Book: A Grain of Wheat
Film: Il Conformista
Film: Andres No Quiere Dormir La Siesta
A Grain of Wheat is heartbreaking in its exploration of hope and hopelessness. It introduces the best and the worst that we as human beings are capable of, and shows how irrevocably intertwined they are inside each of us.
Mugo, for one, had a sad, lonely, and difficult early life, yet he survived and even hoped to thrive, despite overwhelming British oppression, and despite village pressure to take up arms against that oppression. He was humble and honest and kind, and his motto with regard to the fight for freedom was, “Please don’t involve me, and I won’t expect anything from you.” Due to a strong reticence and reluctance on his part (a likely result of the many cruel aspects of his upbringing) to share any bits of himself with anyone, he never actually vocalized this neutral, apolitical position, so it went unrealized by his peers. As will happen in any social group, Mugo’s acquaintances happily filled in the gaps, going so far as to construct a resistance hero out of his tortured silence.
The scope and intensity of oppression by the British knew no bounds. They viewed the indigenous population as sub-human, and were thereby able to rape, and pillage, and murder with no sense of remorse or shame or culpability. In fact, the British expected unrelenting gratitude and groveling servility befitting the pedestal on which they spuriously placed themselves: the superior race. Since the only real factor that lent credence to their delusion of superiority was superior weapons and warfare, the British were cognizant enough of the dubious merit of their pedestal to invest heavily in the strategy of “Divide and Conquer.”
The heroic resistance maintained by the Kenyans in the face of atrocious and inhumane slaughter was extraordinary. At one point the entire village was punished for the murder of a British soldier. The elderly, the young, even pregnant women were forced to dig a huge ditch while being continually and mercilessly whipped.
For Mugo, a line was crossed when he saw a pregnant woman flogged repeatedly. He abruptly tore the whip from the British offender’s hand, and was promptly carted off to a prison camp. The villagers were impressed and inspired by his courageous act of resistance, and his status as hero was cemented.
There was, however, a traitor among the resistance fighters. It had been discovered that Kihiki, a fierce and beloved resistance fighter who was caught and hung by the British, had been betrayed by one of his own.
When the British finally turned over the reins of government to the Kenyans, the Kenyans in Mugo’s village began planning a massive celebration, and pressed Mugo to be the main spokesman. Revenge was afoot, and the remaining resistance fighters, certain the traitor was Karanja, a fellow villager, intended to name him during the speeches.
The scene is now set for genuine regrowth and hope. Kenya will now be run by Kenyans. And the traitor responsible for Kihiki’s betrayal and death will finally be named and punished.
Reality, however, never proves so straightforward or accommodating. Optimism becomes overcast by a palpable sense of doom that creeps in among the celebration’s participants, who realize (but have difficulty coming to terms with the knowledge) that the emerging leaders of their country are the very collaborators who abetted the British, betraying their own countrymen in the process. What could the citizens expect from such compromised leaders? What, exactly, was going to change for the better? The lingering effects of “Divide and Conquer” still weighed heavily on future prospects.
Secondly, the spectacle of justice so long sought and relished by the resistance group for the betrayal of Kihiki, falls flat on its face when Mugo, the proffered hero of the celebration, confesses that he is the traitor.
Mugo, who knew the resistance group had identified the wrong man, could easily have allowed Karanja to be executed in his place. Moreover, there was very little that was admirable about Karanja, who had indeed collaborated with and appeased the British for his own personal gain. He had frequently informed on his neighbors, standing shrouded in a white sack that covered him from head to toe, holes cut out at the eyes, sending friends to death by a simple nod. He had even executed several prisoners himself; however, no evidence existed to prove Karanja’s treachery.
And it is Mugo’s integrity that is in question at the moment. Will he let another man be blamed for his own crime? And why did he betray Kihiki? If he could betray Kihiki, why would he have had any qualms about letting Karanja take the blame? But obviously Mugo does have qualms, and his courage indisputable. In front of the entire village, gathered to celebrate the liberation of their country, he confesses that he was responsible for the death of their greatest hero. He, Mugo, had betrayed Kihiki. And he apologizes publicly for it.
