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187 pages, Paperback
First published January 6, 2010
And at the end lay paradise… And I’m still waiting for the angels.Mahi Binebine's Horses of God is an almost perfect little novel, a fictional account of an event in Casablanca on 16 May 2003 that saw twelve suicide bombers slaughter innocent people along with themselves. In just over 150 pages, Binebine manages to capture the innocence and depravity of childhood in the Moroccan slum, Sidi Moumen (“where all downward slides converge”); the dreams, hopes, and desires of our now-deceased narrator, Yachine (not his given name, but a name he adopts for himself after Soviet soccer champion, Lev Yashin), whose voice comes to us from after (beyond?) death; and the collective and ritualistic violence that marks Yachine and his young friends as byproducts of the socioeconomic structure that crushes dreams before they can be realized—making them susceptible to outside influence: any pathway out of the slum, any proffered hand, any kind word extended are the balms these teenagers need to eventually carry bombs on their backs.
I won’t describe where I am now because I don’t know myself. All I can say is that I’m reduced to an entity now, to use the language of down below, I’ll call consciousness.Is it heaven? Is it an external sort of consciousness? Is it a wraith-like limbo haunting stage, causing him to relive his past wrongs? And now, as a lovelorn ghost, I feel the futile need to pour out my feelings and finally tell this story I’ve been turning over and over in my mind since the day of my death.What makes Binebine’s prose so incisive in Horses of God are the ways in which he is able to vacillate back and forth between the young Yachine’s memories of his childhood, his triumph and loss at soccer, his heterosexual love for both Ghizlane, and friend Fuad’s sister, and also his queer love for Nabil with a voice that is young, naive, childish but brash; by contrast, when recounting familial events, events going on more globally (typically relayed at the family table by his brother Said), and his induction into the fundamentalist world of Abu Zoubeir, Yachine’s voice is more mature, steady, stern, and almost weary from the world—something that makes this read as much more than the thoughts of a sixteen-year-old boy. Binebine’s skill here is in interweaving these two voices of Yachine’s, and at no point do they seem discordant. Rather, we are getting a complete psychological portrait of our narrator at various stages in his development, but without a normative chronology, a portrait that is at times eerily reminiscent of Robert Walser’s choice of narrative voice in the eponymous novel Jakob von Gunten (link to my Goodreads review).
Tuttavia la morte restava lì, onnipresente. L'avevamo adottata. Ci abitava e noi l'abitavamo. Erompeva dai nostri occhi rossi e dai nostri pugni chiusi per delle brevi sortite. Passeggiava vestita di bianco sulle rovine della nostra città e tornava a rannicchiarsi tra di noi. Eravamo la casa dove riposava e noi trovavamo pace appoggiandoci a lei. La morte era nostra alleata. Ci serviva e noi la servivamo. Le prestavamo il nostro odio, le nostre vendette e i nostri coltelli. Lei li utilizzava al meglio e poi ce li restituiva per reclamarli ancora. Ancora e ancora.