We chat with critically acclaimed author Ausma Zehanat Khan about Blackwater Falls, the first in a timely and powerful crime series, introducing Detective Inaya Rahman.
The murder that opens Blackwater Falls occurs in an atmosphere of prejudice against Muslims, distrust between the police and minority groups, and contempt for refugees. It feels hopeless, but we soon meet people trying to make headway against these problems, even if these people aren’t all in alignment. Is this reflective of your work as an international human rights lawyer?
Most of my human rights work has been in teaching and research, but I practiced immigration and refugee law, so I know those bureaucracies well. I know how slow and stubborn they are, and how immigration policies naturally favor those with education, language skills and more wealth. There are even separate immigration categories in the US and Canada that fast-track the applications of those with the funds to invest. For everyone else, there’s the stern but fair visa officer, the underpaid attorney who will make the case for refugees at a tribunal, the overseas “consultant” trying to exploit someone’s desperation, the big-name lawyer who wants the publicity of a particular case, the generous, middle-class white women who sponsor refugees and do their utmost to get them settled, the politician working hard to change minds, as well as those who want a pure laine, old stock Canada, or an America that’s been made great again, and for that, read “white”. I’ve met them all, I’ve worked with them all, I’ve fought against some, and I’ve tried to work my magic on a few.
International human rights work attracts the best and the brightest. People who could make their fortune in the private sector often sacrifice in their personal lives or put themselves at risk to take on a worthy cause (my husband is one of these). So these are some of the most inspiring people I’ve ever met. The odds are always stacked against them, change is incremental if it ever comes, but they have an inner toughness and an untouchable belief that doesn’t let them give up. I went to school with a group of college kids like these. The characters in Blackwater Falls have many of the same characteristics even when they’re working at cross-purposes.
Did you research U. S. police departments’ methods–if they have any–of addressing cultural tensions? Do Community Response Units exist and do they work?
I started researching Community Response initiatives in Canada for my Khattak/Getty crime series, and then continued examining the American model for Blackwater Falls. Some departments have outreach programs and community expos and fairs, others have anti-bias units or hate crimes units which investigate the kinds of crimes most likely to target vulnerable minority groups. In places like Garden City, Kansas where would-be bombers plotted to target the Somali community back in 2016, law enforcement has worked hard to build a better relationship with that community with quite a bit of success. In this case, I’m defining success as communities considering the police as partners in keeping them safe, rather than as the single guiding force responsible for making them unsafe. But in places like Chicago and LA, a lot of work remains to be done and reparations have to be made before community response initiatives can be taken on trust. I think until there’s a serious overhaul of the criminal justice system, those units are more of a band-aid than a long-term solution.
Are there reforms that both you and Inaya would like to see in police departments? Any ideas of how they could increase trust with the public?
My top four suggestions are these: 1) Eliminate prisons for profit because there is a strong profit motive to keep putting people into the system when clemency should be pursued; 2) End the practice of setting bail for minor offences so that people aren’t imprisoned on grounds of poverty; 3) Re-allocate police department budgets to other community resources. For the third point, some of that budget should be allocated to mental health providers and social workers. There’s no reason that a police officer can’t accompany healthcare workers as a matter of safety, but they shouldn’t be the first line of call for people with mental health problems because suffering from mental illness isn’t a crime. Let empathetic experts lead to defuse those kinds of problems without escalating to violence. And if police budgets didn’t take up such a significant portion of many city budgets, those resources could then be used to improve schools, hire more teachers, counsellors and other support workers to build healthier communities. Healthy, functioning communities have lower crime rates so that’s a win-win. (4) I think there needs to be significantly expanded training before police officers are allowed out on patrol, including community-sensitive training. And police officers with excessive force complaints on their record should be dismissed—these aren’t the kind of people who can help build trust with the public. If I had another page or two, I would also mention gun control.
Despite her experiences of prejudice within the police department, Inaya very much wants to work as a police officer. Is this a contradiction in her character or is it something else?
I would say it’s more of an internal conflict than a contradiction. Inaya is a person who believes in justice, and she’s using law enforcement as a vehicle to pursue that goal. In Chicago, she was a lawyer who worked for the Civilian Office of Police Accountability, which means bringing police officers like Derek Chauvin to justice. As a character, she’s still a bit naïve because she does honestly believe that she can work meaningful change from within the system. I haven’t pushed her to the point yet where she’s ready to give up on the system. A large part of her believes that if the police force remains largely white, there’s no hope for communities like hers, so that’s where she thinks she can make a difference. I like that place of internal tension for my characters because it gives them room to grow.
To many of us, the Syrian refugee crisis has an abstract quality, but you’ve had direct experience with people and families who’ve had to flee Syria and travel to other nations. Does the story of the Elkader family reflect things you’ve encountered in the real world?
The refugees I’ve interviewed personally haven’t experienced anything as horrific as the Elkaders. They’ve benefited from sponsorship groups or from family connections that have aided in their resettlement. However, the story of lives lost at sea because of the practices of exploitative human smugglers is very well-documented in the human rights reporting. These practices include packing people onto vessels that are scarcely seaworthy, equipped with bogus life-jackets, and have continually resulted in a terrible loss of life. In my story, the Elkaders have a child who suffers in the Syrian prison system, another child without documents who can’t get past Turkey to join them in the US, and a child lost at sea. I’ve listened to survivors and read testimony from the Syrian prison system more times than I care to recount. Assad’s prisons carry out torture on an industrial scale. And we know how hard it is for refugees to get to the States when the Trump administration effectively closed the door. So I’m very sad to report that no part of the Elkaders’ story is an exaggeration—I didn’t go far enough.
