Individualism, Collectivism, and Identity Politics in Palestinian Life Writing

ABSTRACT This article examines the tensions, (dis)continuities, and precariousness of postcolonial identities in the autobiographical writings of Palestinian authors Ghada Karmi and Raja Shehadeh. The question of identity will be examined considering Gayatri Spivak’s conceptualisation of strategic essentialism and Kimberlé Crenshaw’s collective identity politics in the texts, as well as concepts of multiple affiliations by Amin Maalouf and Chantal Mouffe. Through the textual and contextual analysis, I demonstrate that emphasising an individualist sense of identity is a vital means of empowerment for the subject in a patriarchal and collectivist culture. Simultaneously, identifying with the national collective emerges in these texts as an indispensable means of anti-colonial resistance and steadfastness. Particularly in a context of ongoing settler colonialism, collectivist affiliation becomes inevitable to safeguard Indigenous identity and to challenge the hegemonic colonial discourse that aims to eliminate the native collective. Therefore, a conflict arises between the authors’ desire for nonconformity and individualist expression on the one hand and the imposed collectivist affiliation due to the urgent anti-colonial cause on the other. I argue that the individual author finds him/herself trapped in an unresolvable predicament of identity that dramatises questions of belonging and affiliation. These personal narratives are thus paradoxically and unavoidably relational, dependent, and speak to the collective experience of the Palestinian people. The article concludes that identification in contexts of colonial struggle challenges both the binary opposition of individualism and collectivism, and the notion of a unified and autonomous selfhood.

I said: And identity?He said: Defence of the person.Identity is the daughter of birth, but at the end, the invention of its owner, not an heirloom from the past.I am manifold.But I belong to the question of the victim.Mahmoud Darwish, 'Antithesis to Edward Said' The unmistakable upsurge in the production of Palestinian memoirs and autobiographies in the last two decades has been largely attributed to the deteriorating colonial ordeal of the Palestinian people.As postcolonial theorist Franz Fanon writes in his seminal work, The Wretched of the Earth: Because it is a systematic negation of the other person and a furious determination to deny the other person all attributes of humanity, colonialism forces the people it dominates to ask themselves the question constantly: 'In reality, who am I? (2001,200) In regard to Palestinian life writing, critic Bart Moore-Gilbert contends that '[i]t is out of this predicament of being a "non-person", that Palestinian life-writing so often emerges in the first instance ' (2009, 115).The autobiographical accounts of Ghada Karmi, in In Search of Fatima: A Palestinian Story and Return, and Raja Shehadeh in Strangers in the House, are two examples of life narratives that centralise the predicament of Palestinian identity and negotiate their authors' traversing affiliations, while simultaneously stressing the urgency of the struggle against settler colonialism in Palestine.In this article, I seek to demonstrate that these narratives stage identification as a dynamic tension between a strong sense of commitment to the collective anti-colonial struggle on the one hand, and a radical sense of individual identity on the other; a paradigm of identification that challenges the conventional individualism/collectivism dichotomy.
In a framework of settler colonialism that, as historian Patrick Wolfe argues, aims to eliminate the native collective, individual subjects respond by stressing the collective identification, which becomes a means of generating solidarity, survival, and resistance (2006).As literary scholar Steven Salaita observes, modern Palestinian life-writers 'loudly proclaim a cultural/ national identity', which is often reflected in the titles of their works, 'whether through the use of a place-name or the term "Palestinian" as a distinct ethnic category ' (2013, 91).The contested, controversial, and politically loaded identity attached to the Palestinian subject leads to an emphasis on collective and native affiliation, as Karmi and Shehadeh make evident through their representation of their ardent adherence to the anticolonial struggle.This is further complicated by the local native culture, which is already collectivist and communal at heart, as collectivism, as opposed to post-Enlightenment western individualism, remains a key characteristic of Arab and Islamic cultures.In a collectivist culture, personal identification is usually tied to collective affiliations, which could be familial, tribal, factional, or communal.The interests of the individual become secondary to those of the collective, and freedoms are restricted if not violated due to the obligation to defer to the cultural collective.An essential element of a collectivist culture is often the strictly patriarchal family structure, which relies on the premise of gender hierarchy and male dominance, as argued by critics (Davis and Williamson 2019;Yoon, Chang, and Adams 2020).Therefore, the conservation of the native culture in a framework of settler colonialism often necessitates defending values that are deeply rooted in it including collectivism, patriarchy, and conservatism.Identifying with the group ultimately contributes to the negation of the agency and the uniqueness of the individual, which some postcolonial authors might radically challenge by adopting an individualist and sovereign selfhood.In Karmi's and Shehadeh's life narratives, this is evident in the momentary phases of complete detachment from their cultural and political surroundings and the endorsement of a profoundly individualist mode of identification.Individualism is initially an emancipating term 'of growth, from the rigidity of a society which, while securing, also restricted and directed men's actual lives' as Raymond Williams puts it (1961, 95).In a similar fashion, and while taking gender dynamics into consideration, Moore-Gilbert proposes that in some Indigenous societies, women are so marginalised and anonymised that 'a fiercely individualistic conception of autonomous Selfhood becomes […] legitimate, even necessary' (2009,(18)(19).Hence, individualism could strategically serve to emancipate the subject from the conventionalities of a regressive and patriarchal cultural discourse.
