Since its coinage in the late nineteenth century, “geopolitics” has been shaped as much by metaphor as by maps, drawing on literary imagination, the language of Social Darwinism, and geographical knowledge. This paper explores that convergence by reading Mohsin Hamid’s Exit West as a piece of geopolitical literature that challenges early but still prevalent visions of geography and nationhood. The critically acclaimed text tells the story of Nadia and Saeed, a young couple that is forced to flee their home country due to war and destruction. Once they hear about the sudden appearance of magical doors that open gateways to faraway places, they eventually take their chance and travel from a refugee camp in Mykonos to London and finally to a small town in California. At all these stops, they are confronted with the nation-state’s growing inability to keep up with an ever-more globalized world.
Despite differing emphases, scholarly readings of the novel largely converge around a set of shared political concerns. In particular, critics agree that the text engages with globalization while challenging nationalism and the broader concept of the nation-state.
So far, Mohsin’s novel has been claimed to offer “a new mode of defining nation and identity” (Olumofin 2025, 396), while simultaneously challenging “the parochialism of Western cosmopolitanism and its biased ideals of universality, transnationality, and global citizenship” (Tosi 2017, 62). Other readings focus on the text’s political imagination, suggesting that Hamid “arguably depicted a kind of grass-root communism” (Schetrumpf/Wansbrough 2022, 96). Trevor Westmoreland contends that the novel destabilizes “the spatial relations of the geopolitical world” (Westmoreland 2025, 87). In his reading, the magic doors “puncture the traditional limitations of space, time, and bodies,” thereby “open up a possibility of utopian thinking” (Westmoreland 2025, 85) beyond the current world order. This utopian dimension is taken up by Phillip E. Wegner, who situates the novel within a “genre of the critical utopia” (Wegner 2025, 49). The novel’s affirmative orientation is further underscored by readings that praise it as “a deeply optimistic testament to this species” (Elze 2024, 496).
I propose a reading that builds but also expands on these interpretations by placing the novel in dialogue with historical geopolitical writings that deploy the body as a symbol to underpin and legitimize their political ideology. In contrast to such texts, novels like Exit West possess a distinctive capacity to stage paradox and complexity without the imperative to resolve them. While the juxtaposition of a contemporary novel and early twentieth-century geopolitical writings may initially appear unconventional, I argue that they intersect precisely at the nexus of body and space, albeit in very different forms. Hamid’s novel mobilizes the body to foreground human vulnerability and interdependence. Rather than centering on changes in state territories, the text devotes considerable attention to injured and fragmented bodies and to the narration of small bodily details of various characters.
Before turning to specific passages from the novel, I will provide a short introduction to the origins of “geopolitics” and, in particular, its peak of influence in German political discourse after the First World War. This form, often referred to as “classical” geopolitics, differs both from contemporary usages of the term and from the academic field of critical geopolitics, which analyzes how geographical knowledge and cultural and political assumptions are used to construct statehood.
The term “geopolitics” was first coined by the Swedish statesman and geographer Rudolf Kjellén (1864–1922) in an article on the boundaries of Sweden (cf. Holdar 1992). His works The State as a Living Organism (1916) and Foundations for a System of Politics (1920) draw heavily on the ideas of Friedrich Ratzel (1844-1904). Ratzel, a German zoologist, approached geography from a biologistic—and, most importantly, Darwinian—perspective. He applied the notions of natural selection and the struggle for survival as dynamics operating not only in ecosystems but also among states. According to Ratzel, a state constitutes a living organism through the intimate connection between its people and its land:
The state is not merely an organism because it is a connection between the living people and the rigid ground, but because this connection is so strengthened by interaction that the two become one and can no longer be thought of separately without life escaping (Ratzel 1897, 4).
