Written in a disorienting and impassioned stream of consciousness, Meike Ziervogel’s third novel tells the story of a British woman’s conversion and intensifying devotion to Islam, and her eventual extremism. Kauthar, as much an exploration of breakdown and collapse as of the lines between devotion and delusion, faith and fundamentalism, does not shy away from suffering and darkness; instead, as in Magda and Clara’s Daughter, Ziervogel goes bravely to the bleakest points of humanity and illuminates them with her lyrical and enthralling prose.
Religion and personality are tied in Kauthar. In the opening pages, Lydia, aged 11, winded by an accident in a playground, experiences a moment of clarity: “her life, her being, is being revealed to her, in eternity, for eternity”. Here, the seeds of Kauthar, Lydia’s future self, are planted; later, Kauthar reflects “in front of the monkey bars on my knees, I met the Creator Himself”. Lydia and Kauthar battle throughout the book. Lydia, whose life lacks direction – often drunk, having an affair with a married man – invades Kauthar’s thoughts and life when the latter seems to question Islam (“Lydia strokes his head, strokes the head of my husband. I know it is her. She has crept back ... ”). The two fight for attention, for space on the page. As Kauthar’s devotion to Islam grows, Ziervogel phases Lydia out. We are left with a sense of loss, a narrowing of worldview.
Most importantly, Ziervogel makes strong distinctions between Islam and extremism. In a letter to her concerned parents after 9/11, Kauthar writes: “The men who committed these crimes […] are not Muslims. They are terrorists who don’t know their own religion and they turn and twist the words until it suits their own purpose.” Kauthar’s eventual flight to extremism is shown to not be a result of her faith, but rather of her inability to conceive and her need for stability, control and direction in life. The grace of Islam shines through on every page. The movements of prayer come from the “deepest unconscious” – they are “a dance performance. A gymnast’s routine” – and Arabic is “the language of the desert, the language of the hot wind, the gleaming sun”. In prayer, the unity between Kauthar and her husband is fully realised: “Rafiq’s voice and my voice are one, our bodies are one, before God, in the name of God, and they bow as one, as husband and wife.” Later, his peaceful practice of Islam contrasts with Kauthar’s extremism.
Kauthar’s personality and sense of perspective crumble with an excruciating slowness. Early on, her relationship with her hijab is empowering: “It indicates a part of me that belongs to Allah … it appears as if I am covering myself. But in actual fact I am revealing my true self.” After 9/11, her relationship to clothing changes (“I start wearing a cloak – an abaya – whenever I leave our flat. It makes me feel safe”). Eventually, she even keeps the curtains drawn. Hidden and segregated, “I no longer belong to the world outside the book [the Qur’an].”
The shrinking world of Kauthar is suffocating; to read this novel is to want to escape it, while feeling, at the same time, a compulsion to continue, to know the fate of its protagonist. Like Kauthar, we have no choice but to follow: “This is not my path but the one God has chosen for me. I have to follow it, wherever it may lead.” It is a book that demands to be swallowed in one sitting, despite its bitter contents; one that, in its intensity, resonates and echoes for days after finishing it.
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