So why did Mugo betray Kahiki? He was admittedly enraged by Kihiki’s determination to match British violence with Kenyan violence. Mugo lived in dread that Kihiki’s actions would result in the destruction of the entire village. Having grown up in a noxiously blighted family environment (safe neither inside or outside his home), it is doubtful that he learned to cultivate hope, and instead learned to cultivate a great deal of resignation. He was heroic in his stoicism, able to resign himself to anything – except death. He wasn’t ready to die and fiercely resented Kihiki’s arrogance in assuming otherwise.
Mugo’s confession indicates that he has come to terms with the reality of his death. When, in the midst of the confusion following his confession, he wanders away, one can’t help but hope that perhaps the cycle of revenge may be broken. Even Kihiki’s sister, Mumbi, is not interested in revenge at this point. But two factors make this unlikely: 1. the resistance group, including Wambui (Kihiki’s mother), is feeling impotent about the course their country is embarking on. Was all their sacrifice worth it? The execution of a traitor to their cause at a time when they feel their dreams slipping away would reaffirm their choices and sacrifices; and 2. Mugo’s greatest facility is that of resignation.
The great contradiction represented by Mugo begs several complex questions. What is one’s responsibility to oneself and to one’s own growth and survival? To that of one’s immediate family? To one’s neighbors and friends? To one’s country? To the world?
When General R and Wambui do come to execute Mugo, they arrange for the trial to be held in secret. Public support for the execution is not on their side at the moment; but they pursue revenge regardless. “What is the point?” is a question raised frequently in this book. “What is the point in killing Mugo now?” is a question implied by the crowd when they allow Mugo to walk away unmolested. “What is the point in fighting for my life?” is a question implied by Mugo as he walks obligingly to his execution. “What was the point?” asks Thompson, the British officer who feels betrayed by his country for relinquishing its stranglehold on Kenya, rendering (in his estimation) his life work meaningless and potentially stripping him of a rationalization that justified and exalted his forays into inhumanity. “What was the point?” ask the resistance fighters as they watch their country handed over to the corrupt and power-hungry.
Hope has not disappeared entirely, however. It is the grain of wheat flourishing as Mumbi’s newly gained confidence, quiet and deep and strong. And the grain of wheat that is her child, fathered by Karanja, and finally accepted by Gikonyo. And the grain of wheat that Gikonyo can once again envision as the possibility of a future together with Mumbi.
Contrast the behavior of Marcello, the main character in the film Il Conformista, directed by Bernardo Bertolucci, and Mugo. Is there a difference between conforming and resignation?
It appears that Marcello, too, had a horrendous upbringing, since when we meet his parents through the adult Marcello, his mother is a drug addict and his father in an insane asylum.
As a boy, he is sexually abused by an older man, who likely provides attention Marcello so desperately seeks. At university, Marcello bonds with his professor, a staunch opponent of fascism, and follows in his path. His thesis is left unfinished, however, when Mussolini enters the political scene and Marcello’s professor removes himself to Paris, from which he continues his fight against fascism.
Marcello adapts to the political situation in which he finds himself and remakes himself accordingly. Not only does he become a proponent of fascism, but also he literally becomes an assassin, ridding the government of the enemies of fascism permanently.
One characteristic seemingly shared by both men is distance, from themselves and those around them. One difference is that Marcello desperately seeks approval from authority figures in society whereas Mugo is interested in winning nobody’s approval. He has learned that there is no achievable place for him in a society subjugated by racists. He just wants to be left alone.
Neither man feels he owes a responsibility to society, but things fall apart as Marcello is unable to control his need for affirmation from a society whose norms continually fluctuate, and Mugo learns that he will never be allowed to separate himself completely from the context of his surroundings.
Out of frustration and confusion, they both make terrible decisions that lead to the death/s of others. Where they differ, however, is in their choice to take or shirk responsibility for their actions.
Despite the ease with which Mugo could have avoided blame and thereby possible execution, he demonstrates his integrity by owning the heinous act that has always weighed heavily on him. He no longer justifies his behavior with excuses of past hardships. He shines a spotlight on that terrible action which is interspersed with many kind, courageous actions throughout his life. He proves that character matters when he chooses, in the face of death, to live a felt life.
