The City and the City

“You should be glad they don’t know their rights better, because if they did Naustin’d be facing charges now.”

One of the features of detective fiction—especially noir detective fiction—is the tendency of law enforcement to circumvent procedures and ignore civil rights. China Miéville incorporates this trope as Besźel’s Extreme Crime Squad interrogates potential suspects—in this case, easily intimidated teenagers—with violence. The jocular tone of the officer further suggests that such tactics are standard, that the ends justify the means in a criminal investigation.

“Corwi did not try to disguise her police clothes because that way those who saw us, who might otherwise think we were there to entrap them, would know that was not our intent; and the fact that we were not in a bruise as we called the black and white police cars, told them that neither were we there to harass them. Intricate contracts!”

Borlú and Corwi, experienced beat cops, understand the subtle psychological codes of the street—how to gain trust, the assumptions suspects make of the police. Intimidation is not always the best way to gain information, and in this case, they make no attempt to disguise their identity as police officers because being upfront gets the relationship started on an honest note and helps to ensure trust.

“These days the term was used mainly by the old-fashioned, the racist, or in a turnabout provocation by the epithet’s targets: one of the best-known Besź hip hop groups was named Ébru W.A.”

Miéville’s world mirrors the real world in many ways, not the least of which is the human tendency to vilify racial “others.” Ébru, in Besź, is a racist slur against Muslims, but much in the way many members of marginalized populations have appropriated slurs as a badge of identification and affiliation, so have Miéville’s Muslim population taken their own defamatory label and reclaimed it through music.

“As kids we used to play Breach. It was never a game I much enjoyed, but I would take my turn creeping over chalked lines and chased by my friends, their faces in ghastly expression, their hands crooked as claws.”

The notion of absolute borders and the fear of Breach is drilled into the populations of Besźel and Ul Qoma from a young age. To cope with that fear—and with the irrationality of unseeing—the children make a game of it. Research has shown that play is an effective coping mechanism for children who have experienced trauma, and while Borlú and his friends are simply playing, mimicking the imagined “ghastly expressions” of Breach avatars, they are actually confronting an internalized trauma in the only way they know how.

“They had been accused of furtively propagandising among refugees and new immigrants with limited expertise at seeing and unseeing, at being in one particular city. The activists wanted to weaponise such urban uncertainty.”

The unificationist extremists, hell-bent on unifying the two cities for any number of political, religious, or moral reasons, resort to a wide range of tactics, including pushing their agenda on refugees with no knowledge of or experience with Besźel’s unique border protocols. By encouraging border violations, these activists not only create distractions for law enforcement, but they hope to build their case for unification in the public’s mind.

“Obviously the local nationalists would come out to break them up, screaming at the marchers as traitors, and in general the most apolitical local wouldn’t have much sympathy for them.”

In Besźel, unification is a political hot potato, and despite the activists’ mission to promote education and aid immigrants, they are seen as conspirators seeking to overthrow the established order (in fact, both are true). They are the natural enemy of the nationalists, the “Besźel First” extremists who seek to protect their borders, keep the cities divided, and restrict access as much as possible. It’s not hard to see the parallels with 21st-century America as “America First” extremists—clamoring for a wall along the southern border—battle advocates for less restrictive borders.

“That is because it is not a crosshatched building, precisely, nor one of staccato totality-alterity, one floor or room in Besźel and the next in Ul Qoma: externally it is in both cities; internally much of it is in both or neither.”

The geographical complexities of Miéville’s world is perfectly illustrated here. The building in which the Oversight Committee meets occupies a complicated space between the cities, not overlapping the borders, not partially in each city, but rather “both” and “neither.” It’s a metaphysical conundrum that Miéville seems content to leave to his readers’ imaginations.

“We’ve simply washed our hands of any difficult situations and handed them over to a—apologies if I offend, but—a shadow over which we have no control. Simply to make our lives easier.”

