links “People not believing” to “asking to fall down”, suggesting that individual ruin comes from abandoning the belief system of the people. Beatrice stands as evidence of this. After the funeral she becomes mentally and physically ill, with Western medicine unable to cure her. She is eventually “SAVED BY BLACK RITUALS” but she is never the same again, the “little spirit inside her, it pass away… She was small now.” (218-219)
So, what do I (as a white Australian) take away from this?
I know the tragic history of our Indigenous population. I am on my own path towards cultural responsiveness. I can’t change the past nor is it my responsibility to apologise. It is my responsibility, however, to learn more about the peoples who have occupied this land the longest. While magical realism may blend fact with fiction, it is still a valuable tool for expression and understanding.
bartopia 