Negotiating their individualist autonomy and their collectivist affiliation, Karmi and Shehadeh endorse what has been called a strategic essentialist framework of identification.In this framework, the adoption of collective identity politics becomes a tactical device of resistance, which is an approach that Kimberlé Crenshaw highlights in her seminal theorisation of intersectionality.For marginalised groups, whether racially, sexually, socially, or otherwise, collective identity politics becomes a source of 'strength, community, and intellectual development ' (1991, 1242).The problem with that approach, in Crenshaw's view and as argued earlier, is manifested in the risk of conflating 'intragroup differences', as Crenshaw puts it.Crenshaw's identity politics echo Gayatri Spivak's theorisation of strategic essentialism, which the latter defines as 'a strategic use of positivist essentialism in a scrupulously visible political interest ' (1991, 214).In the course of anti-colonial struggle, decolonisation, and state-building, strategic essentialism can imply identifying with the national collective through endorsing essentialist representations.This inevitably involves imagining and constructing an essential, authentic, and static identity.Predictably, the problem is that such an essentialist approach defines and restricts what it means to identify as something.This often includes marginalising minorities or those who do not conform to the ideals of the essentialised and endorsed identity.Therefore, Spivak warns against the misuse of essentialism, and stresses that it needs to be strategic, vigilant, and calculated.
Due to the complex structure of subordination in the context of colonialism, Chantal Mouffe's conceptualisation of the identity of the subject appears to suggest a suitable model to examine postcolonial identification.Although, like Crenshaw's, her investigation addresses feminist politics, it can still be accurately applied to contexts of ethnic discrimination and colonial subordination.She argues that: It is only when we discard the view of the subject as an agent both rational and transparent to itself, and discard as well the supposed unity and homogeneity of the ensemble of its positions, that we are in the position to theorize the multiplicity of relations of subordination.(2005,77) Instead of conceiving the subject as a coherent and unified being, Mouffe proposes that the identity of the subject in a multifaceted power dynamic is 'always contingent and precarious', and thus speaking of a 'unified, homogenous entity' is inconceivable, particularly because identification is relative and dependent on which power structure is being considered (2005,77).
By the same token, Amin Maalouf writes that an individual 'is a meeting ground for many different allegiances, and sometimes these loyalties conflict with one another' which further complicates affiliation and creates a conflict of belongings (2003,4).The alternative, as Mouffe proposes, is to approach the subject as a plurality of identifications, depending on the several discursive formations.Any discussion of a rational, monadic, cohesive identity appears to be inadequate in addressing the identity of colonial subjects.Similarly, the reduction of identity 'in all its many aspects to one single affiliation', as Maalouf contends, is a rather simplistic, bigoted attitude (2003,5).An intersectional conceptualisation of identity therefore becomes particularly relevant here when affiliation is examined, for I will demonstrate that the authors discussed here identify as primarily Palestinians, thereby stressing their national affiliation, when their identity is negotiated in relation to, or rather in contrast with the colonial other.However, that identity is rather individualised, divided, complicated, and multi-layered when considered in respect to the native collective, which suggests that feelings of alienation and estrangement are manifested on different levels, externally and internally.

Ghada Karmi
Ghada Karmi's two narratives, In Search of Fatima and Return, have received considerable critical acclaim and have been among the most notable works in the genre of Palestinian life writing.Her autobiography In Search of Fatima may be read as a national allegory, as the subtitle A Palestinian Story suggests.The narrative powerfully dramatises identity tensions and internal conflicts that characterise the Palestinian experience.The author was born in Palestine in 1939 to the affluent Karmi family at a turbulent historical moment with the eruption of the Second World War and the intensification the Zionist colonial threat in Palestine.The first part of Karmi's narrative, titled 'Palestine', describes life in Jerusalem, a multi-cultural, multi-religious city on the verge of collapse.The trauma that underpins Karmi's life occurs in the Nakba of 1948, as a result of which the city falls to Zionist colonialism, and the Karmis, along with hundreds of thousands of Indigenous Palestinians, become refugees.The family moves to the United Kingdom, as she narrates in the second part titled 'England', which largely focuses on the challenges and dilemmas faced by the newly arrived refugees.The narrative then turns to Karmi's medical career, love life, marriage, political activism, and her temporary return to Palestine, which is the theme of the last part of the book, 'In Search of Fatima'.Karmi's life narrative presents a compellingly intricate model of identification for various reasons.Firstly, her gendered identity as a woman complicates the task of writing the self and intensifies the tension between herself and the wider collective.As Michelle Hartman contends in reference to Arab women's literature, [the] tension between women and community is complicated for women writers who are often expected to 'defend their race' in public and put in the position of choosing to support either a feminist standpoint or a local and thus 'indigenous' or 'authentic ' one. (2008, 277) Secondly, her status as a Palestinian refugee in Britain, the inheritor of the colonial empire that historically played the most dynamic role in the creation of Israel and the subsequent Nakba of Palestine, amplifies the involvedness of her position.Since her work is a story of 'search', the narrative centres on the precarious progress of Karmi's emergent sense of identity, echoing Maalouf's contention that identity 'isn't given once and for all: it is built up and changes throughout a person's lifetime ' (2003, 23).Karmi's identity development is by no means coherent or consistent.Rather, she depicts her identification as decentred, incoherent, dynamic, and fitting for neither Arab nor English culture.Her radical sense of individualism and relentless attempts to redeem herself from her Arab identity are paradoxically and gradually contrasted with a strong sense of commitment to the anticolonial struggle of her people.Arguably, Karmi, as retrospecting author, brings self-awareness to the account that Karmi, the younger protagonist of the story, does not have.
Growing up in London, and from a very young age, Karmi expresses her contempt towards the orthodox and collectivist elements of Arab culture, mainly but not exclusively in matters of gender, and that is despite the fact that she comes from a relatively well-educated, progressive background.She notices disdainfully, for example, that '[s]ons were prized over daughters and women were reared to indulge and look up to the males of the family ' (2004, 134).She states her dismay at male-female relations in Arab culture being 'instrumental' and based on reason and status, rather than love and compatibility (2004,256).Her father, who is depicted as having huge influence on her, 'had no sympathy with the view that, in personal relationships, the wishes of the individual superseded those of the collective ' (2004, 356).The different life views result in an uneasy and complicated relation between the father and the daughter.The 'fear of what people would say' is pointed out as the primary drive behind the conduct of the individual in what we may term a culture of shame, which Karmi frequently disparages (2004,222).At the same time, however, she represents her rebellion as hesitant and passive, for she acknowledges that 'defying [her] father in the context of [the] traditional Arab family was something [she] could not have contemplated ' (2004, 295).
