Raja keeps falling for every shiny trap life sets for him the way a gullible bird keeps flying into glass. He moves through the world with innocent confidence. He also carries a lifelong addiction: his mother. Zalfa. A woman who could weaponize a sigh, turn a compliment into a duel, and reshape the mood of an entire household with one raised eyebrow. She's the patron saint of backhanded affection.
The novel zigzags between present and past, a sort of family scrapbook where someone spilled coffee, tears, and a few drops of self respect. In the present, Raja cares for Zalfa in Beirut. He dyes her hair, fetches her snacks, and listens to her insult him with maternal devotion. Their life together is a domestic circus that runs on caffeine, nostalgia, and mutual emotional blackmail. It is affectionate and ridiculous. They adore each other with the fierce loyalty of two people stuck in the same elevator for decades.
Then the book dives into the long history of how Raja reached this point. Flashbacks cover everything from his accidental literary career to the country collapsing around him. The banks vanish his savings. The government steals whatever the banks forgot to pocket. The economy performs a disappearing act so complete it deserves a standing ovation. Raja keeps teaching bored students French philosophy while his mother keeps treating loneliness like a personal insult.
And hovering in the middle of all this is the true epic: Zalfa versus the world. Her failed escape to Dubai with the worlds most useless son. Her humiliations in a shiny desert apartment where even the wooden beams in the ceiling act like a bad joke. Her triumphant return to Beirut, where Raja rescues her with the grim determination of a man who knows he will never get his apartment back to himself again.
He rants about her stubbornness while rearranging his life around her whims. She mocks him without mercy while protecting him with the fury of a mythic creature. They fuss, fight, eat, argue, insult, reminisce, panic, reorganize furniture, mourn, celebrate small victories, and generally behave like two people who would not survive without each other yet would never say that out loud.
The plot keeps expanding into stories of war, migration, family betrayals, losses, and personal disasters that somehow land on their feet looking like comedy. His brother takes advantage of everyone. His father leaves memories the way tourists leave trash. The country keeps shaking, breaking, rebuilding, then breaking again. Through it all, Raja clings to books, sarcasm, and the immense family table that serves as both heirloom and hazard. That table becomes the perfect metaphor for their entire lineage: enormous, burdensome, impossible, precious, and permanently in the way.
The book considers love that arrives dressed in irritation, grief disguised as routine, and identity formed from the scraps left after other people finish feeding. It offers a sharp portrait of a city that punishes its people and a family that keeps trying to grow something humane in the cracks.
This is a story about the slow comedy of living with people you did not choose yet could never replace. It is about the mother who calls you an idiot while feeding you, and the son who pretends to hate every minute of it while cutting her fruit just the way she likes.
The whole project pretends to be casual, but underneath the jokes it carries a freight of regret, affection, and political exhaustion that hits harder than the book ever admits. It is clever without being smug, sorrowful without melodrama, and rooted in lived detail.
Raja is a mess of contradictions that feel human rather than theatrical. He is insecure but proud. He is gullible but perceptive. He is resentful but hopelessly loyal. His mother is both anchor and storm. The book keeps toggling between comedy and grief, and somehow that rhythm becomes its emotional signature.
There is also a larger message about Lebanon itself, the way political collapse turns every citizen into a reluctant archivist. Raja keeps remembering because the country keeps forgetting, and memory becomes both burden and duty.
The sex scenes function as markers of longing, fading desire, awkwardness, and the unhappy comedy of aging. The scenes reveal Raja's internal life far better than any philosophical aside could. The sexual moments act like diagnostic tests. They show where the characters carry shame, pride, confusion, or loneliness. The book uses sex the way a good cinematographer uses lighting. It reveals contours and shadows you would not see otherwise.
That being said, I couldn't help being rubbed the wrong way by the unevenness. The book behaves like a host who keeps serving you exquisite mezze, then suddenly brings out a plate of something that makes you stare at the tablecloth instead of the food. It mixes the sublime with the bizarre, sometimes with purpose, sometimes with a shrug.
The Beirut material makes sense. The historical texture is one of the book's strongest features. The city is presented as a living organism that keeps mutating, collapsing, reviving, and insisting on its own beauty even while everything burns around it. Those sections feel grounded, honest, and sharpened by lived experience. The political decay, the waves of war, the cultural layers, the frustration and affection mixed together, all of that has real weight.
Then you get scenes like the PLO abduction episode with its sexual twist. That one is clearly designed as a provocation, a moment where the narrator exposes the absurdities and humiliations embedded in war and masculinity. Still, it felt excessive and sensational in a book that usually earns its emotions without resorting to circus tricks.
When the tone jumps from historical gravity to explicit absurdity, the whiplash can be real. The book wants to make a point about power, vulnerability, and the strange collisions that trauma can produce, but the delivery is messy.
The political imbalance is very noticeable. The narrative speaks freely about the explosion and the state's corruption, but makes only glancing or highly coded references to Hezbollah. Writers in Lebanon navigate political red lines with the caution of someone handling old dynamite.
Some critiques can be voiced. Others are hushed. And some topics get treated with metaphor or avoidance because the real risks are not literary, they are physical. This silence can feel lopsided if you are reading from outside that ecosystem, but from within it, silence itself can be a survival strategy. Nevertheless, with the loud LGBTQ narrative, and the PLO, Syria, Reagan, and Israel jabs, the avoidance of Hezbollah mentioning felt strange, if not dishonest.
The book has brilliant sections and baffling ones. It has courage in certain areas and caution in others. It mixes tenderness with provocation, confession with performance. You will be reading a work shaped by a country where speech has consequences, layered with a narrator who insists on revealing everything except the things he cannot afford to say.