Now the childhood dreams are past. Now there is Konrad. As soon as the war ends, there will be her and Konrad. As soon as the war ends, there will be food and silk. She'll never wear grey again, never re-use tea leaves again, never lift a bamboo spear, or enter a factory or bomb shelter. As soon as the war ends there will be a ship to take her and Konrad far away into a world without duty.
When will the war end? It cannot happen quickly enough.
In perhaps one of the most heartbreaking passages of Burnt Shadows, Hiroko looks ahead to brighter days after the war. Soon, her entire world will be shattered by the atomic bomb. This event will bring about the end of Japan's involvement in the Second World War, but it will also ruin Hiroko's dreams of a future life with Konrad. This is one of many of the tragic throughlines of Burnt Shadows: many characters hope for better days, beyond the political turmoil and devastation that surround them. However, their hopes for the future rarely pan out, and instead, they are forced to pick up the pieces and keep moving forward.
"Do you think an Englishman will ever write a masterpiece in Urdu?"
"No." James shook his head. 'If there ever was a time we were interested in entering your world in that way, it's long past. And you wouldn't know what to do with us if we tried."
It seemed to Sajjad these were the kinds of things said so often that repetition made fact of conjecture. He'd know what to do with an Urdu masterpiece written by an Englishman. He'd read it. Why pretend it was more complicated than that?
In this passage, James and Sajjad are discussing great works of literature. The conversation is incited by James's dismissal of Ahmed Ali's Twilight in Dehli, which was published in English by an Indian author. James's response to Sajjad's question, that an Englishman would never write a masterpiece in Urdu, frustrates Sajjad. It expresses the English colonial attitude of seeing Indians as "other" and "less than." Though the British Raj (British colonial rule in India) lasted from 1858 to 1947 (nearly 90 years), the English have kept themselves separate from the Indians, refusing to mix with Indian culture or learn their language.
"There is a phrase I have learned in English: to leave someone alone with their grief. Urdu has no equivalent phrase. It only understands the concept of gathering around and becoming 'ghum-khaur'—grief-eaters—who take in the mourner's sorrow. Would you like me to be in English or in Urdu right now?"
Sajjad says these words to Hiroko as she tells him about her grief about Konrad. He uses his understanding of an English idiom and an Urdu concept to ask Hiroko how she prefers to be comforted. The theme of intimacy created through language appears here: Hiroko and Sajjad can find common ground using two languages instead of one, thus creating a "secret language" that they can share. Additionally, this is a sign of the burgeoning closeness between Hiroko and Sajjad, as they find common ground despite their differences. Though Hiroko is staying in the Burton household as their guest, she sees Sajjad as an equal and is curious about his culture. Later, she will tell Sajjad that she sees more similarities between Indian and Japanese culture than between herself and the Burtons. That she wants to be consoled in the Indian way rather than the English way is a testament to this.
"Why have the English remained so English? Throughout India's history conquerors have come from elsewhere, and all of them—Turk, Arab, Hun, Mongol, Persian—have become Indian. If—when—this Pakistan happens, those Muslims who leave Delhi and Lucknow and Hyderabad to go there, they will be leaving their homes. But when the English leave, they'll be going home."
Sajjad says these words to James and Elizabeth in a moment of mounting tension. Sajjad had taken James, Elizabeth, and Hiroko to Qutb Minar, a "victory tower" constructed by Sajjad's ancestors, who were conquerors from Turkey seven centuries ago. Despite the fact that he is a descendant of conquerors, however, Sajjad is Indian; the conquerors became Indian rather than the other way around. Sajjad uses this explanation of his people's history to question James and Elizabeth as to why the English conquerors stayed so separate from Indians, their language, and their culture. They have remained outsiders in India rather than assimilating. This is the first time that Sajjad uses a harsh tone with the Burtons, which is immediately quelled by a warning from James. Sajjad's frustration does not go unnoticed by Hiroko, who is equally frustrated that the Burtons are not respecting Sajjad in particular or Indian culture as a whole.
It was not the notion of power itself that interested Harry, but the idea of it concentrated in a nation of migrants. Dreamers and poets could not come up with a wiser system of world politics: a single democratic country in power, whose citizens were connected to every nation in the world. How could anything but justice be the most abiding characteristic of that country's dealings with the world? That was the future Harry Burton saw, the future of which he determined to be a part. And he would not be one of those men to stay out of a war while claiming to care passionately about its outcome.
In this passage, Harry is musing on his involvement with the CIA and his feelings about the United States. In Harry's perspective, the United States is the greatest country in the world as it is a "nation of migrants" where, to belong, "all you had to do was show yourself willing to be American" (174). Harry justifies his involvement in the Afghan War because of his ideological support of capitalism and the American Dream. This ideology reflects that of many Americans, who justify American involvement in foreign wars because they believe in "a single democratic country in power."