Nonetheless, Karmi dialectically contextualises the repressive aspects of the culture within the post-Nakba experience, which required collectivism, tribalism, and interdependence as survival mechanisms in the face of violent exodus and fragmentation.As Rosemary Sayigh demonstrates, hierarchal gender ideology was central in the post-1948 Palestinian identity as a strategic mechanism of conserving the native culture, which was largely fragmented after the exodus.Therefore, assertions like 'we have preserved our customs and traditions', which often include the perseverance of discursive practices of gender hierarchy, frequently appeared in Palestinian narratives as proud statements of identity conservation (2007,89).In her moments of consideration of the intricacies of her traumatised community, Karmi recounts: It took me years to realize that after 1948, establishing a person's origin became for Palestinians a sort of mapping, a surrogate repopulation of Palestine in negation of the nakba.It was their way of recreating the lost homeland, as if the families and the villages and the relations they had once known were all still there, waiting to be reclaimed.(2004,186) She emphasises relational affiliation-mostly to family, lineage, tribe, or village-as strategic and essential in a context of settler colonialism, which primarily aims to eliminate and disintegrate the native collective.Here, Karmi invokes the importance of Spivak's strategic essentialism, which the author distinctly portrays as she narrates the story of the Karmis in England.After the Nakba, it was necessary for those who have been disintegrated to find ways to bond and to conserve their identity, which is why, for example, the Karmis' home in London 'soon became a refuge for lonely Palestinians', and instead of mixing with and integrating into the new society, the family kept to their own, connecting mainly with other refugees rather than with their English hosts (2004,184).Karmi highlights force and compulsion as the source of the problem, as she distinguishes her family's experience of forced expulsion from the typical immigrant experience, arguing that they 'did not choose to leave Palestine and they never willingly acquiesced in its loss.They did not see England as a place of the future, but only as a staging post on a route to where they could never go ' (2004, 220).The romanticised and hyperbolic attachment to Palestine, Karmi suggests, is better understood as a repercussion of mandatory eviction.
Her views about the matter exemplify the affiliation conflict of the colonised subject, as she denounces the embargoes of a culture that promotes collectivism and conformity, while simultaneously acknowledging the drive behind and significance of ancestral and social bonds in a context of forced fragmentation.The same view is expressed by the author in regard to conformity; for example, she expresses contempt for her father's insistence on academic excellence and professional conventionality, which pushes her to pursue a medical career despite her reluctance, but she also acknowledges her father's view that for 'stateless Palestinians', acquiring a training that was needed everywhere 'without being too weighed down by citizenship or residence requirements' was a mandatory mechanism of subsistence (2004,262).In other words, she stresses the ways in which colonialism and displacement redefine native cultures, mainly by marking personal choice and individual happiness as secondary to survival and continuity.Karmi's denunciation of the dominant culture deepens further when she realises that 'marrying out' is a taboo for a woman from a Muslim background, and that the inevitable consequence for such a decision is ostracism.As a result, she decides that she has 'nothing to do with these people' and is instead 'part of a higher order of being, liberal, free, English ' (2004, 237).Soon, the gap between her and her family widens to the extent that she declares: 'I could see no possible compromise between their position and mine.And since I put it all down to their Arabness, I rejected that too and all Arabs along with them', thus marking her abandonment of all aspects of her culture (2004,305).Feelings of being 'a virtual stranger in their [her family's] midst' would surface when confrontations took place (2004,342).Her contempt for the culture and sense of rebellion is further dramatised when she decides to break the taboo and marry an English man; a decision that results in widening the chasm between her and her family.
Religion is another aspect that Karmi highlights as a problematic feature of her identity.This needs to be understood in reference to a cultural context in which Islamic doctrine is perceived and practiced as a collectivist ideology rather than a mystical, individualist form of spirituality.During her short stay with her mother's family in Damascus after 1948, she acknowledges that 'the worst thing about [her] grandfather was the way he made [her] and [her] brother pray with him as near to five times a day as he could', which highlights religion as a collectivist and mandatory instrument of conformity (2004,137).The need for belonging, however, is a determinant factor in Karmi's growth, which is why at a certain stage of her life she turns to religion in order to fulfil her need for identification.She recounts, for example, that upon entering school in Britain, 'I began to close my eyes each time and say the Fatiha prayer in my head.I saw this as the only way to preserve my identity from being overwhelmed by the Christian forces around me ' (2004, 193).This is rather a phase of her quest for identity in a surrounding in which she obviously does not fit.As she matures, however, she reasonably decides that 'there was no evidence for God's existence' and that she could not accept 'any of the ceremonies and rituals which accompanied a belief in God', thus declaring her abandonment of a major element of the culture (2004,298).
Despite her eventual disdain for religion as an apparatus of conformity, Karmi brings to light the significance of religious identity as a native device of resisting colonial discourse on a broader, collective level.Religion is depicted as an ideology that empowers indigenous identity in opposition to colonialism.Karmi contextualises the revival of Islamic discourse in the late twentieth-century Middle East within the broader context of neo-colonialism.She illustrates this conclusion through a conversation with her father at a later stage in her life, in which she complains about the 'terrible regression' that accompanied the revival of religion in the Middle East, which, to her, is a 'retreat to the past, back to […] seventh-century Arabia ' (2015, 174).This is challenged by her father, who holds the view that Middle Eastern politics should necessarily be understood in relation to Western intervention and influence in the region.Religion as identity politics, therefore, is regarded by him as a means of 'defence against Western aggression ' (2015, 175).Notwithstanding the dire consequences of politicised religion, Karmi hesitantly acknowledges that the emergence of theocratic movements cannot be addressed without drawing connections to imperialist interventions in the region.
