Remembering Futures Past: Kader Abdolah's The King
By Kevin Schwartz, October 1, 2015
The King by Kader Abdolah, trans. by Nancy Forest-Flier, New Directions 2014
The not-so-distant future is sure to yield its share of fictional accounts of the current post-millennium era in American history. The best ones, it is hoped, will defer events and personalities into adept reconstructions of plot and character in ways which strict works of history putatively cannot: blurring the pivotal moments of the Wars in Afghanistan and Iraq; compressing the political calculations of the Bush and Obama presidencies; and collapsing the personalities of Osama bin Laden, Anwar al-Awlaki, and Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, or the likes of Julian Assange, Glenn Greenwald, and Edward Snowden, into a mythical thorn-in-the-side antagonist and truth-to-power speaker, respectively (or as the case may be, conversely).
Such artistic recreations of history are no less powerful in imparting the transcendental lessons of human action and emotion captured in the age they seek to deconstruct than scholarly historical works attempting to recreate the social and political tenor of the age they endeavor to reconstruct. The most captivating historical fiction—a term that fails to convey fully the gradations of deference to historical “accuracy” derived from the vast number of works that term encompasses—are those able to refashion a historical moment in a such way that the contemporary reader is compelled to connect with the past as well as reflect on a current historical predicament. An exemplary model of such craft at work is The King, the most recent novel from Iranian émigré author Kader Abdolah, a penname created in commemoration of two friends executed around the time of when Abdolah’s first work was published. (His given name is Hossein Sadjadi Ghaemmaghami Farahani.)
The King takes place from mid-19th to early-20th century Iran during the time of the Qajar Dynasty (1797-1924), and focuses on the rule of its longest reigning monarch, Nasir al-Din Shah (r. 1848-1896). The period of Nasir al-Din’s reign is extended in the novel to include events in the time of his two immediate successors, altogether one of the more intriguing periods in modern Iranian history. It witnessed a confrontation between a weak and decentralized state, often exercising power through arbitrary violence; incipient technological change; British and Russian designs on its territory, resources, and markets; calls for political reforms; increased intellectual and literary contact with Europe; and boycotts and protests, culminating in the Constitutional Revolution of 1906. The period dramatized the uncertainty and anxiety felt by the ruling Shahs for what they could stand to lose in terms of power matched against what society stood to gain in terms of reforms and freedoms. (The only other period when this seemed to be undoubtedly true, not surprisingly, was during the events of the 1979 Revolution.)
Abdolah captures beautifully the emotions building up to the Constitutional Revolution, incorporating a myriad of characters across court and society—from a royal mother engaged in diplomatic intrigue to a quietist religious scholar reluctant to get involved in politics—all swept up in cascading events too momentous to control or avoid. The result is a spellbinding tale, even as the precise formulations of some of the historical events are slightly amiss, occur out of order, or are inscribed with a misplaced causality. Such inaccuracies matter little; in fact, it is what makes the central parable of The King all the more delectable. Abdolah references this tactic in the book’s introduction, portraying himself as within the tradition of the storytellers of old who “played fast and loose with chronology and gave their fantasy free rein so the history they depict would be strong and colourful.” In Abdolah’s deft manipulation and ever-so-slight rearrangement of historical events, which all more or less occurred around the same time anyway, the real story emerges: the nature of state power, its abuse, and the will of the people to oppose it.
The King, most fundamentally, is a tale of a ruler’s struggle to maintain his vice-grip on power amidst a transitory time in his nation’s history, with clarion calls for political reforms. The struggle pits the Shah himself, artfully portrayed as the epitome of an agitated and insecure autocrat, against his intrepid reform-minded vizier Amir Kabir and a group of European-inspired intellectuals led by Jamal Khan. Both Amir Kabir and Jamal Khan correspond to actual historical figures—the former, Mirza Taqi Khan Amir Kabir (d. 1852), was Nasir al-Din’s historical vizier (one of two people to whom Abdolah dedicates the book)— while the latter is based on the peripatetic preacher, reformer, political activist, intellectual, and rabble rouser, Jamal al-Din “Al-Afghani” (d. 1897). In both cases, Abdolah takes liberties with their biographies and actual involvement in events. The King wonderfully depicts Nasir al-Din’s daily musings and interactions with other members of the court, harem, and foreign diplomatic corps. But it is his oppositional relationship to Amir Kabir and Jamal Khan that portrays most effectively the central drama, sharpening the ruler’s attitudes and desire to maintain control at all costs.
Both Amir Kabir and Jamal Khan want the same thing—to modernize and reform the state. But the Shah is unmoved by their overtures, even though his continued recalcitrance (and use of arrests and the gallows) only worsens his tenuous political position. Had he listened to Amir Kabir, who sought to initiate reforms from above, then perhaps he may have avoided a confrontation with the more vocal and rebellious Jamal Khan, who calls for more fundamental changes—such as the formation of a parliament, constitution, and adherence to the rule of law—which would have isolated the Shah and undermined his authority more than Amir Kabir intended. But Nasir al-Din is the Shah, and the Shah is the State.
Much here depicting the confrontation between state and society will surely suggest parallels to contemporary political life in Iran, such as the shouts of ma hameh ba ham hastim! (“We’re all in this together!”) among protesters clamoring for the formation of a parliament, to choose the most striking example. An identical slogan, often preceded by twice chanting na-tarsid! (Don’t be afraid!), was heard on the streets of Iran’s major cities following the contested 2009 presidential election. For Iranians of more than a century ago to chant a slogan so vividly connected to the raw emotion of the 2009 protests, one that became the rallying cry of protesters on a national basis, partially due to its spread over the internet, is certainly anachronistic; it’s also among the many wonderful flourishes Abdolah sprinkles throughout his tale, purposefully meant to recall Iran’s recent post-Revolution history as a trace of the present to float along with the past, and perhaps the future as well. For Abdolah follows the best tradition of tales of Iranian kings spun during the last millennium and recounted in teahouses, reflecting their long-held truths that time is cyclical, not linear and Fate cannot be altered or avoided. It takes a storyteller like Abdolah to remind us of this perspective, now and again, thankfully with a couple of twists that enable us to hold out hope that alternate paths are ever present, even if rarely chosen.
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Kevin Schwartz is Visiting Professor (Class of 1955 Chair in Middle East Studies) at the United States Naval Academy. His writing has appeared in such publications as Al Jazeera, The Baltimore Sun, Muftah, and Words without Borders. His website is www.kevinschwartz.org.