The most recommended books on colonialism

When I read this gripping biography of Samuel White from Bath in England, who rose from being an interloper in the trade of Southeast Asia to become ruler of a huge tract of land on the Andaman Coast of Siam/Burma, I was smiling and shaking my head at the improbability of it all. White’s outlandish and piratical adventures are comparable to the wild exploits of Pirates of the Caribbean, and at times left me gasping in disbelief. Maurice Collis is little known these days, yet his two decades (1912–1934) as an administrator in Burma made him the ideal candidate to recount this remarkable tale.

I sometimes see this book discussed as a YA novel, and it’s true that its protagonists, Tee and her younger brother Toddan, are facing some very typical kid-lit crises: the death of one parent and the departure of another, aunts and uncles with conflicting ideas about child-rearing, and the impossible choice of leaving home for what they’ve been told will be a better life, but what’s better than living on an island with everyone you already know and love? Even so, this impressive novella, penned by a Black woman who happens to be a Caribbean literary scholar, is rich with conversations about colonialism, respectability politics, and the importance of preserving one’s familial and African histories—in other words, remembering your ‘true-true name.’ Important lessons for every age. 

An intimate and heartfelt portrayal of how Poland turned away from democratic values after a few brief decades of hope and tolerance following the collapse of Communism. Applebaum was herself caught up in these events, which cut right through families and friendships, and which have led to a situation in which fealty to bizarre conspiracy theories is a prerequisite for political advancement in a declining democracy. 

I read this book decades ago from a library, and it stuck with me to such an extent that I had to go out, find it back, buy it, and read it again. Both the characters and the worldbuilding are breathtaking. The story is full of intrigue, politics, careful diplomacy, and self-interested string-pulling, love, fear, and wonder. It's an absolute doorstopper, and I inhaled it.

Despite having been maligned for so long in the British academy, in this book Porter shows the continuing vitality of the intellectual tradition of classical realism for understanding power politics today. He gratifyingly sweeps away the dewy-eyed nostalgia for the so-called ‘rules-based order’ that supposedly crumbled on Trump’s election to the White House in 2016. In addition to usefully reminding us of all the hypocrisy bound up with liberal internationalism, Porter also forces us to reckon with the core question of all politics – how far power is needed to underpin political order. Although I demur from some of his conclusions, Porter scrapes the tablet clean, offering the possibility of a more forthright and meaningful debate. 

For its razor-sharp evocation of land and sea. For its trenchant insights into Irish history. For its elliptical style. But most of all, for its characters.

Magee sets her novel on a small island off Ireland’s west coast in 1979 when the Troubles were at their height in Northern Ireland. The dynamic running through the narrative involves a bitter dispute between two self-important visitors: an English painter and a French academic.

But the islanders themselves provide the emotional heart of the book, especially a teenage boy named James, who is patronized by one of the visitors and betrayed by the other.

When I remember The Colony now, I think first and foremost of that lonely, vulnerable boy.

Pity Bertram Francis. After more than a decade in the United Kingdom, the protagonist of Caryl Phillips 1986 novel has returned to his home – an unnamed island in the Caribbean – on the eve of independence. But in seeking to find a place for himself, Bertram quickly discovers that long-simmering resentments and petty grudges (particularly on the part of the island’s soon-to-be prime minister) might very well undermine his high-minded commitment to the nation’s future. But is Bertram’s own idealism also part of the problem, manifesting itself in part as a kind of smug elitism born of his studies in the metropole? Exploring the fraught space between obligation, dependency, and autonomy (in matters of state as well as of the heart), this supple novel and its complex protagonist will linger long after you’ve finished reading.

Set in 1914 in Fiji, 25-year-old Akal Singh, would rather be anywhere else in the world than in this far-flung colony. But then an indentured Indian woman goes missing from a sugarcane plantation, and Akal is assigned the case.

Those in the plantation say she has run off with the overseer, the newspaper headlines scream it is a kidnapping. Akal is keen to prove himself, but he quickly finds himself invested in the case for many more reasons as the cruelties of the indenture system are revealed in shocking clarity.

A Disappearance in Fiji is charming and full of warmth and wit. The characters are created with a great deal of heart and empathy, and this page-turning mystery also shows the impact of colonialism in Fiji with care and nuanced historical detail.

Finding accessible books on ancient Nubian Christianity is very difficult. There are very few books that are entirely dedicated to the ancient Nubian Church, and the few that exist are usually very specific in terms of subject matter.

Welsby’s book is one of the few that does a great job of giving a comprehensive history of Christianity in the various kingdoms of the Nubian region. I especially love the images in this book which are numerous and very engaging. 

This is one of the first books that “blew my mind” when I was a young university student: it remains the one I constantly return to because it seeks to understand the psychoanalytic foundations of racism under French colonialism.

Fanon was only 27 when his book was first published in 1952, but his reflections provide a stunningly passionate and layered view on how anti-Black racism (de)forms the subjectivity of both white and Black people, locking them into constructions of whiteness/blackness that require constant questioning.

His arguments on the psychoanalytic and political underpinnings of racism remain as relevant today as they were in his time.