Karmi's abandonment of all the aspects of her native culture eventually results in the author's adoption of Englishness as an alternative; a shift that eventually proves, she shows, to be an utter failure.Due to the stigma that is associated with Palestinian identity, and amidst her attempts to integrate into English society, she would 'awkwardly' state that she is from '[s]omewhere in the Middle East' when asked about her origin (2004,314), internalising the orientalist notion that 'anything Arab or connected with the Arab world was inferior and of no interest ' (2004, 227).Her effort to convince the people around her that she was just a 'dark-skinned English girl ' (2004, 317) is part of her attempts to redeem herself from the 'existential riddles' and 'psychological demands' that are part and parcel of being an Arab woman and a Palestinian refugee (2004,333).Karmi's initial attitude corresponds to Maalouf's observation that '[o]ne's first reflex is not to flaunt one's difference but to try to pass unnoticed', because the 'secret dream of most migrants is to be taken for natives ' (2003, 38).Karmi would further express her lack of interest in 'the ebb and flow of Arab liberation politics' that were taking place as part of the decolonisation of Egypt, Algeria, and other parts of the Middle East (2004, 265).However, small and frequent incidents would stir a sense of pride, or at least affiliation to the culture.For example, she describes that the nationalisation of the Suez Canal gave her 'a sense of pride in being an Arab', while not knowing 'where the feeling came from, nor how it fitted with the English personality [she] thought was [hers]' (2004,272).The war of 1956 'brought back a compelling Middle Eastern dimension' in her identity; a dimension that existed marginally but that she rather wished to repress (2004,294).Feelings of difference would also surface at times when she would face racism.Moments in which she was called 'filthy foreigner ' (2004, 247) or 'dirty Arab ' (2004, 289) would remind her of her foreignness and non-belonging.
Yet, the most obvious choice that Karmi makes in attempt to acquire an English identity is perhaps represented in her marriage to John, which, as she acknowledges, was 'in pursuit of a sense of belonging' rather than out of love (2004,363).At this instance, the decentred, fragmented, and ruptured identity of Karmi as a refugee comes more clearly into view.Amidst her attempts to liberate herself from 'the shackles of a complicated and half-remembered history', the affection and acceptance she received from John's family appeared to her as the remedy.A sense of security, stability, and belonging emerged for her 'for the first time in a fractured life ' (2004, 347).
It was the war of 1967 that caused the collapse of Karmi's illusion of security and the beginning of what she depicts as her self-realisation.The event is marked as a turning point in the narrative.The eye-opening incident does not by any means solve her identity confusion, nor does it help her integrate the fragmented parts of her being.However, her delusion that she can repress her native heritage and claim another is disclosed as a false assumption and a futile attempt to avoid the complexity of her identity.It all starts upon her realisation that she has been 'quite alone in [her] sorrow' after the war, due to the western bias against Palestine, including her husband, her friends, and the people around her (2004,374).She expresses her disappointment from her husband's endorsement of the western support of Israel in 1967; a position that she amounts to betrayal: It went to the heart of my relationship with him.If he could see nothing wrong in supporting Israel, which had usurped my homeland and been the cause of my expulsion from it, and which had caused yet another exodus of my countrymen in this war, then he was quite simply not on my side.(2004,374) The incident triggered her feelings of belonging to a culture that she always opposed and rejected.It also engendered her desire to go back to the root of the problem by facing what she always sought to repress: her Palestinian identity.In a way, her acceptance of her identity was possible only due to the pro-Israeli sentiments across Britain after 1967.Not only does she embrace her identity, but she becomes a prominent political activist: 'I had latched passionately onto the cause of Palestine as an inspiration, an identity, a reason for living', highlighting thus the human need for an affiliation, whether to a person or a cause (2004, 399).Karmi's self-realisation authenticates Maalouf's premise that People often see themselves in terms of whichever one of their allegiances is most under attack.And sometimes, when a person doesn't have the strength to defend that allegiance, he hides it.Then it remains buried deep down in the dark, awaiting its revenge.But whether he accepts or conceals it, proclaims it discreetly or flaunts it, it is with that allegiance that the person concerned identifies.(2003,26) Karmi's desire to seek her identity is represented in her journey back to Palestine and her quest for Fatima, the family's maid and her babysitter as a child in Jerusalem.Her choice of the peasant woman figure to represent her native identity is not arbitrary, for, as Ted Swedenburg argues, '[t]hrough identification with the figure of the peasant, a scattered population acquired a sense of itself as a community with roots in a specific place ' (1990, 24).Opposed to the fragmented identity of the displaced refugee is the notional consistency and steadfastness of the peasantry, which serves as an anchor for the native cultural and political identity.Swedenburg examines the peasantry in relation to settler colonialism, arguing that due to their intimate relation to the land and their supposedly unchanging culture, Palestinian peasantry emerged as a critical ideological weapon against the violations of settler colonialism (1990).Although, historically, peasants have been associated with the countryside, simplicity, conservatism, and ignorance, the Nakba resulted in a reverse in this prejudice.Karmi's identification with Fatima, rather than with other middle or upper class Palestinians, echoes Swedeburg's observation that the peasant became a signifier of all that is authentically Palestinian after 1948.Fatima appears to be of utter significance to Karmi's work, despite the latter's acknowledgment of her distinctive background as the grandchild of a prominent qadi, a religious scholar, a judge, and a landowner, and the daughter of a well-off, well-educated man of letters, as well as being a member of the prominent Karmi family.Fatima serves as an anchor for Karmi's precarious identity.Her search for Fatima becomes a search for identity, as hinted at in the titles.The author acknowledges that the fellahin, the peasants, do not only form the majority of Palestinians, but also represent the spirit of the native culture and traditions.She demonstrates that in the pre-1948 era, they were perceived as 'primitive and uncivilized' by the elite (2004,18).However, she goes on to assert that the fellahin, judged uneducated and backward on the one hand, were also seen as symbols of tenacity, simplicity and steadfastness on the other.They represented continuity and tradition and the essence of what it was to be Palestinian.And people believe that it was these qualities which saved them from disintegration in the refugee camps after 1948. (2004, 20-21) In Karmi's second memoir, Return, Fatima's life story is re-narrated in a chapter devoted to her, and the author's return to Palestine becomes necessarily associated with Fatima.Hence, finding out her whereabouts appears to be a part of Karmi's journey of self-discovery.'Fatima's life had been a difficult one', she recounts, and she continues to narrate the story, from her early marriage, to her escape from the abusive husband, to her struggles to raise her two daughters (2015,260).Her misfortunes culminate in her uprooting from her native village.Fatima's significance to Karmi becomes more evident when the latter declares: 'To leave her was to leave all that I knew as home, its comfort and security', in reference to the day of departure (2015,265).
