I have had this book on my living room table for months. Originally, it was to by my book club’s January read, but scheduling and then supply issues pushed it out months and months. The whole time I eyed it warily for its weight and size. I’ve been in a mood of 200-300 page books, and I had no concept of what this would be about, only that it was surprisingly dense to lift. The last book I read from Archipelago Press was Sara Gallardo’s January which is a tiny thing.
When I began this, I felt worried as I struggled a little with the framing. That the author is named as a character started to break, for me, my understanding of this work as fiction or non-fiction, and just how ‘meta’ it might be. It didn’t take long for this concern to fade away as the stories of emotional and mnemonic wounds (this word, mnemonic, is technically correct but feels too mathematical or clinical, I want to use the word ‘memorical’ which does not exist, but if I created it for this review, surely, the reader would understand) stood starkly on their own.
The opening eventually delves into an extensive telling of Waddah al-Yaman, an Arab poet from the 7th century. I quite liked this recounting and the layering of oral tale / history / story. It very much sets the tone for the rest of the book, though in a way I could not appreciate until about the last hundred pages.
Khoury takes us into memory and we find it hostile and full of sorrow. Our protagonist, who claims to hate nostalgia and wishes he could shred his memory, nonetheless seeks out others to hear their memories. He resents the word “trauma” and also resents the comparison of the events at Lydda with other atrocities, which I think seems quite fair enough.
It is probably now time to confront that I know dreadfully little about the history of Palestine and Israel. It is probably a crime that the extent of my knowledge (barring that of recent events) originates from an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, and yet that is the truth. Which is not to suggest that I dismiss anything, only to clarify that I am ignorant to details, aware only of tragedy and terror. It is likely that a part of this is a resistance to looking upon things that are hard to behold, uncomfortable to realize and rationalize. Because for terror there is no rationalization. I have not even engaged in this enough to provide excuses for any party or rationalizations or anything of the sort. It’s possible I’ve intentionally avoided knowledge on the subject, which might make me a bad person.
There is a passage in the book where Adam speaks to a researcher and there is a disagreement on what truth means. For the researcher, truth is hard documentation. Adam cannot accept this because, for his people and his life, there is no ‘objective’ hard documentation. To accept the documentation at face value is to accept a depiction of some other event, but not that of his life, it would not be true. That is perhaps how I am seeing this book. Whether it is “fiction” or “non-fiction” is probably irrelevant insofar as it does ring true, and I have no doubt that the terrors experienced by real people share strands or whole cloth with the depictions in this book.
I googled Lydda as a result of reading this, in conjunction with the book’s title, and one of the first results is an article stating that the massacre referenced in the book is “fake” - there appear to be a series of essays possibly going back and forth, but they are account-walled. I admit when I see things like this, I feel my ignorance screaming out from my head that I should probably avoid this whole thing.
Though, there is an aside that truth may or may not matter as far as we should probably agree that the killing of innocent people should be considered a crime. No?
Anyway, I am too stupid and too unqualified to get much into all of that.
The book. At one point I began to get confused because Khoury goes through the same events frequently. Of course, this is the point of the book. Themes of memory, silence, aches, our inability to escape memory, and how it is relived and relived and how little things can differ in the telling and retelling.
It wouldn’t be true to say that I enjoyed reading this. Though, I did find it very “easy” to read in that I kept wanting to pick it up. Some sentences are long and winding – one I counted 79 words – which is usually an allergen to me, and yet I rarely got lost and didn’t get frustrated. I liked the writing style. I did sometimes get lost in names, and often got lost in whose perspective we’re in, whose memory, whose telling, etc. Though, I think that is probably intentional.
Perhaps more to say after my book club discussion.