Your background is Pakistani, but Inaya is part Pakistani, part Afghan. Why did you give her that background?
Ah, interesting question. I recognize current nation-state boundaries, of course, but at the same time those boundaries don’t always reflect the distribution of ethnic groups across parts of South Asia. I’m an ethnic Pashtun from the Yusufzai tribe (Pashtun in Pashtu, Pathan in Urdu), and Pashtuns are a major ethnic group in both Afghanistan and Pakistan, with tribal affiliations that cross national boundaries. My ancestors were from Afghanistan, and Pashtuns, as you may know, also primarily make up the Taliban, who are wreaking havoc in both countries. So I gave Inaya an Afghan father and a Pakistani mother who share the same tribal affiliation. I did this because eventually I want to dig deep into her family’s backstory and write about a number of different things: American refugee policies, the American exit from Afghanistan, Pashtun history, the role of the Taliban in Afghanistan’s future. I always like to push my crime novels to introduce new themes and subjects to my audience, and I love to explore my own history and heritage.
Another tension in the book is between Inaya and Lt. Waqas Seif and how they approach their background–Inaya embracing it fully and Seif keeping it at arm’s length. Is this a reality you’ve seen among Muslim or other communities?
There are definitely secular Muslims, and I’ve met my fair share of people who try far too hard to assimilate based on their own psychology or their personal experiences. They’re sometimes referred to as “Oreo cookies” or other unflattering descriptions, meaning the person is brown on the outside, but white on the inside. From within a minority community, that’s meant as a pejorative because you may be able to disavow your faith but you can’t change the color of your skin. Seif feels like he has everything to lose by embracing his heritage, and very little to gain, so he’s made a deliberate choice to cut himself loose. Inaya has the opposite approach: her culture, faith and heritage mean everything to her, they make her who she is, and affect how she approaches her work as a law enforcement officer. I’ve started these two characters off in these black-and-white places, but what I value most as a writer is delving into the gray.
You’ve lived in a lot of places—is there something distinct about Colorado that makes a novel set there distinct from one set in Toronto or London?
Yes, indeed. I live in a suburb where for months, I wouldn’t see another person of color, though my county’s demographics are just beginning to shift. Living here has been eye-opening. When my husband and I first went to look at houses in the backcountry, people would come out of their houses to challenge our presence. Some people drive around in pick-up trucks flying NRA flags, with bumper stickers that are pretty scary. For someone who’s lived in Toronto, Chicago and LA, that came as a shock. When I learned my county votes Republican, that put me further on guard. I have to admit I feel out of place, despite the many wonderful Coloradans I’ve met. I want to be honest about this. People are kind to me personally, but they see no issue with voting for the Muslim ban or with making life unlivable for those who are undocumented. So how do I as a person, and as a writer, reconcile these contradictions?
First I acknowledge that Colorado is a beautiful place with its unique attractions, but it’s not a multicultural wonderland. People see a man who looks Arab (though my husband is Iranian), and they don’t hesitate to make their suspicions known. That’s not what I grew up with, that’s not what I’ve known most of my life, so I have to admit, it’s new and fertile ground for me as a novelist. The trick is to capture both sides of it: the decency and the sense of threat.
Are there other authors writing crime novels that focus on Muslim or other minority police detectives, and were any of them an influence on Blackwater Falls?
Laury Silvers writes a wonderful historical series called the Sufi Mysteries (The Jealous, The Lover, The Unseen.) Melati Lum is an Australian Muslim who writes a YA series featuring Muslim sleuth Ayesha Dean that’s simply delightful. Saima Mir and Amer Anwar write crime novels that feature many Muslim characters. And there’s been a huge upsurge of crime writers of color who write everything from cozies, to PIs, to procedurals to psychological thrillers. Under the stewardship of Walter Mosley, Kellye Garrett, Gigi Pandian and others, Crime Writers of Color was created, and the solidarity expressed by this group has not only been influential, it’s been deeply inspiring. Names like S.A. Cosby, Mia Manansala, Sujata Massey, Naomi Hirahara, Jennifer Hillier, Sandra Wong, Alex Segura, Wanda Morris, Rachel Howzell Hall, Kellye Garrett and Wanda Morris come to mind. I don’t see direct parallels to my novel Blackwater Falls, but what we all have in common is a profound knowledge of our own communities that forms the heart of our books. I’ve learned from many of these writers that characters who represent communities like ours deserve to be in the spotlight. I’ve also learned not to be afraid to take chances—it’s a joy to know that collectively we are fleshing out and shaking up crime fiction.
One of the hopeful elements in Blackwater Falls is Inaya’s family and their support for her—plus, the sisters just seem like fun people. Was there something you wanted to communicate about Pakistani families, parents, and siblings?
Thank you so much for saying so. I come from a huge, hugely interfering family, though I have no doubt they would say, I’m the most interfering member of the clan. We’re in each other’s business all the time, and mostly, we like it that way. Most of my Pakistani friends are the same. When someone marries into one of our families, it’s like My Big Fat Greek Wedding. We have to warn the outsider that you marry all of us. My poor baby niece cried when she couldn’t come on my honeymoon because she didn’t understand that we are two separate people. There’s a little bit of frustration in being part of a family like this, but there’s also an overload of joy. Our family gatherings are part soap opera and part Sunday service, so I wanted to put that on the page. The complexity of it, the joy, and the outrageous humor. For Inaya’s one excruciating marriage set-up, I’ve had twenty-six, so I thought I might as well make use of them in my books.
In my own family, my parents played such an important role in guiding me on my path, even though I didn’t end up doing what they wanted. I didn’t become a doctor or marry a Pakistani, yet, they’re always there for me. That was also key to Inaya’s relationship with her family.
