Finding Community with Janika Oza
A year removed from the release of her debut novel, the writer reflects on humanity’s cyclical nature and the magic of storytelling
Interview by Louie Simonin
Photo of Janika Oza by Yi Shi
A History of Burning (McClelland & Stewart, 2023)
Janika Oza, a Toronto-based writer, has received widespread acclaim for her debut novel, A History of Burning. The book was shortlisted for the Governor General's Award for fiction, longlisted for the 2024 Carol Shields Prize for fiction, and won the 2024 Asian/Pacific American Award for literature. In addition, esteemed publications such as The New York Times, The New Yorker, CBC Books, and the Globe and Mail recognized A History of Burning as a notable read for 2023.
SIMONIN: As you approach the one-year anniversary of the release of your debut novel, A History of Burning, how has its positive reception affected you? Can you share the most profound reaction you've witnessed from someone who has read this piece of work?
OZA: There are many ways that getting to publish my novel and see it living in the world has been a dream. I feel incredibly lucky to have heard from readers in places I’ve never been to, to have launched my book in my favourite local bookstore in my home city (hi, Queen Books!), to have Zoomed into book clubs from Turkey to India and listened to the resonances that readers are finding across different migrations, refugee communities, and family silences. One of the most meaningful experiences of the past year was when I got to visit a book club of women outside of Toronto who were all a part of the diaspora of South Asians from East Africa—it was in one aunty’s basement, everyone had cooked a dish of our community’s food, and the conversation was unlike any I had encountered before because of how personally each member connected to the book. Everyone had stories and memories to share; it wasn’t just history, it was living in that room. I learned so much that night—and we ate so well! I came away so deeply grateful for the ways this book has opened up these spaces of dialogue and healing in my life, and I’m honoured to get to witness the places where that ripples outwards.
SIMONIN: As a newly established novelist, could you provide your perspective on the literary art form and its role in our current society? How does your 400+ page book convey a unique artistic power and messaging that no other discipline could replicate?
OZA: For me, writing fiction has always been a way of making sense of the world. Writing this narrative gave me the chance to think through larger questions about home and safety and belonging, questions that existed in the past and persist into the present. There is so much to be learned from the ways that the present contains the past, and the ways the past foretells the present, and with storytelling we can draw those connections out and make them human. That’s the thing about fiction—it’s a way of connecting. A story is a way of bringing these grand historical or sociopolitical events down to the level of the person or the community, and that’s where we find the emotional truth. Especially after releasing my novel, I can say that I’ve experienced the power of literature to be a catalyst for dialogue, to become an opening. A novel is a novel—it’s not a stand in for direct action, for engaging with communities, for working towards necessary political change, for fighting for liberation. But it does occupy its own little plot in the landscape. A novel can move us, and I feel so very grateful to have been moved by books.
SIMONIN: In the opening chapter of A History of Burning, Pirbhai is in search of resources to support his struggling family. Once he finds his miracle, he is taken advantage of and shipped out to Mombasa. Despite this exploitation, he persists and becomes the central figure in this century-long saga. As a result of your research, you’ve learned that you are a descendant of similarly courageous men and women. How has this new-found knowledge influenced your appreciation for the virtues of faith, endurance, and perseverance?
OZA: It actually happened the other way around for me—I had always known that I was a descendent of this history, but there was so much silence in my family around these heavy and sometimes painful memories, and I wanted to understand better what that meant. I came to writing this novel out of a deep curiosity to know more about our history; there was an urgency to that feeling that led me, as well as a great deal of love and care in the research and writing process, because it’s so intertwined with my family and community, with the places we’ve come from but can’t quite return to. And yes, there was a tremendous amount of courage and perseverance involved, but I wasn’t trying to write a hero narrative—I wanted to write these characters with the full scope of human emotion, I wanted to show their messiness and mistakes and leave room for their growth. There are many moments in the novel when characters are called on to make difficult choices, impossible choices, and I wanted those moments to reflect the complexity of what it would mean to live in these circumstances, trying to survive and take care of your family and yourself. In the end, this is a story about family, about love, and I tried to hold that—the characters’ desires, in all their entangled ways—as the central force of this book.
SIMONIN: Your novel concludes in Toronto during the Yonge Street Uprising of 1992. Why did you feel it was necessary to end the novel with a protest, rather than a peaceful family gathering or dinner, for example? How do you think the power of unity on a grand scale differs from unity (or loyalty) exercised on a more intimate level?
OZA: This book is interested in the cyclical nature of things—how certain ideas or memories are passed down, whether verbally or through the body, how history and stories repeat themselves, how a choice we make can come back again and again and how we can choose to respond differently. The novel ends during the racial uprising in the early 90s in Toronto, which felt like a culmination of many of the novel’s themes like complicity and resistance and kinship, and a chance to reflect on all that has passed and all that might be carried forward. But whether it’s a high-intensity protest scene or a family gathering, I was always interested in exploring the intimacies between the characters—between close friends, parents and children, siblings. At the heart of my novel is the idea of community and collectivism, what it means to belong to a whole—whether a family, a land, a movement—and all the chaos and beauty of navigating that space.
SIMONIN: Can you give any general advice to writers who are working on their first novel? Did your perspective on the form change over the six years it took you to complete A History of Burning?
OZA: So much about my life changed over the six years I was working on this novel that I think it would have been impossible for my relationship to the writing to remain constant. At different points of working on A History of Burning, there was a pandemic, my jobs changed, my living situation changed several times over. How much and how often I was writing really fluctuated based on all of that, and I had to learn to give myself that grace. The biggest challenge for me through it all was self-doubt—I really doubted whether anyone would be interested in my book, whether we would sell it; I doubted my own craft and worth. What kept me going was a feeling of purpose with this book—even in my biggest doubt spirals, I always came back to the work. That feeling for me was unconnected to whether or not it would ever get published. For those working on first novels now, I want to say keep going, and also be gentle with yourself when you can’t write, when life takes over, or when you need to take some time away. The work will be better if you treat it with the compassion and patience that it needs—that you need. If the project means something to you, if that urgency and purpose is there, it’ll find its way out in some form or another.
SIMONIN: As somebody who’s been a part of many workshopping and literary circles, what has it felt like to be part of writing communities? How substantial of a contribution did these communities have to the blossoming of your career?
OZA: Truly, this book would not be out now if it weren’t for the writing community I found as I went. I had always been told that writing was something I could do on the side but not something to take seriously, and so part of me believed that it just wasn’t for me. It was only when I first started applying for and attending writing workshops—like Voices of Our Nations Arts Foundation and Tin House—that I met other writers who were working on their own projects and also trying to figure out how to make writing a part of their lives. Finding that kind of community changed everything for me—it showed me what was possible. Publishing can be overwhelming and confusing, and having friends and mentors in that world offered a kind of support that was deeply necessary to me throughout the entire journey. And one of the greatest joys is getting to celebrate the writers I’ve formed community with—when someone publishes a book, when someone is recognized for their work, when someone just has a really great writing day. Writing a novel might take some level of solitude, but none of it happens alone.
SIMONIN: What is one piece of advice, perhaps the greatest piece of advice you would like to leave with the readers of Arrival Magazine?
OZA: Find your people, the ones who will support you through the writing and the ones who will love you even if you never write another word. Also, it’s okay to take time away from the writing, to rest, to refill, to read, to tend to your life. The writing will be there when you return, which you will.
“There is so much to be learned from the ways that the present contains the past, and the ways the past foretells the present, and with storytelling we can draw those connections out and make them human.”