Besides peasants, refugees have been an emblem of Palestinian identity after 1948, not only due to the immediate and traumatic bearing of the Nakba in shaping their destinies, but also due to the fact that the refugee camp was the starting point of what later came to be the PLO.Karmi's interaction with the children in a refugee camp upon a short visit to Lebanon represents a subsequent moment of self-realisation for her.The figures of the refugee [for example, Handala], the freedom fighter [the Fedayeen] and the peasant, among others, have emerged as powerful cultural and national emblems of Palestine, which is why they elicit a sense of national affiliation in the writings of people like Karmi.When she encounters the refugee children in the camp, she highlights their deprived and marginalised subaltern status.Compared to them, Karmi signals that she is considered privileged to have found refuge in the West.More importantly, though, they are represented as a link that sparks her sense of identity: I suddenly saw that my life there [in England] was nothing but an act.I was playing at being Palestinian, unwilling to soil myself with its reality.It was these poor boys, these 'terrorists', with their wretched lives and the certainty of their violent ends, who were the reality.All else was hollow, self-indulgent pretence […].I decided that the only honourable course open to me was to leave my comfortable, but dishonest English lifestyle, and make a genuine contribution.(2004,404) But Karmi neither simplifies nor solves the complexity of her identity by the realisation that she belongs to another place and to another people.On the contrary, the last part of the narrative proves that the rupture created in 1948 can never be undone and that the identity of a banished refugee remains integrally fragmented and manifold.'And what of me?' she wonders at the end of her journey to Palestine, '[d]isillusioned, restless, without a place to settle and destined to remain so for the rest of my life ' (2004, 445).Her journey back to the Arab world makes her aware that she was 'as alien to them [Arabs] as they to [her]' (2004,414).She eventually concludes that she was 'dislocated in both mind and body, straddling two cultures and unable to belong in either ' (2004, 422).While this applies to any returnee, Karmi stresses the gender dynamic when she realises that her western upbringing and mentality make her 'a woman of questionable morals and potentially loose behaviour' in Arab society (2004,416).In a way, Karmi seems to be echoing Crenshaw's argument that intersectionality is critical in the examination of marginalised identities, for it helps us 'to understand the need for and to summon the courage to challenge groups that are after all, in one sense, "home" to us, in the name of the parts of us that are not made at home ' (1991, 1299).Karmi goes back to the Middle East with the impression that she will be 'at home' among her people.But it turns out that her marginalisation in Britain due to her ethnicity counterparts her demotion at home due to her westernisation, which accordingly turns her into a pariah in both communities.
Perhaps what stands out in Karmi's narrative is the way in which the Karmis as a family dealt with the memory of the Nakba, which in fact contributed to the rupture in their life narrative.Karmi maintains that her family 'never formed the habit of recalling the past in those early years [after 1948]' and that they did not discuss 'what had happened to [them] or how [they] had felt during those last terrifying months in Jerusalem' (2015,266).Avoidance among traumatised Indigenous communities has been identified as a coping mechanism that these communities develop 'in order to lessen thoughts and feelings associated with the event', which is why, in intergenerational trauma studies, 'silence' about the incident among traumatised families is prevalent, and is primarily manifested in the inability of the first generation to communicate their feelings about the trauma, which eventually leads to 'discontinuity […] in the historical legacy of the family' (O'Neill et al. 2018, 179).These studies explain the silence that turns the mention of the Nakba into a 'taboo', as Karmi puts it (2015, 267).This, however, challenges and contradicts Devin Atallah's conclusion that the values of resistance, return, and perseverance appeared as fundamental cultural constructs among Palestinian refugees (2017).This suggests that it is problematic to make any general assumptions about the experience of exile or refuge, as it varies even among members of the same community.The ways in which different people come to terms with colonial conditions also vary widely.Karmi acknowledges that the rupture was 'too violent, too final for them to digest, and so they put the memories away ' (2015, 267).The fact that her family ended up exiled alone in a western community could explain that, for as Atallah maintains, 'cultures of care' developed among affected communities in an attempt to overcome, or at least deal with the trauma collectively, which he relates to the Arab proverb 'If you distribute the heavy load, it will be easier to carry', highlighting the cultural dimension of handling trauma (2017,372).Because London did not offer the collectivist culture of care and the sense of community that is needed to handle the traumatic experience of expulsion,partly due to the individualist nature of Western cultures, but also due to the dire post-war conditions of the forties-the Karmis failed to confront their reality, let alone address their trauma appropriately.The author concludes that the rupture manifested itself in the family dynamics in regard to cultural affiliation: … we ended up having neither the advantages of an English family, whose members may have been cold but at least respected each other and had few expectations of the sort we had, nor those of the classic Arab unit with its warmth and closeness.(2015,162) If anything, this verifies the argument made before: incoherence, disjunction, and fragmentation are integral components of experiences shaped by exile and colonialism.Even if persistently repressed, the rupture formed by colonial displacement cannot be undone, which creates a situation in which the subject is constantly on the threshold of both cultures.Mouffe's observations about the multiplicity and incoherence of affiliation resonate in Karmi's narrative, for the latter's identity is constantly redefined in relation to her surrounding: in England, she is repetitively reminded that she is not truly English, and her return to the Middle East proves that she is too western to be Arab.The only way out, thus, is embracing the multiplicity of identity, accompanied by the incoherence and irrationality that come along with it.
