Review: Lawrence Hill’s The Illegal is a twisting,
intricately woven yarn
CARRIE SNYDER
Special to The Globe and Mail
Published Friday, Sep. 04, 2015 12:55PM EDT
Last updated Wednesday, Dec. 02, 2015 11:51AM EST
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In the afterword of his new novel, The Illegal, Lawrence Hill says it took him five years to write the
book. I read the novel in less than a day. And while a reviewer who yearns for respect should never,
ever use the phrase “unputdownable,” there we have it. The Illegal is a twisting, intricately woven
yarn that spins itself out at an incredible pace. I could not put the book down. Read it, you must.
In The Illegal, Hill takes on the snarled, pressing issues of our moment in time, including race and
discrimination, the movement of refugees across borders and the political fight to define who
belongs and who is “an illegal.”
Keita Ali is a marathoner, an elite runner from the fictional country of Zantoroland, an isolated island
in the middle of the fictional Ortiz Sea – Hill positions it smack dab in the middle of the Indian
Ocean. It’s populated by people whose ancestors, a century and a half ago, were the slaves whose
labour built the third wealthiest economy on the planet, the also fictional country of Freedom State,
also an island, though much larger than Zantoroland. Got that? If not, I take full responsibility. Hill is
a storyteller of enormous talent, capable of conveying complex information apparently effortlessly.
When the book opens, the year is 2018, and Keita Ali is running a punishing race in Freedom State
against a vicious opponent who is tormenting him with racial slurs. A larger story shimmers under
the surface: Keita is not just running a race, he’s on the run from the police, though the reader
doesn’t know why, yet. With his tormentor at his heels, the unflappable hero calmly ticks his pace up
a notch and begins to sing as he surges up the hill: “Want to shatter your opponent’s confidence?
Just when he starts to hurt, you sing.” The race won’t be put into context until midway through the
book, when a multitude of characters and narrative threads converge with satisfying resonance.
Because the novel’s strength relies on its propulsive plot, and because “spoiler alert” combined with
the aforementioned “unputdownable” could end my reviewing career, suffice it to say that Keita was
born in Zantoroland, the son of a renowned journalist whose integrity has cost the family a great
deal. As a child, Keita loved watching elite marathoners train and dreamed of becoming one. Hill’s
descriptions of running are richly observed: “The runners spilled along the road like blood out of
veins, passing over yet another hill. Brown arms swung in loose unison and legs churned smoothly,
feet nearly soundless on the first road, apart from the crunching of pebbles.” Zantoroland is a nation
of runners. Perhaps this is a metaphor, too.
Boatloads of refugees are attempting the dangerous crossing of the Ortiz Sea between Zantoroland
and Freedom State. Their hoped-for destination is the shantytown of AfricTown where both legal and
illegal residents live in shipping containers rented to them by Lulu, the de facto ruler of AfricTown.
The idea of social and racial mobility is key to the success of the larger project of Freedom State, but
in reality only a token few escape AfricTown, where, amidst the squalor, an illegal economy thrives.
Lulu is a nebulous moral figure, both benevolent and ruthless: her relationships are transparently
transactional. She uses every advantage at her disposal. But who doesn’t? What is the difference
between a good person and a bad person? Lulu straddles a line in between. There are bad people in
this book: parasitic schemers, power-seekers, a dictator, torturers, purveyors of violence and fear.
Some of these people are the ones who craft partisan, discriminatory laws. And some who break
these laws are good people, journalists who subvert the rules in order to expose the truth, an elderly
woman who gives library cards to “illegals,” and Keita himself, hiding in a foreign state.
Hill draws important distinctions between Zantoroland and Freedom State. Freedom State, as a
nation, is an unsatisfactory and incompletely realized compromise, but there is nevertheless hope in
its democratic institutions; Zantoroland, a dictatorship, is a nightmare, where state-sanctioned
torture and killings eliminate dissent. Wealth separates these nations, too. Freedom State’s thriving
economy is interdependent on the freedom of movement, freedom of the press, an independent
police force and the rule of law. Yet its rise to prosperity is due to unacknowledged history, its
economy built on the enslaved labour of those whose descendants are now excluded or marginalized
– and blamed for their own exclusion.
The wealthy believe themselves deserving of their wealth, no matter its origins. They absolve
themselves of the wreckage caused by their rise.
In this way, The Illegal reminds me of Hill’s previous novel, The Book of Negroes: both use story to
give flesh, breath, and blood to cold, calculating political and economic practices. The consequences
of entitled self-interest are measured in Hill’s novels in human terms, and the loss and pain will
make a reader weep.
