At a recent book club talk, my latest novel sparked an animated and far-reaching discussion on and around culture, belonging, identity and generally fitting-in. Again many instances of synchronicity with people coming up to me with variations on ‘I’ve always felt I never really belonged anywhere’.
The first draft of A Question of Belonging was written on leaving South Africa only to lie dormant for decades. And it’s only in retrospect I realise the story itself – the belonging part of the story – was always there and that it was just waiting for my own understanding. This came – largely – in two parts: uncovering the intricacies of my concealed past (see my historical novel A Break in the Chain) and the path my studies were to take. When I eventually rewrote the book, its final iteration was a far cry from its shy beginnings.
Why? Partly because my writing matured, but in the main, I think, because the time that passed was filled by the nomadic path I continued to tread. From the beginning, it had been suitcases, packing cases, many sadnesses as childhood friends became pen pals and beloved dogs were left behind, schools, boarding schools, ships, new countries, places, people, cultures, jobs – and houses, many many houses, some of which became homes. And little changed until I settled in Perth.
Towards the end of my precious uni years at UWA during which I was lucky enough to have Terri-ann White and Brenda Walker among my supervisors, I started to think about a PhD – and the theme that interested me most was loneliness: loneliness and how it is depicted in literature. Think books like The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner, Huckleberry Finn, Frankenstein and many more – increasing numbers today.
Following advice to progress my studies at a different university from my undergraduate days, I approached Murdoch where I was in discussion with a potential PhD supervisor when we were interrupted by Professor Vijay Mishra – newly returned from Canada and the Chair of Literature at Alberta University. We were introduced. Vijay took one look at me and said ‘I’ll take her on’ and that was that really. Except I had the chance to study under the guidance of one of the most incredible minds I’ve come across.
On the face of it, the resulting 120,000-word thesis “Writing From the Shadowlands” was a long way from my original wish to examine the concept of loneliness. But in reality it plunged me right into the entrails of one of the most controversial discussions of the twentieth century which had at its centre questions of identity, post-colonial discourse, cultural representation and appropriation.
It gave rise to a gradual awareness of my own rootlessness and how, unknown to my conscious self, how much my own wish for stability, a home and fitting-in had infiltrated my own writings. See the award-winning “My Mother Was a Russian Spy” in Perspectives.
In fact when I look back at my work over the last twenty or thirty years – from the short stories and essays to the non-fiction and novels – a large proportion have loneliness at the core. Time for a well overdue chat with my subconscious!
Praise for A Question of Belonging
‘How far would you go to protect your family? By turns heartbreaking and joyful, A Question of Belonging is a deceptively intimate novel in which tumultuous outward events imbue the fraught intertwined lives of just a handful of characters with a rich universality.’ William Yeoman, Literary Editor of The West Australian.
‘Set during the tumultuous 1978 civil war on the border of Rhodesia and Mozambique, A Question of Belonging paints beautifully the juxtaposition of the yearning to belong on a personal level, when surrounded by uncertainty and political unrest. Tangea Tansley’s deeply engaging narrative will have you reflecting on your own sense of belonging.’ writing WA
Order at your favourite bookstore or buy here.
Congratulations, Tangea! I’ve just finished reading A Question of Belonging, and what impresses me most in your novel is its very strong sense of place, which lingers after the book is closed. The Kloof farm and its whole physical context emerge palpably though the pages. I’ve never been to Northern Transvaal or anywhere near it, but this story evokes with convincing authenticity the relationship between that particular landscape and its inhabitants – not only in descriptive passages but also in the way the narrative develops. Like you, I’m personally familiar with experiences of displacement and complicated feelings that accompany it (though on a different trajectory in my case, beginning not in Africa but in NZ) – so the thematic implications of your story have considerable resonance too.
Very much appreciate your taking the time to comment, Ian, and you’ve absolutely nailed it: place is so central to this story and to what and who we are as storytellers. In the houses I’ve particularly loved over my life, I’ve said goodbye to every room — and in a lesser way, still do that — even with cars that have taken me safely from place to place when the time comes for them to move on. And Kloof, for me, expressed its own emotions. Is it too far a step to suggest that the very bricks absorb the feelings of their various inhabitants/experiences over the years? Because that is what I believe. And, yes, moving from country to country is one thing, but in some ways to move from one suburb to another (as we are doing this week) proves just as complex.
What a lovely surprise it was to wake up this morning to your review in Verity La, Carmel. I very much appreciate the time you’ve taken to read this book so closely, your empathy with both Ronnie and Piet and your understanding of the very different issues they grapple with.
Verity has put her finger on the sense of belonging so vividly portrayed in Tangea’s novel ‘A Question of Belonging’. I cite from her perceptive review ‘Overall, Tansley liberates belonging from one’s nationality or place of birth and locates it in an indefinable region that, I think, is more akin to ‘longing’’. This perfectly matches my very short experience. In the early 1980’s my newly married wife and I flew to Kenya. As a newly qualified Plant Pathologist I was sent to work on Coffee Berry Disease. After many absorbing experiences over nearly six years we felt obliged to return to UK largely for the sake of our young children’s education. I was bemused to find that for some months afterwards I experienced a real home sickness for Kenya! I found it hard to explain this. What did we miss? Was it the people? Yes, the locals were great characters and there was great camaraderie amongst expatriates, but this was offset by some unease over Africanisation and the rapid turnover of expatriates. Was it the work? Yes, I got experience that I might never get in the UK, but there were frustrations, some due to corrupt practices. Was it due to the abundance of help in the laboratory and in the home? Yes, but behind that was some guilt of exploitation. Was it the scenery, the climate or the wildlife? Yes, all were astounding, but tempered by some guilt that we were not there to enjoy the scenery, but to alleviate the effects of Coffee Berry Disease! In our case belonging was not a question of geography, kinship or race (We had no relatives in Africa). So, I am compelled to conclude it was just an ‘indefinable sense of longing’.
Thank you so much for taking the time to comment, Roger. It’s odd, isn’t it, that feeling. Strangely I had a similar feeling from quite a different experience. A few years back, when I was doing my PhD, I lived for two weeks at Girton while spending time at Cambridge University. Richard was to join me later. I absolutely lapped it up — from my swims in the pool each morning to the charming young men who opened the doors for me in the corridors. I loved the university. I fell for the boatman with the deep blue eyes who punted up and down the river and greeted me with such a flirtatious good morning each day. I spent the afternoons reading under an oak tree on the grassy common alongside the river. Lived each evening in a dream in my little room with the sash window that opened onto a Beatrix Potter scene of squirrels and birds. In my case, it was a bubble, I guess, quite apart from whatever reality is meant to be. And I have the sense that if I’d ever tried to repeat it, it would have spoiled. But I often relive it.