Accepting that designates the significance of understanding identity beyond the collectivism/individualism dichotomy.Identities of colonial subjects are necessarily defined in relation to both the collective and the colonial other, which indicates that colonial identities are unavoidably relational.This, however, creates a conflict.While lifewriting is a platform to express the desire of the individual to identify independently and separately from the embargoes of patriarchal and conformist power structures, colonialism adds another dimension to the existing power dynamics, one that necessitates the affiliation of the individual to the native collective, or at least to the common cause.This is further intensified in a settler colonial context in which the ultimate objective is to eliminate the native collective altogether.In this case, collective affiliation and relational identity become indispensable for survival and continuity, as Karmi powerfully illustrates.

Raja Shehadeh
Raja Shehadeh's autobiographical account Strangers in the House can be read as the author's attempt of individualisation, distinction, and self-realisation, centralising the perpetual conflict between the sovereign individual, the native collective, and the colonial authority.In line with Fanon's assertion, Shehadeh asks: 'Who was I, then?[…].I began to write to find my way out of this dilemma', underpinning the correlation between autobiographical writing, identification and the colonial experience (2009,74).Despite the vast difference between Karmi's experience of exile and Shehadeh's life under colonial occupation, both accounts depict the unresolvable tension between the free-spirited individual restrained by strict cultural norms and the politically committed subject involved in the anticolonial collective struggle.Shehadeh presents a more immediate account than Karmi, given his endurance in Palestine and his witness of the evolution of the settler colonial project, which renders his life narrative into a documentary account of life under military colonial occupation.His immediate involvement in the Palestinian struggle for justice vindicates his depiction of relational and collectivist identification.Similar to Karmi, Shehadeh starts his narrative by documenting the collective experience of the Nakba, as a result of which his family was forced to leave cosmopolitan and vibrant Jaffa to settle in provincial Ramallah.Born to a traumatised family that yearns for a bygone glory, Shehadeh recounts the inherited identity quandaries that shaped his childhood, and which continued to burden him throughout his life.The narrative initially deals with the author's struggle as a rebellious young man in a culture that is patriarchal, collectivist, and traditional.That culture is mainly represented by the father, who plays a pivotal role in shaping the life of the author.However, Shehadeh complicates this conflict by highlighting the historical and political foundations of Palestinian collectivism, which he mainly attributes to the common bond of oppression.To a large extent, this comes as a result to his close engagement with people directly affected by the settler colonial project.His legal career, as well as his establishment of Al-Haq, one of the first Palestinian human rights organisations, opened his eyes to the brutality that defines settler colonialism, a theme that prevails in his memoirs through his documentation of stories of loss and misfortune.Self-identification in Shehadeh's narrative is thus constructed in relation to two entities: his native culture primarily represented by his father, and the colonial other.While the former struggle individualises the author, the latter compels him to identify with his own people, which results in an endless, unresolvable conflict between the desire for individual identification and the obligation of collective struggle.Shehadeh effectively depicts the conflict of affiliations, which Mouffe ascribes to subjects with marginalised identities, deconstructing thereby the notion of a unified, homogenous selfhood amidst the dilemma of contradicting identifications (Mouffe 2005, 77).
As the title suggests, the father-son relation is pivotal to Shehadeh's work.The status that his father held in society complicated that relation further, for he was a prominent yet controversial figure.It becomes clear that his life revolves around his father when he states: 'I have spent my life trying to unravel the enigma that he presented as I tried to get close to him ' (2009, 68).He maintains that he 'wished not for a political leader but for an understanding father ' (2009, 67).Coming of age intensifies the rupture between the two; to the extent that the author acknowledges his deep desire of his father's recognition: 'I seemed to be postponing my growth by suppressing any signs of manhood as I waited for my father's recognition ' (2009, 69).The author asserts that his father 'did his best to make a man of [him] according to Arab culture ' (2009, 178).His failure to assume the role enforced on him turned him into an 'enigma' to the community.For example, his unwillingness to get married despite turning more than thirty raised questions: 'Why was I showing no interest in marriage?What was wrong?' (2009, 179).Shehadeh demonstrates that patriarchy represses not just women, but also men who do not adhere to ideals of hegemonic masculinity.