But while The Book of Negroes was powered by a singular voice and illuminated buried history, The
Illegal is a different project altogether. The view is omniscient, the tone is that of a slightly futuristic
thriller, and rather than setting straight the record, Hill addresses the here and now. For Keita,
running is no metaphor: it is literally his ticket into Freedom State. Does this make him a token,
too? Hill writes of exceptional characters, those with talent, intelligence, wit, and luck, but what
becomes of everyone who is ordinary – the vast majority of humankind, in other words? Is there
room in Freedom State for all who want in?
Freedom State may be fictional, but it stands in for wealthy, democratic nations, which benefit
economically from global inequity and whose citizens fear inundation at the borders, or from within.
Yes, Canada, too. The question is, what is more disruptive to a country’s prosperity: the
participation of the marginalized or “illegal,” or the sacrifice of rights to security?
In the end, Hill ties up his plot neatly; but his larger moral questions linger, provocatively.
Carrie Snyder’s novel Girl Runner was a finalist for the 2014 Rogers Writers’ Trust Fiction Prize.
The Illegal
By Lawrence Hill
If the statistics are to be believed, we are facing a global refugee crisis. According to the United
Nations, there were a staggering 59.5 million people forcibly displaced from their homes by the
end of 2014; globally, one in every 122 people is now either a refugee, displaced, or seeking
asylum. Unfortunately, facts and figures fade in people’s consciousness unless one is directly
affected, or reads an indelible story. Lawrence Hill’s new novel – his first work of fiction in
eight years – achieves an immediacy and power unequalled by an onslaught of news broadcasts.
Hill’s fast-paced political thriller is set in two fictional island
countries: Zantoroland and Freedom State. The story begins in medias res. Keita Ali is running a
marathon in Freedom State, where his presence is illegal, when a competitor on his left barks,
“Go home. … Go. Fucking. Home.” Hill’s use of invented countries as settings underscores one
of his key themes: our problems are global, not isolated to any single nation.
Zantoroland is “a speck” in the Indian Ocean, with Africa to the west and Australia to the east.
The ironically named Freedom State, 1,500 kilometres north, enslaved Zantorolanders for two
centuries. Ever since slavery was abolished and Zantorolanders outlawed, the latter have braved
the open sea in fishing boats in attempts to re-enter Freedom State, now one of the richest nations
in the world.
In Zantoroland, Keita’s family of four live in a “two-room matchbox.” Keita is a gifted runner; at
age 10, his most precious possessions were his Meb Supreme training shoes, “light as slippers, as
snug as socks.” Keita’s older sister, Charity, is a bookworm. Their father, a journalist, keeps the
notes and drafts for his controversial writings hidden in a row of teapots on a kitchen shelf.
After a coup d’état, Keita’s family comes under threat. The government has been torturing and
executing dissidents and members of the country’s Faloo ethnic minority; Keita’s father is a
dissident, his mother, a Faloo. When an opportunity arises to enter a race in Freedom State, Keita
seizes it. Though the novel’s early chapters falter under the weight of background information
and jarring temporal leaps, the story takes off when Keita arrives in Freedom State, and literally
begins running for his life.
Running is the perfect central image for Hill’s story, working on both a literal and a metaphorical
level. In Freedom State, running can garner privilege, power, and, potentially, a ticket to
citizenship as a member of the country’s Olympic team. Yet, as an illegal, Keita’s existence is
subject to stark dualitites: freedom or imprisonment, glory or banishment. Being an illegal – a
label Keita shares with millions – strips him of his identity. He becomes anonymous and
interchangeable, a number rather than a human being. Hill’s message is clear: while a person can
do something illegal, a human being’s very existence should not be illegal.
Though Keita’s presence in Freedom State is precarious, a return home to Zantoroland would
likely amount to a death sentence. “Since the government got elected, they’ve been deporting
people as fast as they can,” a man in a bar tells Keita. “I don’t know what you’re running from,
brother, but be careful of what you are running to.” Hill deftly dramatizes Keita’s predicament:
“Unless he was hit by a bus, struck by lightning, or caught and deported, he had a greater
statistical likelihood of staying alive here than where he had come from.”
Hill’s greatest strength as a writer is character, and readers live inside the skins of some truly
unforgettable ones in The Illegal. In Freedom State, Keita’s path intersects with Viola Hill and
John Falconer, both of whom are keenly interested in his story. Viola, a sportswriter whose
ambition is to cover hard news, injects vigour, edge, and a wry humour to any scene she is a part
of. She dubs herself “blagaybulled” – black, gay, disabled – but she is also proud. Strong and
fast in her wheelchair, with “abs of steel, biceps like guns,” she is an athlete and former runner.
