When R. F. Kuang released Babel, it became the sole topic of conversation among my entire friend circle. From my friends, to my classmates, to my parents—who had rarely ever diverted from historical fiction—it seemed that everyone had an opinion on this particular novel. At the time, I did not understand the attention. After all, it promised to be another young adult book that, while interesting, delved into the themes all of its YA predecessors had repetitively touched upon. In my eyes, there were other things I could read. 

Thankfully, my stubbornness did not last long, and I succumbed to my friend’s repeated insistences a few months ago. I went to my nearest bookstore, purchased the book, and sat down to read it. Immediately, I was lured in by the mysterious Professor Lovell, who arrived in Canton with nothing but contempt for its inhabitants yet adopted a child—Robin Swift—from the midst of its dying population. I was drawn in by Robin’s permanent English tutor, Miss Betty, and her motherly role. Certainly, as a non-native English speaker, Kuang’s use of silver as a magical element powered by translation and language caught my attention. Nevertheless, what immersed me in Babel’s magical world was the political commentary that permeated every page.

This novel, as its name suggests, follows the “Translators’ Revolution” at the prestigious Royal Institute of Translation in Oxford—also known as Babel—where the cogs of Empire are polished and refined by the very same people it oppresses. Centered around Robin, who enrolls at Babel under the mentorship of Professor Lovell, Kuang is determined to make her readers understand the reasons behind the Hermes Society, a belligerent organization that wants to undermine British silver supremacy. This clandestine group is led by Griffin Harley, who used to occupy the same position Robin now has within Babel, and who the scholars in the tower refuse to address by name. Hermes’ methods are shocking and can appear, to some, excessively radical, for Kuang’s narration forces her readers to encounter Griffin’s struggle through Robin’s hopeful eyes. By doing so, the audience experiences the intricacies of Babel through Robin’s time as an undergraduate student, where his worth is solely determined by his “Otherness.”

Initially, when he first enlists to aid Hermes, Robin considers Babel’s exclusivity as his absolute goal, for being part of the Institute represents the culmination of years upon years of arduous struggle. Robin could not conceptualize a world where his personal talent did not lead to British acceptance. Yet, as the book progresses and he is confronted by microaggressions from his immediate environment, Robin drifts away from what he visualized as desirable and realizes that the real reason for his presence in Oxford is because they—the exploits of Empire—need him to ensure their longevity. As the possible translations between European languages wither (for the scholastic depth surrounding their study removes the possibility of finding new combinations), England is scrambling to use Robin’s Cantonese, Ramy’s Arabic, and Victoire’s Kreyòle to create new silver bars. These, ideally, would then be employed to further the interests of the Crown in Africa and Asia, engaging both regions in a war they could realistically not win. For Robin, this geopolitical reality meant he was never going to fit in at Babel, regardless of how much he wanted to, because the tower’s scholars view him as a second-class citizen who is only temporarily useful. It is when Robin realizes this harsh truth, after chapter upon chapter of mistreatment, that he understands and partakes in Griffin’s approach. 

As a result, Babel’s political critique (albeit a little on the nose) is spectacularly well-executed and details how colonial structures require a systemic indoctrination of the people they oppress. Empire needs its subjects to believe the top is achievable, or else they will sabotage the system and rebel. For Professor Lovell and his colleagues, the ideological enslavement of Robin and his friends needed to sell Robin, Ramy, and Victoire on the idea that, if only they succeeded at their job, the rest of their lives would be filled with academic recognition and financial stability. This particular argument is Kuang’s accurate adaptation of the Center-Periphery Theory, where societies in the center (i.e., Oxford, with its upper-class schooling and unlimited silver bars) exploit the periphery (i.e., Canton, India, and Haiti, with their lack of silver and illiterate population) to function adequately, creating a cycle of oppression that subjugates the periphery to the whims of Empire. How could Robin continue to pursue his education when every step forward strengthened the Imperial machine? 

“They were men at Oxford; they were not Oxford men. But the enormity of this knowledge was so devastating, such a vicious antithesis to the three golden days they’d blindly enjoyed, that neither of them could say it out loud.” 

It is unsurprising, then, that upon discovering the root of the issue, Robin finally comprehends what Griffin—and Kuang—had been trying to say: the only way to eradicate the Tower’s influence is to demolish it—to upturn the system to such a degree that it is no longer recognizable.

Nevertheless, this revelation placed Robin at an interesting crossroad, for people close to him disavowed the exploitation of Empire and claimed that, in reality, it was not an excess of force, but mercy. Perfectly embodied by Letty, the daughter of an admiral who (deservedly) is one of the only two women at Oxford, Babel delves into the fundamental differences between those raised in the center and the children of the periphery. For her, Hermes is violence without cause, and she is unable to empathize with her undergraduate cohort. She, raised comfortably by silver bars and private tutors, cannot fathom that Haitian Kreyòl is as respectable as French, or that Robin’s connection to Canton goes beyond speaking its language. How could Robin, Ramy, or Victoire explain the nature of their situation to Letty? Should they even have to appeal to her sympathy? Or should she—who claims to be their friend—automatically extend the same understanding she offers them to the people of China, India, and Haiti? Said more broadly, Kuang wonders if the oppressor can be taught the error of their ways, and whether or not they will lean towards compassion upon realizing their mistakes. Unfortunately, Letty did not. She refused to renounce her privilege and lost all her friends in the process, for they went on to overturn the physical manifestation of Empire while she stood behind its defense lines. In this case, Kuang wanted to emphasize how the privileged are terrified of compromising to systemic transformation because these changes promise to upturn the distribution of societal power that benefits them, making their loyalty to their advantage stronger than their loyalty to other people. 

It is by touching upon these two themes that Kuang’s book became one of my favorite novels. Beyond its enjoyable plot and Babel’s urban fantasy undertones, Robin’s story discusses the intricacies of Empire and the nuance of unequal social interactions, where Oxford is politicized by making its connection to Western hegemony and to the Ivory Tower abundantly clear. The Institute of Translation and its upper-class scholars create the silver bars that enslaved British colonies, engaging on Empire by recognizing its profitable nature and accepting the Others simply by virtue of their utility. It is true that Kuang’s political critique may be overly explicit, and the scenarios she describes did only exist, verbatim, at the end of the 1800s. Yet, what is amazing about her assertions is that they remain relevant in a 21st century setting, where academia remains as exclusionary as ever and Empire has reformed into a more acceptable beast. Regardless of how much we would love to say that Robin, Ramy, and Victoire are welcomed in academic spaces, the discourses that surround Asia, the Middle East, and the Americas are still ruthless and oversimplifying. The Others have only been included to a certain degree, and the periphery remains separated from the metropole by economic and political barriers.

Ultimately, this is the merit of Babel: its timelessness and applicability in modern-day politics. In a time when millions of Robins leave their homes in the pursuit of something better, where experienced Griffins grow disenchanted with the system, and where Lettys refuse to join the fight, the mystifying crevices of academia—with their closed libraries and imposing buildings—represent more than just final exams. And it is the choice of its students to acknowledge its disparities and determine where they stand: either within Babel’s spiral staircases, looking down at the Oxford quad, or outside its locked, ostentatious metal doors, trying to loosen the lock.