In this piece, as I introduce Farnaz Khatibi Jafari’s second fictional work, Suga, I’ve highlighted elements that, to me, make the story captivating and compelling.

Suga is the title of the second novel written by my dear old friend, Farnaz Khatibi. She previously authored and published Hiro, and with Suga, she takes a step further, crafting a multilayered narrative inspired by real events that delves into contemporary Japanese society.

Farnaz Khatibi, a seasoned Physical Anthropologist and professor of philosophy of mind in Japan, wields a brilliant and powerful pen. Her radiance shines whether she’s writing on specialized topics or venturing into fiction.

If you’re interested in Farnaz’s archaeological work, particularly her expertise in analyzing ancient bones, you can watch her conversation on “In These Nights” for more insight.

Suga, published in both Persian and English, is available in Iran. In Tehran, you can find her books at the Kolak Bookstore (Kaj Square, Kasra Passage) or the Phoenix Bookstore (Enghelab Book Passage), or purchase them online.

Farnaz kindly sent me her book, which I read with enthusiasm—albeit with some delay. From the very start, the book surprises you, grips your mind, and at times leaves you breathless.

I’m neither a literary critic nor an expert on Japanese literature or society, but with the author’s permission, I’ve jotted down a few thoughts about the book. You can read them below, keeping in mind that the text contains spoilers necessary to discuss the story.

I recommend this book to everyone, especially those intrigued by the enigmatic and often misunderstood world of Japan. I hope Farnaz continues writing alongside her extensive academic and research endeavours.

Revisiting Suga: A Tapestry of Body, Memory, and Rebellion

In the novel Suga, the story of Suga Izumi, a 31-year-old taiko drummer from Fukuoka, Japan, weaves together visible and hidden layers, confronting the reader with a profound question about the philosophy of mind and body: How does the past return, and what role does the body play in its return?

Beyond narrating a musician’s life, this story is a lived experience of memory, identity, and resistance against oppressive structures. Through a nonlinear and “wounded” narrative, Suga invites us into her fragmented psyche, where memory is not merely recalled but relived through bodily sensations.

Initial Impression: A Sensory, Fragmented Journey

Reading Suga feels like walking through a dream where fragments of memory collide. Initially, the rigid, hierarchical structure of the taiko group, reminiscent of traditional Noh theatre or Buddhist rituals, drew my attention. But as Suga’s personal, fractured narrative unfolds, I realized this story doesn’t aim to deliver a direct message. Instead, it immerses the reader in a sensory, lived experience. Each chapter leaves a fresh wound on the reader—not for mere understanding but to feel Suga’s pain, anger, and desires. From the moment she clenches her fists against the group’s leader (Chapter 1) to the final scenes where her body seems to dissolve into the act of drumming (Chapter 24), the story invites us to touch visceral and emotional realities.

Body and Memory: The Body as Archive

In Suga, the body is not just a tool for performance but an archive of memory. With an experimental yet unpretentious approach, the author places the body at the center of the narrative. The sensation of the tatami mat Suga despises (Chapter 3), the trembling of her lips in anger (Chapter 1), or the scar on her chest that recalls Naoki’s death (Chapter 25)—all are sensory realities that bring memory to life. This perspective aligns with Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenology, which views the body not merely as a tool but as the primary site of consciousness and experience. Unlike philosophies of mind that may emphasize a mind-body dualism, Suga portrays the body as an integrated vessel for memory and identity.

This reminds me of Yoko Ogawa’s The Memory Police, where fading memories vanish from the body, leaving only a vague sensation on the skin. Yet, unlike Ogawa’s abstract depiction of loss, Suga revives memory through sensory details, such as the moment when Suga feels her scar bleeding (Chapter 25). I also find parallels with Kobo Abe’s The Woman in the Dunes, where the body resists environmental constraints. Similarly, Suga rebels against the group’s oppressive structures through her body—her clenched fists or her drumming (Chapter 24).

