I’ve read several of Laird’s books in the past and enjoyed them, especially her early books, but her last few have been disappointing in both quality and content, having lost any of the sensitivity, depth of character, and evident good research that made her early books enjoyable.
This is another book I’ll put in the disappointing pile. It feels like just another one of those bandwagon books milking money out of other people’s suffering but not really doing much to raise awareness of the situations, do justice to those people it’s representing, or even tell a good story, despite the notes at the end of the book about Laird's experiences working with refugees. The Acknowledgements and Notes at the end had more real emotion and depth in them than the actual story, and it’s a shame really, that Laird has actually done so much research and spent time with refugees in Jordan, yet seems unable to construct a story.
This entire book reads like the first draft of an overly long plot summary rather than a novel. Everything is generic and incredibly rushed. It’s mostly all telling rather than showing, uses a crazy amount of passive voice and summarising, and is littered with typos (the sister ‘baldly’ saying something was a funny example) and a lot of very jarring and obviously British phrases (‘more fool you’, ‘blokes’, ‘dodgy’, etc.) that were just plain annoying and didn’t make me feel Laird had done much research at all, let alone actually met and talked with refugees or even kids/teenagers. The kids especially just felt like stereotyped British kids written by an adult who honestly doesn’t know how kids actually talk. There was also a large muddle of other odd and wrongly-placed words/phases — do mosques really have ‘sermons’, for example? Even if it’s a similar thing in terms of a religious leader teaching a crowd, I strongly doubt Islam uses the Christian term for it.
The descriptions of events and settings were weak and vague, so that visualising them relied mostly on my mental bank of stereotypical media images of war-torn Syria. This seems to be a big issue among writers trying to cash in on public interest in the refugee crisis — too many of them lack that sense of place that anchors a story and its characters, and it’s so important when writing about places most people have never been, in places very different from the UK/US, that are affected by war. Khaled Hosseini’s books are brilliant in this: they’re incredibly accessible in terms of language; they show Afghanistan’s culture, its places, its people, its political tensions; his characters are suffused with their culture, and feel like real people, and all this feels natural and sensory. But Laird introduces us to two historic cities that in my head look and feel exactly the same. There’s no detail that brings either of these places alive or makes me feel for their destruction and the loss of so many people’s homes, of historic buildings, of a way of life, the culture of those cities, even. Other than the names, this story could be set anywhere in the world and it wouldn’t make any difference. The developing political tensions felt forced and weak, contrived around the kids’ escapades.
We’re also introduced to a whole host of one-dimensional characters that sit firmly in their stereotypical bubbles and don’t really shift or develop. The MC, Omar, is a contradictory and unlikable character himself, often being rude or nasty for no apparent reason while at the same time disliking others for doing exactly what he does. Any hints at development he gets are quickly backtracked in the next chapter where he thinks and behaves exactly as he did before, and then there’s a whole chapter at the end where he’s moralising over some other badly-behaved kid’s transformation in character. That entire chapter felt like a ‘must have a moral’ moment where Laird tried to force it in with a hammer. It’s the epitome of adult moralising, and the entire way it is written is so patronising. That said, Omar also often felt much younger than he was, never really the teenager he was supposed to be. Any camaraderie or brotherly development between Omar and Musa through all their secrets and problems also did nothing at all to stop the idiotic nastiness between them that makes me think more of seven year olds than teenagers. But then, almost all conflict between characters in this book is weak and generally based on babyish insults or defiance to some kind of order.
The plot was predictable where events were actual scenes being fully described rather than just being summarised, but overall it was just so boring to read. There are odd moments where the characters’ voice comes out, but mostly the whole book is just this bland summarising. A family member is very ill and spends several months in hospital -- summarised in three-quarters of a page. I’ve read so many refugee stories, from actual refugees. Humans of New York is a popular one which has ran quite a few, but there are numerous other blogs and places you can find stories compiled by people working in refugee camps, and even by refugees themselves. The BBC has also been filming real refugees on their travels. Every story is different. Every refugee, every family, has been through different things, different struggles, different miracles, and while the themes of their escape and how they had to live before they left and have lived along the way might be similar, that variety and individuality is ignored in books like this where everything millions have been suffering is wound up in the generic and stereotypical. And the most annoying thing is that Laird knows this, she’s been there, met them, talked with them, used bits of their stories in this book, and she even makes a comment about individualising people. But there is no substance to this book, no depth, no unpreachy/hamfisted emotion or character development.
Please, please, just stop. If you’re going to write a book about people-groups you’re not a part of, especially those who are still suffering now, do those people the justice they need and deserve. I tired of this book at around the 16% mark, and kept reading only to see if it would improve. It didn’t, and I really hope this book goes back for some more drafts and better editing/research before it’s actually published. This book has potential but it needs much more time spent on it before it can really be the book I think Laird wants it to be. Laird can do so much better than this, I know she can. The world does not need any more of this kind of poorly written popular-issues fodder, especially not children. Children need books that make them think and feel, that expand their understanding of these real-world issues and lives, not books that stifle and patronise them with vague and generic, poorly-written pap.