I see you in Kafka, you see me in Kafka, and together we find Kafka in each other. This is how Kafka lives on—through our shared understanding of the Kafkaesque.
Franz Kafka was born on July 3, 1883, in a middle-class, German-speaking Jewish family in Prague, now part of the Czech Republic. He was the eldest of six children. Tragically, two of his younger brothers died in infancy, leaving him with three younger sisters.
Kafka’s father, Hermann Kafka, was known for his bad temper, which he often directed towards his son. He also disapproved Kafka’s passion for literature, dismissing it as an escape. Throughout his life, Kafka struggled to come to terms with his domineering father, which deeply influenced his writing.
Despite his desire to pursue a different path, Kafka felt trapped by his father’s expectations. Much of his writing was done in solitude, away from his family. Before his death, he burned many of his manuscripts and asked his close friend to destroy the rest.
Kafka battled clinical depression and social anxiety throughout his life. He passed away from tuberculosis on June 3, 1924.
Through his words and our interpretations, Kafka continues to exist—between you, me, and the Kafkaesque worlds he left behind.
Franz Kafka’s famous works, such as Metamorphosis and The Trial, are masterpieces that continue to resonate with readers worldwide. His writings explore the complexities of society and the individual’s place within it. While Kafka’s themes may not directly apply to the realities of colonized lands like Balochistan, on a personal level, I find myself relating to his sense of alienation and suffering.
I don’t want to be like Kafka, yet I find myself living a similar experience—I am treated as Kafka was.
Kafka was shaped not only by his father’s harshness but also by his readers’ interpretations. Yet, I choose to engage with Kafka on my own terms. In understanding him, I seek to understand myself.
Personal Space: Kafka, Me, and You
What does personal space mean to you? You might be wondering why I’m even asking this. But this very question was forced upon me, making me reflect on its importance.
In Kafka’s novella Metamorphosis, the notion of personal space is starkly violated. Early in the story, when Gregor Samsa fails to show up for work, his boss—the Chief Clerk—arrives at his home unannounced and without permission. This violation highlights the disturbing and authoritarian nature of Gregor’s work environment. The Chief Clerk’s visit isn’t out of concern for Gregor’s well-being but to rebuke him for neglecting his duties.
This violation of Gregor’s personal space blurs the boundaries between his private life and his work, exposing the dehumanizing effects of his job. It symbolizes Gregor’s deep sense of alienation and helplessness, revealing that even his home isn’t a safe refuge from his oppressive work life. Kafka uses this scene to critique the demanding and dehumanizing nature of modern bureaucratic work systems.
Reading this made me pause and reflect on my own experiences. Why do I feel so suffocated? Isn’t this a colonial disease too? A system where everyone feels entitled to know what others are doing, where spy on eyes and listening ears capture personal boundaries.
This led me to question my own cultural experiences. Does our culture truly teach us to violate personal space? I remember my father’s words clearly: “Never search someone’s pockets without their permission.” Even when he gave me permission to take money from his pocket, it felt difficult and unwelcome.
Colonialism, it seems, has eroded these cultural norms. Personal space has been stripped away, leaving no room for privacy. Kafka observed this loss in a Westernized, capitalist world—a world where personal boundaries are shattered, and the individual loses even the right to keep parts of themselves hidden.
Kafka’s story resonates because it isn’t just about Gregor’s life—it’s about all of us, living in systems that demand more than we’re willing to give, leaving us feeling exposed and dehumanized.
Trial: Kafka, Me, and You
Everywhere we go, it feels like we’re being judged, constantly on trial.
In Kafka’s novel The Trial, Josef K. is arrested and prosecuted by an unseen, distant authority—he never even knows what crime he’s accused of. This narrative feels hauntingly familiar because, in modern society, we too are constantly put on trial. Whether in social, digital, or institutional spaces, we’re constantly observed, evaluated, and often judged without explanation or any means of defense.
After completing my Bachelor’s degree, when I traveled back to Balochistan from Punjab, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was living out Kafka’s The Trial. Without reason, I was bombarded with questions: “What are you doing these days? What will you do next?” It felt as though I was standing on top of a mountain, looking down and wondering: Am I just walking through the streets of Balochistan, or am I actually in a courtroom, being interrogated about my future?
This constant questioning made me feel sick. It was as though I wasn’t seen as a person but as an object—an object under survey, like a criminal being investigated. Kafka’s portrayal of a surveillance state, where individuals are constantly watched and their actions analyzed by faceless systems, felt all too real.
Though Kafka passed away in 1924, the world he depicted in The Trial is still very much alive. His work captures a timeless experience—the feeling of being constantly judged, watched, and powerless before unseen authorities. And in today’s world, this endless cycle of judgment is more pervasive than ever. It exists everywhere: in the social world, the digital space, within institutions, and even in our own minds.
I find myself living as Kafka’s character, Josef K., on a daily basis—harassed and questioned about what I’m doing and what comes next.
What about you? How have you been put on trial? Have you ever felt like a foreigner in your own home? This constant sense of alienation makes me feel like Kafka, wanting to retreat, saying, “I don’t want to go out. There are humans out there.”
