Love Your Darlings

On Thomas Peermohamed Lambert’s ‘Shibboleth’

Magdalen College, Oxford, 1968, Photograph, Tim Graham via Getty Images

Artists wishing to capture their era face a dilemma. Let too much time pass and run the risk of subject matter losing relevance, especially in today’s hyper-competitive attention economy. Cash in too early, both figuratively and literally, and lose the benefit of hindsight, getting too mired in the trends of the time.

I once read that the best World War I literature was published some time after the war ended, that its afflicted generation needed some time to process the tragedy. Two of the most lasting novels of that era — Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front and Ernest Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms — were written and published almost a decade after the signing of the Treaty of Versailles.

Not to be histrionic and compare today’s culture war to the Great War, but the whole woke / identity politics / cancel culture era was a formative event that continues to dominate our politics and culture today. With the median civilian almost completely removed from any hope of shifting socioeconomic or geopolitical policies, the culture war has become the sole ideological battlefield.

Thomas Peermohamed Lambert’s debut novel Shibboleth seeks to satirize the socially progressive identitarian (woke) culture that began to dominate elite universities in the early 2010s. Set in the early 2020s at Oxford University, Shibboleth follows Edward, a well-meaning if naïve white student from an unglamorous part of England who goes to Oxford to cultivate his love for literature. However, his aristocratic and opportunistic Egyptian roommate, Youssef Chamakh, convinces Edward to leverage his distant Zanzibari heritage to rapidly rise to the top of Oxford’s social stratosphere. Much like how Eliza Doolittle adopts Received Pronunciation, Edward learns to throw around made-up Zanzibari proverbs. Soon enough, Edward is dating one of the queens of campus, Angelica Mountbatten-Jones, and becomes a regular at Oxford’s most exclusive social events.

A likely reflexive criticism of Shibboleth is that in 2025 we don’t need a critique of a seemingly bygone era, especially given the current cultural climate where backlash against wokeness is rife. But by that standard, literature would be subject to strict political time windows. Would Shibboleth have felt more bold and visionary had it been published in 2015? Yes, but literature should also be judged on its own quality regardless of how timely it is. Otherwise, we’d just be encouraging hot-take literary culture, spawning writerly Stephen A. Smiths whose goal is to be as bombastic as soon and as frequently as possible in hopes that at least some of their takes will be spot-on.

Shibboleth has significant flaws, but they are not due to its timing or subject matter. The novel is underwhelming because it feels less like a genuine story and more a series of familiar archetypes colliding in predictable ways. Characters spout off phrases that sound more like internet posts than real dialogue. And while it’s a sad truth that there are indeed people who talk like that, there are also people whose conversations just involve shouting movie quotes at each other. That doesn’t mean I want to read a whole novel about them.

A prime example of this on-the-nose dialogue happens when Angelica urges Edward to explain the Anglo-Zanzibar War to Liberty Vanderbilt-Jackson, a wealthy Black American student who has positioned herself as the foremost advocate of social justice at Oxford:

“Yes very bloody. On both sides.” [Edward] glanced at Angelica. “On all the sides.”

Angelica cleared her throat “I’ve heard that the total number of casualties is estimated . . . ”

“Maybe let the disenfranchised talk for a change?” Liberty shook her head patronizingly, then turned back to Edward. “So much blood in African history. It’s so sad, because it’s such a rich continent, and yet people know so little about it. Have you read Wole Soyinka?”

“No.” For good measure, he added: “It’s the fault of the curriculum, I suppose.”

“Right? It’s the institutions in this country that are to blame, that’s what I’ve always said. I mean, like, just step back for a second, maybe?” She was listing forward on her toes now, eyeing Edward with interest. “You know what, Edward, it’s really nice to meet someone who knows something about the period. Really encouraging. I guess the old white guys haven’t totally killed Oxford yet.”

Edward, Angelica, and Liberty are three of the most important characters, so it’s disappointing that they’re often just stand-ins for their ideological clans. Angelica is the beautiful, rich white girl whose social conscience is driven mainly by her twin desires to be trendy and to ward off social criticism from within her highly competitive clique. Liberty is the untouchable — in a good way — rich Black girl who commandeers diversity ideals meant to help less-advantaged members of her community while advancing her own position.