Shehadeh's departure to study in Beirut resulted in forming some kind of bond with his father through corresponding in letters, as it enabled him to 'communicate with [his father] in a way that [he] had been unable to do face to face ' (2009, 82).His confessional letters to his father deepened their relation, revealing so much about both, that Shehadeh is struck by 'how unusual it was for a son, particularly in Arab society, to write so openly to his father ' (2009, 87).But this development of relationship does not last long, for it deteriorates as soon as Shehadeh decides to seek independence.In his quest for independence, however, he is constantly questioning his autonomy.For example, after breaking up with his American girlfriend, he tries 'to convince [himself] that this was [his] own decision, not at all influenced by [his] father' who expressed worry about the relationship (2009,91).His precarious sense of identity is revealed every time he is compelled to choose between what he desires and what is expected from him by the patriarch of the family and the wider community.This becomes more evident in the author's time in London, which he describes as difficult because he was following 'two programs': his father's and his own.The first was that of a conventional Palestinian man who studies and returns to serve his country, and the second is that of a 'liberated, progressive young man who believed in personal freedom, in free love, in living outside society'.He draws contrast between the 'conventional man' that his father wants him to be, and the 'nonconformist' that he is, recapping thereby the struggle of the free individual in a collectivist culture (2009,96).Eventually, however, all of his attempts to satisfy his father fail, as he realises that he 'was not a success in the eyes of the man [he] cared most to please', despite his career success and self-realisation (2009,176).At some point, Shehadeh realises that the relation he had with his father was established on the basis of 'emotional blackmail' (2009,114): 'I could not be a man until he declared me one, and he would not do so until I satisfied his standards ' (2009, 114).Furthermore, he realises that their quarrel is not simply a political disagreement between an idealist who has faith in human rights and a pragmatist who believes in political resolutions and collaborations, but rather a conflict informed by 'psychological reasons' (2009,173).Due to his uncommon political views, the father has been 'excluded, isolated, and depressed', which is why the author acknowledges his desire to be distanced from him as much as possible (2009,173).His father became a pariah after bitterly uttering the unutterable: that is, the recognition of Israel.But he recognises that the conflict with his father seems to be oedipal at times, as he describes that his 'dreams were […] pervaded by the wish for [his] father's death ' (2009, 190).
The father-son relation is further complicated by the ideological differences between the two, which manifests itself in their political insights and affiliations.In a highly politicised context, political differences can affect personal and familial relations, the author seems to illustrate.He acknowledges, for example, that he 'had suppressed [his] true feelings for the Israelis because of [his] father's position', which he eventually concludes was not necessarily his own (2009,100).This is further complicated by the burden of memory, which appears to be a load that children of refugees have to live with: 'I became a hostage to his historical memory.He held the keys to the past, which I could unlock only if he handed them over to me.I knew only what he told me ' (2009, 64).Shehadeh sheds light, if only briefly, on intergenerational trauma among refugees, which has been a matter of research in Palestinian and postcolonial studies more broadly.Unlike the Karmis, as demonstrated earlier, the Shehadehs articulated their sense of loss expressively and did not evade it, which signifies the dissimilar ways in which refugees coped with their traumatic loss.It is always the case, however, that the burden of trauma is transmitted intergenerationally.
Besides his familial conflict with his father, Shehadeh's conflict with the collectivist society to which he belongs is another pivotal struggle that he underlines in the narrative, emphasising his sense of individuality.The narrative highlights intragroup conflicts that arise in contexts of oppression where essentialisation is strategically endorsed as a means of resistance.This is particularly reflected in Shehadeh's critique of social behaviour: It's a society that encourages you to cringe.Most of your energy is spent extending feelers to detect public perception of your actions, because your survival is contingent on remaining on good terms with your society.You have to be attentive to your extended family so that you can continue to count on their support.(2009,138) As a result of forced conformity, he recognises that he has become 'so immature, so independent, so emotionally stifled', and that is mainly because he 'came from an insecure society that was claiming [him]' (2009,97).The collectivist cultural framework compels the individual to seek constant validation from others, as the author implies: 'My own life could not be validated unless confirmed by their gaze ' (2009, 30).Later on in the narrative, the assertiveness and individuality that he manifests appear to be essential to the development of his identity, as he declares: 'I don't want to adapt to the crooked ways of society.I want to change them ' (2009, 182).His rebellion is targeted against both the coloniser and the native culture of the colonised, which highlights the multiplicity of hegemonic power dynamics.His divergence from society is sometimes manifested politically in regards to his fellow countrymen's insights on the coloniser.He asserts, for instance, that his attitudes were 'more differentiated, more sophisticated', while their 'simplistic, anti-Israel attitudes' did not appeal to him (2009,73).He asserts that his problem with his fellow countrymen, particularly those in the diaspora, is primarily caused by his unwillingness to accept the simplified views and terms that they prefer.To him, reality is experienced in 'tones of grey' rather than the one-dimensional black and white reality that they imagine (2009,140).He assertively holds the prevailing 'frivolous life' and 'skewed values' responsible for the failures of Palestinians (2009, 26).Here, Shehadeh indicates his deviation from the simplistic notion of a monolithic and one-dimensional identity, and reality more broadly.This hints at the author's rejection of binary oppositions, dichotomies, and either-or approaches, which are all simplifications of more multifaceted and more intricate realities.
However, Shehadeh's legal and political work at a later stage in life contributes to his understanding of the complexity of the situation, which he proves in the narrative by his constant contextualisation of the culture in relation to the historical and colonial context of Palestine.He does not abridge his native culture as simply primitive and regressive.On the contrary, he complicates the rationale that underpins cultural behaviour.He implies, for instance, that among the reasons behind the strictly conventional culture is the collective experience of oppression.Upon contemplating the idea of self-discovery, he realises that 'Palestinians cannot take chances with their lives.It would be unheard of to take a year off to travel and 'find myself'.There was no time to waste', as Palestine is 'a place riddled with insecurities' (2009,98).Notions of modernity, individualism, and personal liberties have traditionally been perceived as part of the threatening western, imperialist discourse, and hence have been discredited.To historicise non-western hesitance to endorse modernity, Maalouf argues that: [For] all those born in the failed cultures, openness to change and modernity presents itself differently.For the Chinese, Africans, Japanese, Indians and American Indians; as for Greeks, Russians, Iranians, Arabs, Jews and Turks, modernisation has constantly meant the abandoning of part of themselves.Even though it has sometimes been embraced with enthusiasm, it has never been adopted without a certain bitterness, without a feeling of humiliation and defection.Without a piercing doubt about the dangers of assimilation.Without a profound identity crisis.(2003,72) Shehadeh illustrates this dilemma as he recounts the struggles of negotiating his nonconformity in a society that has suffered immensely through western colonial interventions, first by the British Empire and then by the Zionist colonial project.This is further reflected in his later acknowledgement that a traumatised Indigenous community is understandably keener on conserving the remains of the culture that the colonised left intact, which is exemplified by the father figure, whose strict patriarchal nature is attributable to his difficult life that 'seemed to go from one catastrophe to another ' (2009, 24).Therefore, despite the author's condemnation of the regressive aspects of his native culture, he contextualises it within the broader historical framework of colonialism.