Friedrich Ratzel conceptualizes the relationship between land and population as a vital unity, attributing to geographical factors a formative role in shaping the social and political life of the state. Nevertheless, his work should not be classified as strictly geodeterministic (Cf. Werber 2022). Rather, both Ratzel and Kjellén advocate for strategic geopolitics, arguing that states must consciously comprehend and use their location, climate, and spatial conditions in order to survive and grow (Cf. Ratzel 1897, 22). When taking up the image of the state as a living organism, Kjellén further claims that the state constitutes an “individual in itself” with its own biography: “Each state acts as an individual entity, with its own particular character, special interests, way of acting, and emotional world” (Kjellén 1917, 35.)
In an introduction to geopolitics, the German literary scholar Niels Werber identifies three central problems emerging from this mode of thinking: (1) the devaluation of the individual, or citizen; (2) bellicism, or an inclination to war; and (3) the implied normative consequences (Cf. Werber 2022). The resulting semantic field is shaped by biological and medical vocabulary; states may be described as “healthy” or “sick,” and borders as either “natural” or “artificial” (Ratzel 1987, 404ff. and Kjellén 1917, 65ff.) Within this framework, the health of the state becomes the paramount concern of geopolitics, implying that a state is better off losing part of its population than surrendering territory (cf. Kjellén 1917, 53f.).
Once such narratives lose their metaphorical ambiguity and harden into political imperatives, they can have fatal consequences, as became evident during World War II. Yet geopolitical language had already gained significant traction in the aftermath of World War I, particularly through figures such as Karl Haushofer, a Bavarian officer and geographer who popularized the term in Germany during the 1920s and 1930s. For Haushofer, geopolitics was concerned with the „assembly […] of blood and soil in space to form a state“ (Haushofer 1934, 63f.). Even if his emphasis falls more heavily on the geopolitical than on “blood,” he mobilizes a vocabulary that closely parallels that of the National Socialists and that, in part, helped to prepare the conceptual ground for the expansionist project of acquiring additional living space (Lebensraum) for the German people in the East (Werber 2014, 29).
Unlike Friedrich Ratzel, these later texts articulate concrete political imperatives. Moreover, as Niels Werber compellingly demonstrates, they are grounded in a distinctly revanchist framework. The German narrative was thus shaped by a forceful condemnation of the British naval blockade, the notion of Germany’s “geographical fate” (Raumschicksal) rooted in its “middle location” (Mittellage), and the framing of the East as an empty space (Volk ohne Raum) for potential territorial expansion. What is most relevant to my analysis is how influential figures such as Haushofer described and visualized Germany’s “geographical fate” after the Treaty of Versailles from 1919, which forced the nation to surrender about 10% of its former territory. Continuing the topos of the living organism, leading geopolitics like Haushofer, Erich Obst, and Otto Maull employed terms such as “mutilation,” “crippledness,” and “spatial pressure,” as well as metaphors of breathing and suffocation (Haushofer 1934, 83; Sapper 1934, 296).
Based on his analysis of Swedish–German geopolitics, Werber identifies two general characteristics of post–First World War geopolitical discourse. First, it is marked by a reduction of complexity, as it focuses exclusively on geographical factors. Second, it operates through a deferral of guilt: if a state merely acts in accordance with its “nature,” responsibility can no longer be attributed to political actors. Political actions are thus fully naturalized. Space, or nature itself, acquires agency and is transformed into a political actor, while the geopolitician becomes its authoritative interpreter and, consequently, holds the key in shaping state policy. Otto Maull, one of the co-founders of Haushofer’s Zeitschrift für Geopolitik, compares this role to that of a doctor:
Political geography demands recognition of the nature of the state as a political spatial organism. It examines the roots, the soil-dependent nature, and the functional capacity of the individual spatial organs, similar to how biologists examine plants, animals, or even humans. Mastery of this entire discipline is an indispensable prerequisite for geopolitics, but it does not constitute geopolitics. For the geopolitician does not have the task of a biologist with regard to the state, but rather that of a physician, whose job it is to declare its organism healthy and capable of meeting the spatial requirements of life, or to recommend behavioral measures in the event of symptoms of illness (Maul 1936, 28f.)