John, “blacker than white but whiter than black,” is a whip-smart teen making a documentary
about the fate of Zantorolanders in Freedom State. Dubbed “latté boy, cookies ’n’ cream,” John
learns that he, too, must fight for his identity – even at home – in order to “out-black the blacks.”
Hill’s novel explores many charged issues and questions. Is there hope for reparations of gross
violations of human rights? How can people survive – and thrive – when they fail to fit into
crisp categories? What does home mean? This novel will, no doubt, remain in readers’ minds,
and may help deepen our urgent dialogue about race and immigration.
From books.wwnorton.com
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1. Zantoroland and Freedom State are fictitious countries, but they exist in Hill’s novel alongside real
countries such as France and Kenya. Why do you think Hill chose to invent new countries? Do
Freedom State and Zantoroland remind you of any real countries? Which ones?
2. The Illegal is written from multiple perspectives. The secondary characters generally exist for one
reason: they each want something from Keita Ali. Discuss the merits of this form of narrative. Why
would Hill construct minor characters as if they were moons revolving around the protagonist Keita?
3. Why might Hill have chosen to make his protagonist an elite marathon runner?
4. Keita’s father Yoyo tells him not to run through the poorest districts in Zantoroland because “to those
who are truly poor, running symbolizes privilege.” When Keita protests that he doesn’t have money
(and therefore he can’t possibly have privilege), Yoyo tells him, “Your shoes would fit perfectly on
someone else’s feet.” (17) In what ways do Keita and the other characters in the book—from John,
Viola, Lula, and Ivernia to Rocco, Anton, Candace, and the Prime Minister himself—both have and
lack privilege? Do you think any character is obviously the most or the least privileged? Who and
why?
5. Keita flees his home in Zantoroland for Freedom State because his life is in imminent danger, but
he’s not safe in Freedom State either. What new risks does he face in Freedom State? Does gaining
legal status at the end of the book solve all his problems, or are some of the challenges he
encounters independent of being undocumented?
6. Keita has two physical problems in the novel. What is the purpose of encumbering the protagonist
with such difficulties?
7. John Falconer is an amazing, accomplished, and brave young student who puts himself at risk to
advance his ambitions as a documentary filmmaker. Can a teenager really be all that?
8. Rocco calls Zantoroland “one giant AfricTown” (127) and says AfricTown is “like a whole other
country. An island of poverty, right inside one of the world’s richest countries.” (128) In what ways is
life in AfricTown like life in Zantoroland? In what ways is it different? Do you think AfricTown is more
similar to Zantoroland or to the rest of Freedom State?
9. Many residents of AfricTown are trying to escape it, like Candace did. Why do you think someone
like Lula, who has so much money and power, has stayed there so long despite the miserable
conditions? Do you think John will stay in AfricTown when he grows up?
10. Singing is very important to Keita as a child. When he listens to the choristers sing at his church, it
makes him feel “as if he had known and loved them forever” (11) and it allows him to express his
grief when his mother dies. As an adult, he often sings country music while running. Why do think
Keita is so attached to music and what do you think his choice of music says about him?
11. Lula does some horrible things to people over the course of the novel, from having them deported to
exploiting them in her brothel, but she also helps John pay for school and fights for better conditions
in AfricTown, which would have been bulldozed without her influence. She seems to believe “the
ends justify the means.” Do you agree?
12. When Ivernia invites Keita to come over for tea, Keita reflects, “The poorest people in the world
brought in strangers, and the richest people in the world kept them out.” (235) Does this
generalization hold true in the book? Do you think it’s reflective of real life?
13. The minister insists that “economic migrants” from Zantoroland (who may be more accurately called
“refugees”) should “get in line just like any other immigrant if they want to live in Freedom State”
(269), even though, as John notes, Freedom State won’t be allowing legal immigration from
Zantoroland for the foreseeable future. What do you think Zantorolanders like Keita who need to
leave should do? Should the government of Freedom State allow migrants from Zantoroland?
14. There is much suffering in The Illegal, but the Hill writes with a narrative touch that is occasionally
light, satirical, and comical. Why do you think he chose to employ such narrative techniques?
15. Many characters in the novel do things that are illegal. John films people without their consent in the
name of investigative journalism. Lula runs a brothel and state-sponsored human trafficking ring, in
which the Prime Minister is also involved. Ivernia gives out library cards to people who don’t have a
proper ID. Keita stays in Freedom State without a visa. Yoyo writes critically of a government that
values censorship over free speech. Do you think things that are illegal are always unethical, and
vice versa? Who would you say is the “Illegal” of the title?