This novel does for Culture Wars what Orwell did for totalitarianism

Dystopian fiction either arrives too soon to tap into popular fears, or bang on the moment. For those which sadly arrived early count The City and The City by China Miéville, which plays with the notion of divided citizens living alternate political realities; and Sinclair Lewis’s It Couldn’t Happen Here, a book which envisions Trumpism almost a century before its arrival.

When a dystopian novel is well-timed, it can change our intellectual landscape. Think of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World and the mirror it held up to the birth of consumerism and the cult of technological progress, or - of course - George Orwell’s 1984.

Fríða Ísberg’s The Mark speaks directly to the here-and-now, though it’s set in the very near-future, when Icelandic society is divided by a culture war which eerily echoes Scotland’s recent battles over Hate Crime legislation.

Gruffudd Glyn and William Postlethwaite in Brave New World (Image: free)

Iceland is in the middle of an ugly, bitter referendum over ‘the Empathy Test’, which works out whether you’re sociopathic, psychopathic, a controlling bully, domestic abuser, someone with borderline personality disorder, a manipulative narcissist, or common-or-garden anti-social lout with criminal tendencies. It’s there to identify all the worst traits humanity offers.

The state wants this ‘sensitivity assessment’ made mandatory. Fail the test and a paternalistic government will offer psychological support. However, those who have voluntarily passed the test are already getting the best jobs. Some areas of Reykjavik are closed to anyone without ‘the mark’.

Cue social pandemonium. Iceland divides over the fundamental question of whether a society can legislate bad behaviour out of existence. Those who support the law are genuinely decent folk, they want a society based on kindness. But their idealism blinds them to the social apartheid the Mark would herald.

Those opposed aren’t the nicest bunch. They’ve little faith in humanity, and often want to celebrate unpleasantness and abuse, but they’ve a point when they say that well-intentioned laws can make for very bad realities. There’s even a moment when this camp takes to the streets in a riot similar to the January 6 uprising by Trump supporters.

Ísberg isn’t didactic, though. She doesn’t pick sides. It’s for the reader to decide.

If the ideas sound familiar, it’s because Ísberg could be writing about Scotland in 2024. The novel asks profound political and philosophical questions. Can or should a society legislate away bad behaviour like selfishness, rage and cruelty? Evidently, the initial response is ‘no’. But then what’s the seat belt law if not legislation against selfishness? What’s the crime of murder? Where on the spectrum of nastiness do we stop when it comes to the word ‘ban’?

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Again, like the best dystopian fiction, The Mark is driven relentlessly by story. We follow the lives of four very different characters, whose fates interlock as they navigate a society at war with itself.

There’s Oli, the psychologist behind the empathy test. Like many culture warriors his marriage is disintegrating as his wife is repelled by his obsessions. Vetur is a teacher and the victim of a stalker ex-partner who’s in a school where the empathy test is being readied for pupils.

There’s Eyja, the book’s most unpleasant character. A grade-A psychopath, she’ll hurt and wound anyone who gets in her way, lie, cheat, steal, defame, break the law - and she’s proud of her cruelty believing it gives her an edge over lesser mortals.

Finally, we meet Tristan, a lonely young man - almost incel-like - terrified of failing the test. He’s in the clutches of right-wing culture warriors who use his pitiful life to campaign against the ‘mark’. Look, the ‘No’ campaign says, this is the kind of sad individual the test will target, it will only make his life worse, not better. 

Ironically, readers will empathise most with Tristan, despite his petty crime and simmering seam of violence. 

Should we ‘preemptively’ protect ourselves against society’s Eyjas and Tristans? Or should we wait until they blow and do some real damage in the world? Preemption strips them of rights, yet protects us.

It’s a chilling collision between culture war and scientific advancement. Today, neuroscience can peak into the brain searching for signs of psychopathy. Should those ‘marked’ biologically be taken straight to the nearest mental health clinic? Should we monitor them?

George Orwell (Image: free)

Yet if we seek to legislate away humanity’s worst traits, aren’t we seeking to legislate away what makes us human? We’re all of us just a bundle of vices and virtues, no? For some, our upbringing makes us what we are - should that doom anyone to a life of surveillance? For others, genetics make us more predisposed to psychiatric and emotional disorders. Is that enough to make someone a lesser citizen?

One sad theme which runs through the book is the destruction such culture wars bring to relationships. A series of exchanges between two friends Laila and Tea interrupt the narrative, charting the disintegration of their friendship. I found myself drawn to this line: “I hate that society is always splitting into two warring armies defending their trenches, that anyone who ventures into the middle gets shot down by all sides.”

There’s no nuance, no balance here. With deliberate irony, empathy for political opponents doesn’t exist. Like our social media-driven debate, you’re either for or against. Dare question the purity of either camp and you’ll be crucified even if an ally.

The novel isn’t perfect. No dystopian fiction ever is, even when it comes from the pen of the great Orwell - a man now sadly deployed as a weapon by all camps in our culture wars, especially those who’ve never read him. If they had read him, they’d probably engage their brains more and drop the cultishness.

This novel’s failings are minor, though. Ísberg likes to play with sci-fi. So we’ve ‘Grams’ - hologram messages - facial-cloaking technology, an AI assistant called Zoe, and apps like Chaperone and Spotter which guard you and call the police on any sign of threat. It’s just somewhat bland compared to Huxley’s Soma or Orwell’s Ministry of Truth. Yet the believability of these sci-fi tropes, does certainly add to the sense that this novel is deeply concerned with today rather than tomorrow.