It’s a shame because Lambert does show signs of keen observation into what motivates these characters. These are teenagers and early 20-somethings, after all, so of course sexual pathology is rife in their politics. For all of Youssef’s lofty talk about restoring Islamic culture to its glory days of the Abbasid Caliphate, his primary concern is how to manifest that glory so rich white girls will find him and his ilk fuckable:

This is what every handsome, ambitious Egyptian prince aspires to when he steps off the plane with his suspicious passport and promises of a proper English education: a real, authentic, fragrant, unwilted, English rose. With all her thorns.

Angelica’s motives are also based on romantic disappointments. Youssef explains to Edward that Angelica and her coterie (aka “the many blondes of the Samizdat,” Oxford’s most prestigious literary magazine) are each said to have “been cheated on by the pasty boyfriends who had controversially applied for Cambridge instead.” As revenge, they bestow their affections on the men of the so-called dark continents, at least for a while. But since Angelica only has eyes for the “pasty, floppy-haired, boarding-schooled” boys, her politics and dating life are at odds. Then the white-passing Edward comes along.

Liberty also has the foundations of an interesting character. She and Angelica grew up ostensibly as best friends, with their families both owning nearby villas in Provence. As self-righteous as she is, there are glimpses of her humanity. In a telling monologue, she confesses to Edward that she relishes the fact that for once it’s the white English girls who want to be her and envy her skin and hair: “If Liberty deviated at all from any given standard of beauty, then it was the standard of beauty that was wrong.” There’s a glimmer of pathos in how, as skilled as Liberty is in corralling institutional support, what she really craves is genuine love and admiration, both of which drift further away from her as she abuses her power. But Liberty is shown to be such a tactless bully that she devolves into caricature.

Some readers may find these characterizations overly cynical on Lambert’s part (though you only need to spend a little time in New York cultural circles to see that ideological boundaries become quite permeable if the scenes are fun and cool enough). Is everyone just trying to get laid? Even the later introduction of a noteworthy Palestinian student, Saïd, is fixated on his looks: “the tanned skin, the height, the easy confidence, the string of carved wooden beads he wore lazily round his neck to offset his muscles.” But why on earth should we expect youthful British (de facto) aristocrats to be ethically pure? This is the Gossip Girl class of kids, after all. Why should we want or expect them to be our moral guides? The new Gossip Girl actually did try do that, and it was a miserable watch.

If Edward were a fascinating protagonist, the flatness of the supporting characters could be overlooked. People do love a crooked social climber, from Becky Sharp to Tom Ripley to Anna Delvey. But Edward is so lifeless as a character that he robs readers of any vicarious thrill in his deceitful ascent. Why should we feel joy when he himself doesn’t seem to feel a thing? He’s just a puppet who does what Youssef tells him to do.

The most generous reading of Edward is that he’s actually meant to be a total bore reflecting the shallowness of the IdPol-obsessed crowd that accepts him. Youssef even notes multiple times just how meek and uncharismatic Edward is. But surely Edward is not the only Muslim student at Oxford, or even the only white-passing one. What makes him so special? Not only does Angelica fall for him (and continue to care about him after his star loses its luster), but so does another student: a beautiful German exchange student named Rachel who likes him for him.

Youssef, as the conniver unburdened by any pretense of morality, is the most interesting character. I had to wonder why Youssef’s personality could not just have been transplanted into Edward. Many of the best parts of novel involve Youssef. Take this farcical exchange between him and Edward:

“The thing about being a Muslim,” said Youssef, now firmly settled on the grass beside Edward, “as you and I are . . . ”

“I’m not a Muslim.”

“Please, Edward, don’t interrupt. The thing about being a Muslim — as you and I are — is that . . . ”

Yes, Edward. What do you know about your own life?

