Obasan (Criticism)
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Since its publication in 1981, Joy Kogawas Obasan has assumed an important place in Canadian literature and in the broadly-defined, Asian-American literary canon. Reviewers immediately heralded the novel for its poetic force and its moving portrayal of an often-ignored aspect of Canadian and American history. Since then, critics have expanded upon this initial commentary to examine more closely the themes and images in Kogawas work. Critical attention has focused on the difficulties and ambiguities of what is, in more ways than one, a challenging novel. The complexity of Obasans plot, the intensity of its imagery, and the quiet bitterness of its protest challenge readers to wrestle with language and meaning in much the same way that Naomi must struggle to understand her past and that of the larger Japanese-Canadian community. In this sense, the attention that Obasan has received from readers and critics parallels the challenges of the text: Kogawas novel, one might say, demands to be reckoned with, intellectually as well as emotionally.
Much about Kogawas novel makes it difficult not only to read but also to classify or categorize. First, Obasan blurs the line between nonfiction and fiction. Kogawa draws from actual letters and newspaper accounts, autobiographical details, and historical facts throughout the novel, but she artistically incorporates this material into a clearly fictional work. In addition, Kogawas narrative operates on multiple levels, from the individual and familial to the communal, national, political, and spiritual. Stylistically, the novel moves easily between the language of documentary reportage and a richly metaphorical language, and between straightforward narrative and stream-ofconsciousness exposition. This astonishing variety in Kogawas novel can, at times, become bewildering and unsettling to the reader. But as many readers and critics have noted, Kogawas style and method in Obasan also constitute the novels unique strength. Kogawa writes in such a way that ambiguity, uncertainty, irony, and paradox do not weaken her story but instead — paradoxically — become the keys to understanding it.
The readers experience of ambiguity in Obasan begins with the poetically-charged proem, preceding chapter one, which opens with these words:
There is a silence that cannot speak.
There is a silence that will not speak.
Does Kogawa intend these lines to introduce “silence” as a character of sorts? Does the second line clarify the first, or does it instead differentiate one silence from another, an involuntary muteness from a willed refusal to speak? These and other questions remain unanswered in the proem. Only after beginning the novel-proper does the reader recognize Naomi as the author of these words; and only after completing the novel can the reader begin to grasp the significance of the questions introduced in the proem, particularly the charged question of silence. Obasan dwells on many silences: the silence of history concerning the suffering of Japanese-Canadians during and after World War II; the silence of those who have died and “cannot speak” any longer; the “large and powerful” silence of Obasan; Aunt Emilys outspoken opposition to silence as a “word warrior” for the Japanese Canadian cause; the silence of Obasan, Uncle, and Emily who, in spite of Naomis questions, “will not speak” of the fate of her mother; and, finally, Naomis “Silent Mother” herself, who initially chooses not to speak of her horrific injuries at Nagasaki in an effort to protect her children from the truth, then is lost in the permanent silence of death. Naomis persistent attempts to penetrate these various silences form the story at the heart of Obasan.
However, Kogawa also recognizes the paradoxical power of silence. Naomi wonders, for example, if Obasans grief might represent a “language” with “idioms” and “nuances” all its own. While Obasans silent suffering often brings her to isolation and a trance-like paralysis, Naomi also sees in her a representative figure of strength and endurance, “the bearer of keys to unknown doorways and to a network of astonishing tunnels.” As King-Kok Cheung argues in her reading of Obasan, “one must avoid gliding over the tonalities of silence in the novel” in order to recognize the “quiet strength” of first-generation Japanese-Canadians like Uncle and Obasan.
Conversely, Kogawa illustrates that language is only a potential antidote to a dangerous silence: like silence, language can imprison just as it can liberate. Emilys bundle of written documents clearly exerts a powerful, positive influence on Naomi by urging her to “remember everything” and to come to terms with the pain of her childhood and adolescence. Yet Naomi also wonders if “all of Aunt Emilys words, all her papers” finally amount to little more than “scratchings in the barnyard.” Emily may be a “word warrior,” but her “paper battles” cannot bring Naomis parents back to life or return the family to their idyllic Vancouver home, cannot address the deepest truth of Naomis loss.
Similarly, when Emily writes “Canadian citizen” over “Japanese race” in a pamphlet, the gesture appears utterly futile next to the Canadian governments powerful naming. Those in power can, for example, call Japan the rightful “homeland” of Japanese-Canadians or mask official acts of racist persecution with deceptively-bland terms such as “evacuation,” “relocation,” and “assistance.” Kogawa understands that the efficacy of language depends in part on the power to enforce words, to enforce a version of reality. At the same time, she powerfully depicts Naomis struggle to find words of her own to describe her childhood experience. Naomi needs to find language to mark out a middle ground between Emilys solution, “spreading words like buckshot,” and Obasans retreat into silence.
Kogawa also uses the motif of language and silence to illustrate the paradoxical or ironic nature of Naomis experience as a child. For instance, Naomis abuse at the hands of Old Man Gower produces a particularly painful double-bind of silence. On the one hand, with Mr. Gower, Naomi feels that remaining silent is the only way to be “whole and safe”: “If I am still, I will be safe. If I speak, I will split open and spill out.” On the other hand, her secret knowledge and shame threaten