This quote once more underlines the normative and authoritative character that geopolitical discourse had assumed by this point in history. Influenced by the natural sciences, classical geopolitical thinking relies heavily on Western binaries that continue to shape our thinking today. Although geopoliticians invoked their interpretation of nature as a foil for politics and emphasized a deep connection between soil, territory, and inhabitants, they nonetheless operated through a “Cartesian perspectivalist enframing of the world” (Tuathail 1996, 39).
If we attend closely to the language and imagery on which geopolitics relies, we can easily draw connections to works of fiction. In Geopolitik der Literatur (2007), Niels Werber traces the entanglement of geopolitical thinking and literature from Heinrich von Kleist and Herman Melville to The Lord of the Rings and Star Wars. Along these examples, he demonstrates how popular literature and media are part of the problem, since they shape and reproduce harmful narratives, both rhetorically and aesthetically. At the same time, literature may offer ways of unsettling geopolitical imaginaries or, at the very least, of exposing their underlying semantics. Building on this insight, the following analysis will show how Exit West, through its use of bodily imagery, contributes to a critique of classical geopolitical thinking.
In their reading of the novel, Olasubomi Olumofin emphasizes how “moving bodies (and/or ideas) possess an intrinsic capacity to disrupt […] [t]he sense of solidity, of fixity and stability, that nations present” (Olumofin 2025, 390). In line with Foucault’s panoptic model, they go on to show how the state’s means of control, e.g., surveillance cameras, fragment the spaces and bodies that it seeks to discipline. While I agree with this reading, I will also demonstrate how the fragmentation of bodies can itself counter geopolitical narratives, functioning symbolically to dismantle bodily notions of statehood. My approach follows in part Penny Vlagopoulos’ observation, proposing that “[w]e are, the text suggests, fundamentally limited by our bodies and the places in which we dwell, a reality that is sedimented as others enter into our orbit or as we cross into theirs” (Vlagopoulos 2022, 418).
Several bodies of various shapes, forms, genders, ages, and colors are part of Exit West’s narrative tapestry. Due to the war in Nadia’s and Saeed’s hometown, the characters often encounter dead bodies or isolated body parts resulting from targeted bombings: “Saeed and Nadia had to be careful when making turns not to run over an outstretched arm or leg” (Hamid 2017, 26f). Especially during the first third of the novel, death is a constant companion. One day, Nadia’s cousin dies “with eighty-five others, […] blown by a truck bomb to bits, literally to bits, the largest of which, in Nadia’s cousin’s case, were a head and two-thirds of an arm” (31f). Later, Saeed’s mother is killed by “a stray heavy-caliber round passing through the windshield of her family’s car and taking with it a quarter of [her] head” (74f). Most shockingly, perhaps, the narrator describes a scene in which Saeed’s father witnesses a group of young men playing football. When looking closely, he realizes that they are playing with a head. He believes it to be the head of a goat, until it finally dawns on him that it is the head “of a human being, with hair and a beard” (87). Read alongside these passages, metaphors of mutilation applied to state territory, as used by the German school of geopolitics, appear profoundly grim, precisely because they efface the suffering and deaths of the human beings involved in wars that effect territorial change. A state cannot suffer, bleed, and die like an actual (human) body.
The raging war in the protagonist’s homeland is often depicted at the microscopic level. The focus lies less on states or groups of power fighting against each other—we actually never learn much about specific political motivations. Instead, the novel centers on embodied human interaction, even on the battlefield, where war “revealed itself to be an intimate experience, combatants pressed close together” (68; cf. Vlagopoulos 2022, 411). It is a violence that can be sensed, e.g., when Saeed and Nadia pass “a body hanging in the air” which they can “hardly smell […] until they were downwind, when odor became almost unbearable” (88). As the situation worsens, there are fewer and fewer ways to escape the brutality in everyday life. Eventually, it infiltrates their home after their upstairs neighbor had been shot in his apartment. We learn that he had “bled through a crack in the floor, his blood appearing as a stain in the high corner of Saeed’s sitting room” (85). The text continuously narrates human bodies, both living and recently deceased, as fragmented, vulnerable, and porous. The focus lies on body parts, such as a leg halfway covered by a blanket (7) or knuckles that scarcely touch as they pass (102). In the beginning, Saeed notices a “beauty mark on [Nadia’s] neck, a twany oval that times, rarely but not never, moved with her pulse” (4).