Another highlight involves Youssef’s lament that Muslims in America have been downgraded from dangerous terrorists to “dentists, pharmacists, used car salesmen.” On its face, it’s a ludicrous complaint, but Youssef’s gripe does hold a kernel of truth: for socially ambitious minorities, there is nothing more horrifying than being boring to elite white people.

In the wake of New York City mayoral candidate Zohran Mamdani’s stunning victory in the Democratic primary, I saw some discussion online among South Asian Americans about why Mamdani publicly identifies so much more with his Muslimness than with his Indianness. The answer is obvious: the former has much more cachet than the latter. I’m not accusing Mamdani of lacking pride in being Indian, but from a political standpoint, being Muslim makes him far more relevant on the left than being Indian. Nobody wants to be saddled with a downmarket identitarian brand. Like a Vivek Ramaswamy.

But despite these bright moments, Shibboleth doesn’t challenge itself enough. Everything rises to the surface too easily. In 2025, it’s neither that interesting nor funny to read that a DEI consulting firm like Diversitas (with its headquarters in the Cayman Islands, of course) is a scam. Shibboleth is full of such references, including “antiracist pottery class,” a “Cultural Sensitivity Workshop” and its program entitled “Overcoming Whiteness: The Ally’s Enchiridion,” the aforementioned magazine Samizdat that publishes a monthly list of alleged racists and misogynists, a cancellable professor named Roland Dyer, who runs a project called “The Ethics of Empire,” and a woke professor who encourages students to list protests they attend on their resumes.

And when Lambert focuses on the other side, everything is too obvious as well. When Edward hangs out with the rugby team, the players secretly meet at a rented curry house, where they discuss manhood and traditions. One of the players, Giles, outright commiserates with Edward: “[T]here’s no room any more. Not for guys like us.”

Another running theme in Shibboleth is that woke culture at Oxford is rife with antisemitism. From the start, Youssef does not shy from openly disdaining Jewish students, including Rachel. Midway through the novel comes what is supposed to be a bombshell moment, when Rachel reveals to Edward that she’s Jewish. But the moment falls flat because, in both the U.K. and the U.S., universities have been far more punitive against pro-Palestinian students rather than pro-Israel ones. So it’s jarring to read something that suggests students like Rachel are the biggest victims of the Israel-Palestine conflict on campuses. Then again, even having the mightiest of institutional backers may not be as satisfying as having the cool kids of TikTok on your side. I get the sense that the deepest hurt from alleged antisemitism comes from the knowledge that despite wielding almost all of the actual power, the pro-Israel side is losing the hearts and minds of young people, the crowd it desperately wants to reach.

By turning his characters more into arguments than real people, Lambert renders his story predictable. Each scene becomes another showcase to display the author’s own sympathies and not much else. And so the novel ends up squandering a great set-up. The university presents an ideal setting where immature emotions are infused with mature ideas, and the emotional consequences of unsettled scores during this time can often have long-reaching consequences. But Shibboleth’s characters often seem as though they are performing for social media approval, even in their private moments. Still, even façades can be humanizing if the characters are crafted well. In Whit Stillman’s classic film Metropolitan, a group of upper-class college-aged characters also engage in highly opinionated repartee about lofty topics such as utopian socialism and the impending downfall of Western civilization. But the narrative never loses sight of the fact that these are just insecure young people wanting to seem wiser than they are, all the while chasing the girls or boys they’re crushing on: Audrey wants Tom, Tom wants Serena, Charlie wants Audrey, Nick thinks he wants Sally but actually wants Rick, and so forth. Their ridiculous pretentiousness becomes endearing, casting them as real people. Who among us hasn’t memorized a philosophical mini-speech in hopes of impressing the object of our affections?

Kill your darlings, they say. But you also have to love your fools. I don’t need or want Lambert to share the views of his skewered subjects. But reading a novel like Shibboleth feels like watching someone run up the score in a solo game of foosball. For artists, there’s a creative — more so than political — need to endow characters with dimension, because human drama long outlives social media discourse.

Chris Jesu Lee lives and works in New York City and has previously been published in The Metropolitan Review, The Believer, The Cleveland Review of Books, and Current Affairs. He writes the Substack newsletter Salieri Redemption.