Fans pick 41 books like Orientalism and Empire

This highly readable and concise book underscores the role of the Terek Cossacks in pushing southward the boundaries of Russia into the North Caucasus from the eighteenth century. We get a sense of the economic, geographic, and socio-political factors that shaped life on a frontier where the line between “us” and “them” was not always clear.

I love the fascinating tidbits Barrett sprinkles around important analytical discussions, such as the fact that most Cossacks in the North Caucasus were armed by silversmiths and metalworkers from the very mountain communities they were supposed to be guarding against.

This is the go-to book to understand how the Chechens, Dagestanis, and their neighbors held off the mighty Russian armies for several decades in the 1800s.

Gammer’s military history isn’t always a page-turner, but it is chock-full of clear explanations for the long success of Shamil, the warlord who defied successive Romanovs and united the fragmented peoples of the North Caucasus into a resilient resistance movement that tarnished far and wide the image of tsarist Russia as an imperial juggernaut.

The Golden Age of Russian literature—think Pushkin, Lermontov, and other famous novelists and poets—was at the vanguard of the Russian elite’s meeting with the Caucasus. In what has become a “classic,” Susan Layton brilliantly shows how Russian writers imagined the Caucasus as an ambiguous place—both dangerous and welcoming—populated by “noble savages,” sympathetic freedom fighters, and brutal marauders.

To many Russian aristocrats ensconced in St. Petersburg and Moscow, this was a canvas on which to implement Russia’s own “civilizing mission” to prove to a skeptical Europe that the tsarist realm belonged in the pantheon of European civilization.

This short and beautifully written book follows the fascinating life of a junior officer in the tsarist army in the Caucasus, Semën Atarshchikov, son of a Chechen father and Kumyk mother.

The reader is taken on a winding journey as the protagonist switches sides between the mountaineers and Russians several times. The crux of the argument is that a person with real connections to both Russian and Muslim communities could align with one side against the other temporarily, but overcoming the divisions permanently was difficult. In this case, it proved impossible: Atarshchikov became not a privileged intermediary but a victim of colonial violence.

I am fascinated by extraordinary lives, especially lives that cross borders and cultures. I also enjoy biographies set against major historical events, all the more so when an individual life is used to show an apparently familiar era of history in a new light. Tom Reiss’s book manages all this superbly. 

This book reconstructs the life of Lev Nussimbaum, who was born in Kiev in what is now Ukraine but was then imperial Russia. But he spent a good part of his life in Baku when that cosmopolitan Russian imperial port was the center of the world’s first great oil boom. Having traveled myself in the Caucasus region, as well as other former parts of the Russian Empire (and Soviet Union), I found Reiss’s account of that collapsing imperial culture quite fascinating. But it is the story of Lev—or, as he twice reinvented himself, Essad Bey and Kurban… show more.

This book trace the development of national identities in the early Middle Ages and beyond. In his careful reading of classical historians, their early medieval counterparts, and their modern interpreters, Geary challenges the traditional understanding of early medieval identity formation and its relations to the origins of modern European nations.

Geary demonstrates that the early Middle Ages were marked by a fluid and dynamic sense of identity and that rulers and policymakers deployed a plethora of strategies to create a sense of shared identity among their people. I particularly like Geary’s inference that the modern idea of the nation-state is, in fact, a nineteenth-century invention and any attempt to trace it back to the early Middle Ages is plain historical nonsense.

There have been Asian Americans for as long as there’s been an America, and indeed in places like California Asian communities were there before the United States was.

That’s just one of the countless surprising and crucial lessons that I first learned from Takaki’s sweeping and magisterial history of the U.S., and every time I dip back into this book, I learn something new about where we’ve been, who we are, and what we can be if we better remember all of our communities and stories.

I am inspired every day by what Takaki accomplished and shared and what his book helps us understand.

I was consumed by this harrowing account of Kaliningrad, a city caught between Hitler and Stalin, and how the people there fought, collaborated with, and suffered from both armies.

Without reviving the tired “who was worse” debates about Hitler and Stalin, this book shows readers the unique horrors that each regime visited upon the local population during the war and for decades afterward, as Stalin tried to denazify its German residents. Huge questions of purity, morality, and humanness undergird this searing story about surviving two of the most violent regimes in history. 

There’s so much to love in this book. Desai’s characters come to life, as does Kalimpong's setting on the Himalayan foothills. You can feel the frustrations and humiliations of Sai, her grandfather, their cook, and his son Biju in New York City as the cruelty and callousness of life crush them.

As the book lurched toward its painful conclusion, I desperately warned the characters to avoid a catastrophe, but alas, to no avail. This is one of the best books I have ever read.

This book astonishes me every time I open its pages, and I return to these stories again and again. Taking the 18th-century urban city of Bridgetown, Barbados, as its canvas, Fuentes uncovers, often using fragmentary sources, the lives of Black enslaved and free women of color, narrating their violent stories of survival in ways that broke my heart.

Equally important, the power of Fuentes’ writing forces me to interrogate how histories of vulnerable women are produced while they are alive and how to reckon with how archives produce and reinscribe violence on their disfigured bodies after death. It is impossible not to feel the full weight of my responsibility as a scholar after reading this book.

It is the first book I hand to students who want to write about Black women, regardless of their geographic interests.