Explanatory essays - The Power of Knowle: Essays That Explain the Important Things in Life - Sykalo Eugene 2025

Cultural Imperialism and Resistance in Literature
Comparative literature and cross-cultural analysis

The Weight of Words: Cultural Imperialism and Resistance in Literature

I’m sitting here with a battered copy of Heart of Darkness, and I swear it’s staring back at me like it knows I’m about to call it out. Joseph Conrad’s novella is this looming, sticky thing—half masterpiece, half colonial fever dream. It’s the kind of book that makes you feel like you’re wading through a swamp of someone else’s guilt. And that’s where we start: cultural imperialism in literature. It’s not just a fancy term for academics to toss around at conferences nobody attends. It’s the way stories, written by people with power, can flatten entire worlds into stereotypes, into “exotic” backdrops for their own existential crises. Conrad does this, right? He’s out here painting Africa as this dark, unknowable void, and I’m like—dude, who gave you the right?

But then you flip to someone like Chinua Achebe, who read Heart of Darkness and basically said, “Nah, I’m not letting this slide.” His Things Fall Apart is a fist in the air, a refusal to let his people’s story be told by someone who sees them as props. Achebe’s not just writing a novel; he’s rewriting the rules of who gets to speak. That’s resistance, raw and unapologetic. It’s not subtle, and neither is the way it makes you feel—like you’ve been slapped awake after dozing through a lecture. I love that. I love how literature can be a battlefield, where the colonizer’s pen gets challenged by the colonized’s voice.

Let’s pause for a second, because I’m getting ahead of myself. Cultural imperialism in books isn’t just about old white guys writing about “savage” lands. It’s sneakier now. It’s in the way global publishing houses decide what stories from the Global South get translated, which voices get amplified. It’s in the bestseller lists that still lean hard into Western narratives, even when they’re dressed up as “diverse.” I mean, have you noticed how many “multicultural” novels feel like they’re written for a Western audience’s catharsis? Like, here’s a story about suffering in some far-off place, but don’t worry, it’s got a neat little redemption arc to make you feel good about the world. Gross.

The Stories We’re Allowed to Hear

I was scrolling—okay, fine, I wasn’t scrolling, I was flipping through a stack of books at a used bookstore—and I stumbled on Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things. That book wrecked me. Not because it’s sad (though, God, it is), but because Roy doesn’t let you look away from the way power—colonial, caste, gender—crushes people under its heel. She’s writing about India, but it’s not the India you’d see in a travel brochure or some glossy Netflix drama. It’s messy, layered, full of contradictions. And that’s the thing: resistance in literature doesn’t always mean shouting. Sometimes it’s in the quiet, stubborn act of telling your story your way, refusing to sand down the edges for someone else’s comfort.

Roy’s novel feels like a middle finger to the idea that stories from “elsewhere” need to be palatable. Compare that to, say, Rudyard Kipling’s Kim. Kipling’s got this romanticized view of India, all mystical and adventurous, but it’s so obviously written through a colonial lens. It’s like he’s saying, “Look at this magical land, isn’t it charming?” and you’re sitting there thinking, “Charming for who, exactly?” Kipling’s not malicious, not really, but his story carries the weight of empire—every page drips with the assumption that the British are the ones who get to define what India is. Roy, decades later, comes along and says, nope, we’re telling this ourselves. That’s the push and pull I’m obsessed with: the way literature can be both a tool of control and a weapon of defiance.

The Emotional Gut-Punch of Resistance

Here’s where I get stuck, though. Reading these books, you start to feel the toll of it all. It’s exhausting, isn’t it? To keep seeing the same patterns—Western writers turning other cultures into metaphors, while writers from those cultures have to fight tooth and nail to be heard. I read Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o’s Decolonising the Mind last month, and I swear I wanted to throw it across the room—not because it’s bad, but because it’s so brutally clear about how language itself can be a cage. Ngũgĩ talks about how colonial powers didn’t just take land; they took stories, forcing people to write and think in English or French to be “legitimate.” And when he switched to writing in Gikuyu, his native language, it was like he was reclaiming a piece of his soul. That hit me hard. I mean, imagine having to write your truth in someone else’s words. It’s like trying to sing your favorite song in a key that doesn’t fit your voice.

But then you get to someone like Salman Rushdie, who’s like, “Fine, I’ll use your language, but I’m gonna twist it until it screams.” Midnight’s Children is this chaotic, sprawling mess of a book, and I mean that in the best way. Rushdie takes English—the colonizer’s language—and makes it his own, stuffing it with Indian history, myth, and humor. It’s resistance through reinvention, and it’s thrilling. You read it and you’re like, “This guy’s playing 4D chess with the English canon.” But it’s not just cleverness. There’s this undercurrent of anger, of defiance, that makes you feel like you’re in on the rebellion.

The Messy Reality of Cross-Cultural Stories

Okay, I’m gonna fumble here for a second because this is where it gets tricky. Not every act of resistance in literature is some grand, noble gesture. Sometimes it’s flawed, messy, even problematic. Take Zadie Smith’s White Teeth. It’s this big, vibrant novel about multiculturalism in London, and it’s brilliant, but it’s also… I don’t know, sometimes it feels like it’s trying too hard to be everything to everyone. Smith’s grappling with cultural imperialism—how immigrant communities navigate a world shaped by colonial legacies—but there’s this sheen to it, like it’s been polished for a literary festival crowd. I love the book, don’t get me wrong, but it makes me wonder: can you resist cultural imperialism while still playing to the gatekeepers of Western publishing? It’s a tightrope, and I’m not sure anyone walks it perfectly.

Then you’ve got writers like Jhumpa Lahiri, who’s writing about the Indian diaspora in a way that feels so intimate it almost hurts. Her stories in Interpreter of Maladies aren’t loud or flashy, but they’re defiant in their specificity. She’s not explaining Bengali culture to a Western audience; she’s just telling her truth. And that’s enough. That’s resistance in its own quiet way—refusing to be a cultural ambassador, refusing to perform for anyone’s approval. I read her stories and I’m like, “God, why does this feel so personal?” even though I’ve never set foot in Kolkata. That’s the power of it: resistance doesn’t always need a megaphone.

Why This Matters Now

I keep thinking about why this stuff feels so urgent. Maybe it’s because we’re still living in a world where stories are controlled, curated, commodified. The internet’s supposed to democratize everything, but let’s be real: algorithms and bestseller lists and publishing deals still decide who gets heard. Cultural imperialism didn’t die with the end of empires; it just shape-shifted. And literature—God, literature—is still one of the best places to see that fight play out. Writers like Toni Morrison, who took the English language and made it sing with the pain and beauty of Black American life, or Han Kang, whose The Vegetarian is this haunting rejection of societal norms in South Korea—they’re not just writing books. They’re drawing battle lines.

But here’s the thing: I don’t want to romanticize it too much. Resistance in literature isn’t always heroic. Sometimes it’s just survival. Sometimes it’s a writer sitting down, exhausted, and saying, “This is my story, and I’m telling it whether you like it or not.” And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s the whole point.

I could keep going, but I’m gonna stop here—not because I’ve said everything, but because I haven’t. There’s no tidy bow to tie this up with. Cultural imperialism and resistance in literature—it’s a messy, living thing, and it’s not going anywhere. Go read Achebe, Roy, Rushdie, Lahiri. Let them break you open a little. That’s what I’m doing tonight, anyway.