These remarks foreground the character’s embodied existence and vulnerability, recalling phenomenological accounts of the body as always already entangled with the world it inhabits. Edmund Husserl describes this condition by arguing that “the lived body” is “experienced in a double way—i.e., precisely as an experienced thing and as a functioning body together in one” (Husserl 1973, 17). Maurice Merleau-Ponty later elaborates this doubling, showing how any clear distinction between subject and object breaks down at the level of the body. Through his notion of flesh, he renders body and world as two sides of one coin. They do not collapse into one another but instead form “a couple more real than either of them,” (Merleau-Ponty 1968, 139) creating “the thickness of flesh between seer and the things [that] is constitutive for the thing of its visibility as seer of his corporeity” (Merleau-Ponty 1968, 135). From this perspective, the subject–object divide that underpins geopolitical thinking appears conceptually insufficient in two respects. First, it presupposes a position of interpretive and rational authority over the world, and second, it renders its metaphors unduly rigid, treating them not as contingent figures but as fixed and absolute representations of bodies as well as states. Phenomenology, by contrast, rejects a strict separation between subject and object, understanding being-in-the-world as fundamentally immersive.
In a similar vein, Olumofin highlights Exit West’s blurring of positionality, noting how “within the motif of movement” there “is a fluidity in subject positions, which permits characters to move from one spectrum of identity to another” (Olumofin 2025, 423). For example, who is categorized as “migrant” and who as “native” switches throughout the text. Recent posthumanist scholars, such as Stacy Alaimo, have taken up on this intertwinement with an environmental focus. While some posthumanist claims about more-than-human agency remain questionable, especially in light of geopolitical discourse (cf. Weisberg 2014), Alaimo’s notion of trans-corporeality proves useful to further undermine the metaphor of the state as living organism that has a natural (soil, territory, resources) and cultural (society) side. Understanding our existence as “trans-corporeal” shifts the focus towards the porosity of our bodies and how they are in constant exchange with each other and the more-than-human world” (Alaimo 2010, 3ff.). The smell of a hanged body, blood soaking through the floor, a kiss. The “borders” of the body, as well as those between culture and nature, appear less solid and regulated than geopoliticians liked to render them for their political agenda. Hamid’s novel, in contrast, shows an ecocritical awareness that “destabilize[s] the traditional divide between country and city, past and present (also East/West, man/woman, human/nonhuman, self/other, nature/culture, local/global, and so on)” (Mączyńska 2021, 1090).
All these bodies are irreducibly material and symbolic, participating in the novel’s broader motif of mobility and movement. On a global scale, it is precisely these moving bodies that unsettle and ultimately undermine the borders between nations. In this way, the novel sustains a layered complexity that operates across multiple scales: it foregrounds individual lives and stories while simultaneously revealing the intricate interconnections that bind them together. Generally, we can witness “an evolution […] from an initial focus on individuality and individual interests to more collective actions and concerns” (Bastida-Rodríguez 2025, 9). The novel switches between scopes, sometimes focusing on individuals, sometimes evoking the global, and other times zooming out to the planetary scale (EW 15, 24–25). The many ellipses during which the text introduces random characters from all over the world who share nothing with each other (or the protagonists), but the experience of migration in different forms have been described as a “narrative house of mirrors” (Khanna 2024, 205). This continuous doubling is furthermore visible on the formal level of the text which builds on “narrative displacement, a refusal on the part of the narrative to congeal into a fixed, unitary set of meanings” (Khanna 2024, 190). Oftentimes, the reader finds himself just as thrown into a new context as the characters after traveling through one of the doors.