Decades later, Harry will be working as a private contractor on behalf of the United States in Afghanistan and his point-of-view on the United States will become more complex. And, as Burnt Shadows shows us, the American Dream comes with its own caveats. It is not accessible to everybody; in fact, it is limited to the lucky few.
It didn't bother her in the least to know she would always be a foreigner in Pakistan—she had no interest in belonging to anything as contradictorily insubstantial and damaging as a nation—but this didn't stop her from recognizing how Raza flinched every time a Pakistani asked him where he was from.
Here, Hiroko reflects on how she is viewed in Pakistan as a Japanese woman who moved there in her 20s. She has accepted that she will always be considered an outsider by her community. This does not bother her, as she recoils at the very idea of a "nation" anyway. (Hiroko's views contrast with Harry's views in Quote 5 above—while Harry believes the United States is the best nation, Hiroko is suspicious of every nation). Raza, on the other hand, has a harder time dealing with his difference. He was born in his moholla and has never lived anywhere else; he grew up alongside his schoolmates and went through every life advancement alongside them. Despite this, he is never seen as truly belonging in Pakistan because he is mixed race.
Raza hopped back and pressed himself against the mountain. He hadn't realised how close he had strayed to the edge of the path in his intent perusal of the scene on the plateau below—the cluster of tents, the unexpected livestock, the men with light shining from their bodies. The creatures of this planet are part angel, he found himself thinking, before a closer view revealed each one of the men carried a Kalashnikov which reflected the sun's rays.
In this passage, Raza and Abdullah are approaching the mujahideen training camp. Raza's plans to spend a short time at the camp and escape home have been foiled by the fact that he is completely out of his element and incredibly far away from home. As Raza and Abdullah get closer to the camp, Raza's fear increases. His first impression of the camp is that it is a scene from another planet, populated by angels. He snaps back to reality, however, when he sees the weapons that the men are carrying.
It seemed impossible sometimes, Kim Burton's blindness. And yet more impossible to hold anything against a woman of such genuine warmth and charm, all the most appealing parts of Konrad, Ilse and Harry right there in the pressure of her fingertips, the concern in her open, guileless face, her desire to know what exactly it was she'd got wrong this time. Hiroko had quite fallen in love with her within minutes of their meeting.
Hiroko expresses her frustration at Kim's "blindness" in this passage as the younger woman grieves 9/11 and believes the terrorist attack to have affected the entire world. Hiroko, who lived through the atomic bomb in Nagasaki, knows that 9/11 is just another link on a long chain of global death and destruction caused by war. Despite this, Hiroko is fond of Kim because she believes that Kim has a good character. She also sees Kim's family members in her—Hiroko has maintained a relationship with the Burton family for nearly 60 years.
One phone call from Steve—perhaps that call had already been made—and he would enter data banks the world over as a suspected terrorist. His bank accounts frozen. His mother's phone tapped. His emails and phone logs, his Internet traffic, his credit-card receipts: no longer the markers of his daily life allowing him to wind a path back through a thicket of lovers to the specificity of the 3:13 a.m. call with Margo, the poem forwarded to Aliya, the box of Miami sand couriered to Natalie, but a different kind of evidence entirely. That nothing in the world could possibly show him to be Harry Burton's murderer seemed barely to matter in the face of all that could be done to his life before that conclusion. If anyone even bothered with a conclusion. He had never felt so sharply the powerlessness of being merely Pakistani.
Raza is full of anxiety after Steve accuses him of being involved in Harry's death. He knows that he is up against all of the powers of the U.S. government, where they will invade his life searching for evidence. Raza knows that they will come after him even if they do not have evidence that he committed the crime. His religion and nationality mark him as suspicious in the eyes of the government. He is completely powerless.
"Your mother told me something of your life—your real life. So. Your mother lost her family and home to war; your father was torn away from the city whose poetry and history had nurtured his family for generations; your second father was shot dead in Afghanistan; the CIA thinks you're a terrorist; you've travelled in the hold of a ship, knowing that if you died no one would ever know; home is something you remember, not some place you live; and your first thought when you reach safety is how to help a friend you haven't seen in twenty years, and this is the part of your story you say the least about. Raza, my brother, truly now you are an Afghan."
Raza and Abdullah meet again after having been separated in the mujahideen training camp 18 years ago. Since then, their lives have taken drastically different paths: Raza joined a private military contractor that works on behalf of the United States government. Abdullah stayed with the mujahideen through the end of the Afghan war but ended up moving to New York City when he got tired of the fighting. He lived in the United States for several years, working as a taxi driver and sending money to his wife and child in Afghanistan. For years, Raza felt guilt for leading the 12-year-old Abdullah to the training camp and leaving him there. As it turns out, Abdullah has also been carrying guilt this whole time for telling the camp's commander Raza's true identity. At this moment, Raza and Abdullah find peace with each other and become brothers again. Abdullah tells Raza that he is Afghan in spirit, offering Raza a sense of belonging that has evaded him his entire life.