Marcello’s sense of self, on the other hand (never well-formed to begin with), has completely fragmented. He has run out of identities to assume in order to please authority figures and thus to win approval. By blaming everyone but himself for the unfortunate choices he has made as an adult, he has killed every possibility of providing meaning to his life.
His motivation for taking on the assassination of the professor and his wife seems less the result of a fervent belief in fascism than a petulant anger at being deserted by his father figure at university. When Mussolini falls and Marcello realizes that his actions will now be judged very differently, he not only refuses to take responsibility for his past deeds, but also blatantly and falsely accuses others from his past of committing these crimes.
Marcello feels justified in accusing everyone else. He blames the chauffeur who killed his childhood, and the professor who killed his young adulthood, and his blind friend, who, by offering him entry into the fascist regime, killed his adult future.
Mugo, fighting against heavy odds for a quiet sense of self, didn’t have the opportunity or tools or energy to extend that outward to a sense of community. For Marcello, self had no meaning. He only existed within the approval of power figures in society.
At what point are we responsible for rising above whatever tragedies or difficulties we have experienced throughout our lives, and taking responsibility for our current actions and for the course of our lives?
Both Marcello and Mugo are obligated, regardless of their past experiences, to take responsibility for themselves. That said, we as a society are responsible for preventing the horrific abuse of these children and the devastating effects of racism and subjugation on our relationships and our growth. It works both ways. Problems within society can only be fixed by society. We are the problem. What are we doing wrong, and what are we doing right, and how do we improve ourselves and lift each other up?
The consequences of choosing not to lift each other up can be seen in the film Andres No Quiere Dormir La Siesta, directed by Daniel Bustamente. I surprised myself by how strongly I reacted to the film. I was highly annoyed on one hand, and heavily bereft on the other. “What was the point?” I couldn’t help but wonder, feeling slightly manipulated by the film. I realized I was expecting to find sparks of hope, tiny grains of wheat, glimmering somewhere in its universe; instead it seemed a primer on how to sniff out hope in order to dash it to death. It rendered my half-formed ideas of the effects of nihilism tangible. I was watching the making of a tyrant, a sociopath, in real time.
The engaging opening scene between Andres and his grandmother, Olga, framed my expectations for the coming scenes, easily influencing me to misread subsequent events and relationships.
I initially misdiagnosed what motivated Andres’s older brother disdain for their grandmother, Olga. I assumed it was jealousy; ditto the disdain Olga’s own daughter showed her. Olga seemed to favor Andres over everyone and didn’t bother to hide it. In her favor, she also seemed to have a healthy relationship with her daughter-in-law, Andres’ mother, whose spirit and warmth were infectious.
Eventually it became obvious that the simmering hostile family dynamics was a microcosm of the macrocosm that was Argentina in the late 1970s: a military dictatorship where “Divide and Conquer” ruled the day. Citizens were encouraged and forced to denounce their friends and neighbors in order to keep themselves and their families safe. People were constantly “disappeared”. So-called “secret” interrogation sites were set up in neighborhoods to terrorize residents into complete obeisance. As Olga’s harsh methods and tough love crystallized into something more sinister on screen, her motivation had originally appeared to stem from a desire to keep her family safe. But as events progressed it became obvious that her motivation was control for control’s sake. Any manifestation of tenderness or kindness between family members was quashed by means of her own version of “Divide and Conquer”: she worked tirelessly to undermine any hint of self-worth, or hope, or tenderness and turn it into helplessness, hopelessness, and hate. She meant to control not only what her family did, but also what they thought. It was her reality or no reality, and her reality consisted only of control. What was happening in the interrogation sites on a physical level was occurring in Olga’s home on a mental level. In the end she succeeded in robbing her grandson, Andres, of a felt life and transforming him into a machine of cold despair, not only incapable of forming connections, but also determined to destroy them. His open heart and sensitive nature made him more susceptible to her machinations because she was able to hurt him on a level so deep that he couldn’t recover.