When Borlú presents his case before the Oversight Committee (to turn the case over to Breach), one of the members argues that Breach is invoked too regularly and too easily. Handing over the dirty work of a murder investigation to an “alien power” means ceding the city’s sovereignty for the sake of convenience. This can be read in a number of ways: relegating wars to a select few volunteers while the majority of the population maintains a safe distance; leaving difficult jobs (agriculture, animal slaughter) to immigrants because no natural-born citizen wants to do it; even ceding cognitive and creative autonomy to technology because it makes people’s “lives easier.”

“They would know, at least in outline, key signifiers of architecture, clothing, alphabet and manner, outlaw colors and gestures, obligatory details—and, depending on their Besz teacher, the supposed distinctions in national physiognomies—distinguishing Besźel and Ul Qoma, and their citizens.”

Although Miéville keeps the exposition to a minimum, he does occasionally provide a few details governing his world. Case in point: When Geary’s parents visit Besźel to identify their daughter’s body, they have not undergone the obligatory training most visitors must, training to familiarize them with the basic differences between the cities and therefore what they must unsee. The list of differences is extensive, including “colors and gestures,” things that are permitted in one city but not in the other. The inclusion of “national physiognomies” in the list is a blatant reference to the outdated and racist assumptions about racial superiority or inferiority.

“This nation is not a plaything, Inspector. Understand me?”

The “high-rent” attorney for the far-right True Citizens argues that Geary’s fascination with Orciny was simply a way to undermine Besźel autonomy and to devalue its worth. The extreme nationalist mentality seems built largely on paranoia and defensiveness, assuming a student conducting research into a topic they find offensive must, by default, be working to weaken that country’s sovereignty. That mentality gives them justification for banning books and censoring knowledge, the wrong kind of knowledge, of course.

“Now light, foreign light, swallowed me as I emerged, at speed, from Copula Hall.”

As Borlú exits the checkpoint at Copula Hall and enters Ul Qoma, he sees closely and in detail the Temple of Inevitable Light. So trained is he to think of Ul Qoma as separate and foreign, he instinctively imagines even its light as distinct from Besźel’s. It’s a shrewd comment on how easily humans construct borders both physically and mentally.

“Is it more foolish and childish to assume there is a conspiracy, or that there is not?”

Assuming their phone calls will be monitored, Borlú and Corwi establish a set of code phrases by which to communicate, but Borlú wonders if he’s letting the paranoia get to him. Reflecting on which is more prudent—paranoia or trust—perfectly encapsulates the tone of Miéville’s narrative. Conspiracies are often relegated to the ideological fringes (QAnon, for example), but those on the fringes would argue that the mainstream is not paranoid enough, that they are merely sheep without the courage to acknowledge the truth.

“We had to learn to stop trying to find and follow a sequence and just look.”

As Borlú interviews Isabelle Nancy at the Bol Ye’an excavation site, she explains the process by which she and her fellow archaeologists had to overcome assumptions and misinformation to arrive at a clear-eyed version of the truth, at least insofar as the known facts could construct some version of the truth. Even scientists, trained to be objective, must apparently get past their own ideological whims and retrain themselves in the scientific method before arriving at consensus.

“No matter what else you do, ever. You can never walk away from it no matter how hard you try.”

Disgraced academic David Bowden bemoans his current status as a “Corresponding Lecturer,” a vague title that carries no potential for tenure or even any real authority. Having written the seminal text on Orciny—a now-debunked theory—he’s never recovered from the shame. In a social media culture in which any small misstep can return to haunt a person, Bowden’s fall from grace has real-world relevance.

“Right, I’m not saying that, we’ve got plenty, but I’m saying I don’t know who they are or where they live, very sensibly they keep it that way, and I’m saying Qoma First’s just a term some press guy came up with.”

In discussing the elusiveness of far-right groups in Ul Qoma, Dhatt explains that unlike in Besźel, these groups are scattered and decentralized. They don’t have a headquarters or a hierarchy of leadership. In fact, their name—Qoma First—isn’t even an official title but merely a label attached to the movement by the media for convenient identification. The slippery nature of these movements recalls groups like Al Qaeda or the Islamic State, extremists without traditional leadership structure or even traditional borders.

