I struggled with this book. Which is not a bad thing.
It felt incredibly remote and yet uncomfortably intimate, all at the same time. I felt like there was a bit of a desperate truth that was always just out my reach, hidden behind a layer of ice. The whole thing felt…distant. I sat for days with that, trying to make sense of it but kept drawing a blank.
I talked it out with someone who I very much respect and it all started to make sense. The story was about a man in exile, and what he goes through when he can finally make it home. People don’t call themselves exiles for happy reasons; if that word pops up, you have to know there is trauma somewhere close by.
The exile IS the thing, right? Can a narrator who has dealt with that, and has decided to brave returning to the scene of his pain, speak freely? Why would he even want to? Do you deserve to know what he’s gone through? Could you even begin to understand?
The author, Amjad Nassar, is an accomplished novelist, travel writer, and poet. Finding that out after I read the book helped fit another piece of the puzzle; this is a translation from Arabic (by Jonathan Wright), and I’m now painfully aware that I don’t know the traditions of Arabic poetry. I could feel it flow through the prose, but it was an unfamiliar rhythm. More distance…
One of the points of this blog is to find exactly that space. We are molded by our language, the tales we hear as children, the things we read as we grow older. Those things literally form the way we think; I know I’ll never really be able to transcend my ingrained patterns, but my goal is to learn as much as I can about other ways of seeing this world. I’m thankful that books like this have been translated into English, so I have a path to walk.