The idea of relational and collectivist identity in Shehadeh's narrative is not only manifested in the author's identification with his father, family, or society, but also in relation to the common cause of his people, underpinning thereby Spivakian strategic essentialism as a necessity for anticolonial endurance.He acknowledges, for instance, that '[his] life was dominated by the lost world of Palestine', highlighting that '[i]t was within that lost world narrative that I placed myself, defined myself, and assessed where I stood in the world' (2009,29).This corresponds to the idea of a relational identity, but expresses rather a relation to a cause, a place, or an ideal rather than a person.His identification with the collective based on the common cause is syntactically manifested by his frequent use of what Monica Fludernik refers to as 'we-narrative' (2012): 'We, the Palestinians, who lost our lands in 1948 […].We, who were now resolved to come to terms with our history and to determine our future life in peace and reconciliation with our bitterest enemy ' (2009, 48).Shehadeh appears to validate postcolonial scholarship that stresses the inevitability of relational identification in contexts of collective struggle.Francoise Lionnet, for instance, maintains that in postcolonial life-writing, 'the individual necessarily defines him or herself with regard to a community' which could be ethnic, racial or national (1995,22).Likewise, Ganesh Devy argues that if a [postcolonial] writer cannot relate himself meaningfully to his culture, his society, the whole purpose of writing an autobiography is lost.Such a book […] cannot succeed in creating organic links with the society which should be the aim of an autobiography.
Even in fiction, postcolonial writers often endorse a collectivist mode of identification, which, according to Fludernik, indicates 'the reflection of communal values and collective memory, which is tantamount to written history in the West' (2012,913).However, identification with the collective in Shehadeh's account is only referred to by the author when addressing the colonial struggle, which sheds light on the dynamicity and relativity of affiliation.
Shehadeh's insight on the question of affiliation remains ambiguous though, for he insists throughout the narrative that he is not a political activist for his cause.His political non-affiliation is related to, or rather a result of the fact that 'we were Palestinian; we must therefore be politically active', which is rather an obligation for which he shows contempt (2009,81).His understanding of belonging to his cause is manifested in his career in human rights and law rather than the conventional factional structure that dominates Palestinian society.His political non-affiliation contrasts with his sense of obligation to contribute to his cause: 'I would live close to the people, using my advantages as a Western-educated lawyer to interpret the law and contribute to the community' (2009,126).This reflects the tension between his disdain for collectivist, orthodox politics and his sense of obligation to contribute to the common anticolonial struggle.Overall, Shehadeh's sense of identity is presented as a tense conflict that remains unresolved till the end of the narrative.This reflects yet again the conflicted nature of identification in a colonial setting with intersectional power dynamics.

Conclusion
The two personal accounts presented in this article make evident the complex, fragmented, and precarious identities of colonial subjects who, whether in exile as in Karmi's case or at home as in Shehadeh's, negotiate multiple and conflicting affiliations, highlighting thereby the interruptive and shattering force of the imperialist enterprise.Intersectionality, as theorised by Crenshaw and Mouffe, appears to be the most applicable theoretical framework that can address the issue of postcolonial identity, as it becomes a useful approach of mediating 'the tension between assertions of multiple identity and the ongoing necessity of group politics' (Crenshaw 1991(Crenshaw , 1296)).As Maalouf concludes, any simplification of the question of identity is problematic, reductionist and inadequate.Therefore, instead of aiming for generalisation and simplification, we should seek complication when addressing the intricacies of postcolonial identity.It can further be established from the analysis that an individualist mode of identification is unfeasible when the collective is being endangered by a colonial discourse that dehumanises and negates the Indigenous people.However, collectivism appears to be equally oppressive, in the sense that it refutes individualist agency and intergroup distinctions.Accepting the inevitability of the conflict is one way of dealing with it, but other outcomes might be insightful and thought-provoking.Strategic essentialism, which implicates the tactical endorsement of collectivist identity politics until decolonisation is accomplished, offers one way of identification.Despite its reductionist and confining nature, essentialism, if endorsed strategically and temporarily, provides a collective framework of reference for a colonised people struggling for liberation, given that despite their intergroup differences, they share a more immediate common cause.This is a premise that both Karmi and Shehadeh powerfully convey through their awareness of and persistence on their sovereign individuality whilst acknowledging the urgency of anticolonial struggle.Another way to see it, however, is by looking beyond the individualism/ collectivism dichotomy and by envisioning the possibility of a more egalitarian, just, and liberal form of collectivism.This invites questions about the native culture: Does identifying with the collective necessarily have to negate individual agency and freedom?Does the native culture have to maintain its patriarchal and despotic elements to preserve its distinctions?Can the native culture be reformed into one that brings people together, which remains a highly important coping mechanism among colonised people, without trespassing into their individual liberties?While these questions remain open for debate, they invoke a deviation from traditional binary oppositions, as well as an adoption of a non-essentialist, de-colonial, anti-nativist perception of identity.

Disclosure statement
No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author(s).