While many scholars have read the magical doors in the context of increased global connection through travel and technology, others have argued that the magical doors undermine the suffering of actual refugees by eliding the traumatizing journeys involved in fleeing one’s country. Suzi Feay, for instance, describes them as an “ingenious conceit” (Feay 2018, 196). While I am sympathetic to this concern, I would argue that what is at stake here is less an erasure of suffering than a shift in narrative focus, away from the purely geographical. Travel through the doors is still rendered in strongly physical terms, even if it is sharply compressed in time. As has often been noted, passage through the doors evokes imagery of birth, a metaphor commonly used to describe the experience of refugees (cf. Lambert 2019, 115f. and 120). Hamid adopts this metaphor but transforms it into a literal, bodily reality for his characters. At the same time, those passages resist complete symbolization. As Magdalena Mączyńska rightly observes, traveling through the doors is no singular event: “Unlike biological birth, such self-delivery is never final, but can be repeated or reversed by means of another passage. Even as Hamid adopts the birthing metaphor, he resists its potential essentialist/nativist implications” (Mączyńska 2021, 110). The birth metaphor is thus transformed towards a radical openness that is in line with the novel’s general emphasis on movement and change.
To conclude, I turn to one final passage from Exit West that brings together the various strands of my argument. It focuses on one of the strangers who appear in the novel’s many ellipses, briefly interrupting the central narrative. We are introduced to a wealthy, “pale-skinned woman who was sleeping alone” while her husband is away on a business trip:
Her torso and left leg were covered by a sheet even paler than she was; her right leg and right hip were bare […]
Her bedroom window […] was open, just a slit. […]
The door to her closet was open. Her room was bathed in the glow of her computer charger and wireless router, but the closet doorway was darker, darker than night, a rectangle of complete darkness—the heart of darkness. And out of this darkness, a man was emerging.
He too was dark, with dark skin and dark, wooly hair. […] He looked around the room. He looked at the sleeping woman, the shut bedroom door, the open window. […]
With a final push he was through, trembling and sliding to the floor like a newborn foal. He lay still, spent. Tried not to pant. He rose. […]
[H]e was aware of the fragility of his body. He knew how little it took to make a man into meat: the wrong blow, the wrong gunshot, the wrong flick of a blade, turn of a car, presence of a microorganism in a handshake, a cough. He was aware that alone a person is almost nothing.
The woman who slept, slept alone. He who stood above her, stood alone. The bedroom door was shut. The window was open. He chose the window. He was through it in an instant, dropping silkily to the street below. (EW 9)
The narrator’s description of the woman—reduced to a torso, a right leg, and a hip—continues the motif of the fragmented body. As she is also asleep, her body appears especially vulnerable. Hamid initially evokes the familiar narrative of the helpless white woman approached by a man of color; however, several crucial elements are reversed. It is the woman who seems to be occupying someone else’s home, and the potential danger does not enter the space from outside through the open window but instead exits through it. The window does not threaten the woman; rather, it offers the man a means of escape. Unlike the sleeping woman at this moment, the man is acutely aware of the vulnerability and fragility of his own body. He senses the danger of the situation precisely because he knows that, if discovered, he would be perceived as a violent intruder. The threat, then, does not arise from his presence but from the geopolitical and racialized narratives that already frame his body.
At the end of the scene, the narrator stages the two characters side by side, emphasizing that they are alone, and, as the text states earlier, “alone a person is almost nothing.” This formulation does not negate their value as individuals; rather, it underscores a shared condition of exposure. Their vulnerability is intensified by isolation, physically but also ideologically, when their bodies become legible only through the geopolitical narratives that predefine them as citizens or intruders, inhabitants or trespassers. In this way, the passage makes visible how the abstractions of borders, sovereignty, and territorial integrity are ultimately enacted upon individual bodies that are vulnerable to suffering. Read next to historical geopolitical discourse, Mohsin Hamid’s Exit West offers an alternative that redirects the language of geopolitics away from mutilated states and violated territories toward fragile human bodies that actually absorb the violence of political order.
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