Books like #RhodesMustFall — picked by fans

This book tells the story of when, why, and by whom Confederate monuments were erected in the United States.

I love its careful attention to race and class, which helps us to understand how this process consolidated white supremacy but also undermined a revolutionary working-class politics. There is a terrific chapter on Stone Mountain in Georgia, which has been described as "the largest shrine to white supremacy in the history of the world."

The historical context provided by the book helped me to make sense of what was at stake in the Black Lives Matter protests of 2020, and in the white supremacist backlash to it that we are currently living through. Most memorable sentence: "Shuffling statues around our cities is like moving an abusive priest to another parish."

Written by a world-leading authority on iconoclasm, this book is a veritable encyclopedia!

I love its historical sweep, covering iconoclasm from ancient Rome to the present day. The book also ranges widely across geographies, including Europe, West Asia, South Africa, and the United States. In doing so, it makes clear how, rather than being characteristic of particular cultures, iconoclasm is rooted in the human psyche.

It helped me to understand how human beings can experience the inert matter of statues and images as coming alive, to the point where they are spooked enough to want to destroy them.  

In contrast to stories of statue toppling that we encounter in the West in recent years, India has witnessed a frenzy of statue building of political and religious figures over several decades.

This book is the most theoretically sophisticated account of this phenomenon. It situates statue-building in India in its historical and political context, developing an account of "iconopraxis" – the use of icons to assert and consolidate community identity and presence in the public sphere.

I love Jain’s attention to the material lives of statues, which she elucidates through ethnographic fieldwork and interviews with sculptors, patrons, and visitors. The book wonderfully complicates the distinction between the religious and the secular, demonstrating how this is blurred in India’s many monumental statue assemblages.     

From the title of this book about "so-called Australia," it’s clear that we are going to hear a deeply subversive account of the politics and history of that country from an Aboriginal perspective.

In addition to providing a powerful critique of colonial narratives about white settler "discovery" that remain dominant in Australian public culture, the authors curate a rich archive of Aboriginal disruption of those narratives.

These have taken the form of not only statue protests of the kind that we have seen in other parts of the world, but also art, music, films, mock ethnographic documentaries, counter-memorials, and more. The book shows how another history of the continent has always been narrated, even if settler audiences have lacked the literacy necessary to understand it.  

Eddie Glaude simply feels like preaching on the page. He helped me understand Baldwin not just as a literary figure, but as a moral witness.

This book challenged me to confront the gap between the America we proclaim and the America we practice. What I appreciate most is its insistence that renewal requires truth-telling. You cannot hold a community together by pretending. You have to reckon with what has been broken. Glaude’s work deepened my understanding of that responsibility.

This is the book that forced me to rethink how deeply race and criminal punishment are intertwined in America.

I had already spent years representing innocent people when I first read it, but Michelle Alexander still managed to make me uncomfortable in the best possible way. I remember constantly putting the book down just to process what I had read. What I admire most is that it doesn’t rely on outrage alone. It connects history, politics, policing, and incarceration in a way that made me see patterns I had previously viewed as isolated failures.

Few books have changed national conversations the way this one has, and I think it remains essential reading for anyone trying to understand modern America.

This Pulitzer prize-winning book tells the tale of three white men who worked with Nelson Mandela and his cohorts striving to end the brutal rule of Apartheid.

They were arrested, tried, and convicted of ‘terrorism’, alongside Mandela. This granular narrative is the story of their capture and trial, the impact on them and their families, the hostility of the state and white South Africans towards these ‘radicals,’ who in any Western society would be considered human rights activists.

It has resonance for me because I grew up in Southern Africa; I was opposed to the rigid racial policies but didn’t do much more than grumble about it. So I admire these intrepid men and women.

First published in 1948, this book will forever occupy a special place in my heart.

Not only is the book partially set in the very countryside where I was raised in South Africa, but it was also responsible for awakening my young conscience to the harsh realities of what many South Africans endured leading up to and during the apartheid years.

I was forever moved by the story and characters, and discovered the power of fiction by reading it.

Move Your Shadow is a masterpiece of reportage. Lelyveld, a former executive editor of the New York Times, spent considerable periods in apartheid South Africa in both the 1960s and the 1980s. The sixties was the period of “baaskap”—“bosshood” apartheid, when the perverse racist cruelties of the system were imposed with a sledgehammer. I would call the eighties the era of “facelift” apartheid—why, the word was hardly used by the regime anymore. 

To paraphrase Gramsci, the old world was dying, a new one struggled to be born. Monsters abounded. Nobody captured the period better than Lelyveld. The chapter on Philip Kgosana, the idealist who led Cape Town demonstrations in 1960—at age 19—was betrayed by the state, and wound up in exile in Sri Lanka—is worth the price of the book.

A brilliant book (who would dare publish this today?) by the author of the equally brilliant Ben’s Trumpet. In a South African township, some children expect their migrant-labourer fathers to arrive home after 10 months away. They wait, in a celebratory mood at first, but with increasing tiredness and uncertainty as the day and the night go by. They tell stories to stay awake. But the youngest falls asleep. A truck pulls up. It’s not their dads. Then the day dawns. And, with it, the fathers arrive.

There’s hardly any characterisation of the dads. They come to life through the children’s excitement and persistence. So does the deep emotion of an absent father returning. My boys have often chosen this book at bedtime. And they know it well enough to look up curiously when the dads arrive - to check if there are tears of happiness in my eyes.… show more.