“They knew I was in Ul Qoma: I could find them and could walk alongside them in the street and we would be inches apart but unable to acknowledge each other.”

Missing his home city and his co-workers, Borlú fantasizes about walking in Corwi’s neighborhood but “grosstopically” in Ul Qoma, feeling the rebellious urge to see her or any of his friends. Borlú’s personal dilemma captures the novel’s entire metaphysical dilemma in a nutshell: Forcing a population to unsee its neighbors is both a cognitive and emotional burden with little justification other than to separate populations and preserve territory.

“Another snort. ‘What’s in Besźel? Ul Qoma is the best place.’”

Borlú discusses the various advantages of the two cities with his cab driver, a refugee who moved from a camp to become a citizen of Ul Qoma. As such, he cannot imagine a better life than the one he has now, even though he’s never visited Besźel. It’s a rebuke to those nationalists who proclaim their home country the best even though they may not have ever traveled outside its borders.

“It’s up to us how you go under, how long you stay there, what you see and say while you’re there, when you come out again. If you come out.”

After Borlú shoots Rodriguez’s killer, committing breach, he is taken into Breach custody. The terms of his confinement are strict and absolute. He is not read his rights or given access to a lawyer. The power of Breach is unquestioned and unchecked, and the citizens grant them this power out of fear, a fear born of rigorous indoctrination.

“Being in both cities had gone from being in Besźel and Ul Qoma to being in a third place, that nowhere-both, that Breach.”

The logistics of Miéville’s world are complicated. Between invisible borders, overlapping “crosshatched” areas, and zones encompassing both cities, keeping track of one’s place relative to the other city can be tricky. Borlú, accustomed to navigating these amorphous spaces, now finds himself in unfamiliar territory. As a prisoner of Breach, he walks in both cities at the same time. As a strict resident of Besźel only, occupying both places strips away his sense of national identity, a sense of self enforced his entire life, leaving him in a confusing identity limbo.

“Those dying flails remained dangerous, though, and we were in a soldierly way. No curfew could contain this panic.”

In the aftermath of the unificationist uprising, Breach has reestablished borders, but calming the populace proves a more difficult task. The massive breaching of borders—and the subsequent vandalism and looting—has deeply unsettled a citizenry accustomed to the infallibility of Breach. The uprising has exposed them as vulnerable. Much like the way the 9/11 attacks exposed the United States as vulnerable—unthinkable until that moment—the uprising has shaken both cities to their core, and a mere curfew cannot tamp down the sense of violation it has provoked.

“There’s only one city, and if it weren’t for the superstition and cowardice of the populace, kept in place by you goddamned Breach, we’d all know there was only one city. And that city is called Besźel.”

The supposedly liberal politician Mikhel Buric has aligned himself with far-right nationalists and multi-national capitalists, ostensibly to enrich himself, but his rant suggests he is also motivated by ideology. The cutthroat competition between two cities that are essentially one has pushed Buric to steal historical artifacts and condone murder, and for no other reason than bragging rights. Miéville implies that, political labels aside, nationalistic impulses run deep, and across ideological lines.

“What do you think would happen if you provoked my government? It’s funny enough the idea of either Besźel or Ul Qoma going to war against a real country.”

Ian Croft, the regional head of the tech arm of Sear and Core, scoffs at the notion that local laws apply to him. Even as Borlú tries to arrest him, he defiantly (and condescendingly) climbs aboard his helicopter and flies away. The notion that global corporations flaunt local laws is not new, but in a face-to-face confrontation, that defiance takes on a powerful relevance, especially when two young women have died.

“The assiduousness of their unseeing and seeing was marked. The crosshatching is resilient.”

Even after multiple breaches and a declaration of martial law, some citizens still venture out to the streets, going about their business as if everything were normal. Despite the porousness of the borders, people continue to obey the protocols of seeing and unseeing. After a traumatic event, Miéville suggests, one method of coping is to return to normal as quickly as possible, and in the case of some residents of Besźel and Ul Qoma, old habits die hard. Some will continue to respect the law out of custom.