Contemporary Japan: Tradition, Order, and the Crisis of Individuality

The “Drum House” in the story symbolizes power structures in contemporary Japan, where the master-disciple relationship, akin to that found in Noh theatre or Buddhist rituals, forms the core of cultural identity. The group’s leader, with his cigarette and authority (Chapter 1), embodies this hierarchical system that suppresses Suga’s individuality. What sets Suga apart is her quiet rebellion—not through loud protests, but through minor, daily scratches, such as her refusal to order her memories linearly (Chapter 2). This subtle resistance echoes Natsume Soseki’s characters in Kokoro, who resist societal pressures with meaningful silence, though their bodies betray their protest. This theme is evident in scenes where Suga drums, evoking Shinto rituals that dissolve individuality into repetitive rhythms to reach a higher truth (Chapter 24). Yet, unlike traditional rituals that foster collective harmony, Suga’s performance is a protest against the group’s imposed identity, which reduces her to a “moving corpse” (Chapter 25).

Narrative: Wounded and Nonlinear

The beauty of Suga lies in its nonlinear, “wounded” narrative. The author avoids the traditional beginning-middle-end structure, adopting a style akin to the classical Japanese zuihitsu tradition, such as Kamu no Chomei’s Hojoki, where emotional impact takes precedence over chronological order. Suga herself declares in Chapter 2 that she won’t arrange her memories linearly, inviting the reader to navigate her scattered fragments. This approach resembles postmodern novels, such as Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves, which forces the reader to reconstruct meaning from chaos. In Japanese literature, it aligns with Banana Yoshimoto’s Kitchen, which weaves scattered emotions with sensory details. This nonlinear narrative is, in itself, a rebellion against rigid structures. By breaking temporal and spatial order, the author aligns with Suga’s revolt against oppressive systems, including traditional storytelling, turning the subtext into a critique of imposed order.

Drum, Death, and Guilt: The Ontology of Performance

In Suga, the drum transcends its role as a musical instrument, becoming a metaphor for expressing the unspeakable. When Suga cannot speak with words, she speaks through the drum’s beats (Chapter 24). This recalls Yukio Mishima’s concept of “art as confession” in Confessions of a Mask, though Suga’s confession is nonverbal and bodily. Her drumming, like Shinto rituals, empties the body of individuality—not for harmony but to scream a pain words cannot express. Naoki’s death, for which Suga blames herself (Chapter 25), is a wound embedded in her body, resurfacing with every drumbeat or touch of her scar. This guilt, as an existential crisis, pushes Suga to question her being, resonating with Jean-Paul Sartre’s concept of “bad faith,” where one submits to imposed roles instead of embracing freedom.

Suga: A Mirror of Wounds and Hope

Suga is not just the story of a broken human but a lived experience of body, memory, and rebellion. The novel is an attempt to rescue memory from oblivion—not through telling but through striking, trembling, and writing. Yet, it warns that such salvation is not always possible. Suga becomes trapped in collective expediency and multiple masks, where others’ goodwill, like Shinosuke and Hasada’s plan to “save” her (Chapter 24), leads to collective ruin. This reflects a cycle of authority that prioritizes the group over the individual, stripping them of their agency. For Persian-speaking readers familiar with living under the shadow of divine kings or clerical authority, this narrative mirrors their daily reality from a slightly distant world, serving as both a reflection and a warning for the future.

In Japan’s wabi-sabi tradition, kintsugi—the art of mending broken pottery with gold—symbolizes valuing wounds. Yet Suga shows this art is not accessible to all. Suga’s wounds, like shattered glass (Chapter 1) or her bleeding body (Chapter 25), turn to dust under oppressive structures. The story invites us to honor those who heal their wounds with kintsugi while remaining vigilant for those turned to ash in this pottery workshop. Suga is a mirror reflecting our wounds, asking: Do we dare rebuild ourselves?

Ultimately, Suga and the story’s other fragmented characters evoke an ancient struggle, as Rumi once categorized in his famous verse, grappling with the question: “From these thousands of ‘I’ and ‘we,’ O wonder, which ‘I’ am I?”