But I know now that going from place to place is just something exiles have to do. Whatever the reason, the earth is never steady beneath our feet.
Me? Crying? Absolutely.
Painful. Beautiful. Aching. Raw. Real.
This is the story of Nahr as well as many others, a fictional story interwoven with knowledge fulfilling real life. Nahr’s story is worth telling and worth showing, a depiction of what it’s like to not be able to live in your own country, in peace, without worrying about the next time you’ll be forced to leave. Sisterhood, friendship, love, betrayal, anguish, heartbreak, abuse, assault, violence, freedom, liberty, prostitution, lies, family, rage, war, hope, resistance—these are just some themes this book incorporates and shows.
Susan’s writing is poignant. The author shows emotion in every scene, every dialogue. Nahr is not just a fictional narrator; she’s telling us a person’s story, similar to that of a journal, recalling the good and the bad, and we are easily drawn into her story. The writing can feel monotonous sometimes, a little robotic, with abrupt ends and changes. Regardless, it piqued my interest. Sometimes chapters and sentences end in a sort of cliffhanger, urging the reader to continue reading, becoming curious enough to find out what happens next. Told through Nahr’s perspective as she’s locked in an Israeli prison, it shows multiple intimate moments of her life, as if we’re being introducers to some privacy we should respect. Sometimes it feels thrilling, even, as I wanted to know more and more. I really liked the set-up the author chose to write this in, as well, such as giving us a perspective of Nahr in The Cube (prison) before the new part started. It raised my curiosity to continue reading to find out how Nahr ended up where she is.
Nahr is one of my favorite women in literature—courageous, resilient, revolutionary, but still vulnerable, kind-hearted, and willing to do anything for her families sake. She’s good-natured, with good intentions, but knows there’s no point in good acts. She gets up when pushed down; she stands up for herself when insulted; she’s sassy when necessary. Born in Kuwait after her family became refugees from Palestine, she carried part of her family’s trauma, part of her own, and used it to conquer her own destiny until that was also taken from her. I loved her strength, dignity, and willingness to never back down. I loved her knowledge of her self-worth, even during her toughest times of shame, and her attitude to those who fought her.
This is not so much about what is going on in Israel and Palestine as a whole but also about how Palestinian’s are generally surviving. It’s not a non-fiction book, but it might as well be. It’s not a book of entire facts and knowledge, but it still has relevant information. Even though it’s easy to say these fictional characters and events are indeed fictional, it does show the reality of Palestine. The thing about these stories is that there will always be two sides—those who agree and feel in support, and those who oppose it, who disagree. I’m not here to say how one should feel and how they shouldn’t, but if I wasn’t believing in Palestine’s freedom before, I would now.
I cannot lie and say that these are the types of books I usually read, because we know I don’t. I become interested in these types of stories after the world sees the news. It’s a little selfish, but I don’t always read to learn, and instead I read to escape reality, to enjoy an unrealistic and fictional tale. That is why I wouldn’t say this book is enjoyable. There isn’t enjoyment in reading about women getting raped, children getting killed, about people becoming exiled, about settlers and colonialism. It’s not supposed to be enjoyable but it’s supposed to be eye-opening and uncomfortable. The story is still worthy of all the praise, and I can confidently say this even taught me some new things.
Thank you Susan for being a Palestinian voice for many who can’t.
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I indulge an illicit fantasy of a world that would have allowed us to simply live, raise children, hold jobs, move freely on earth, and grow old together. I allow myself to imagine that the dignities of home and freedom might be the purview of the wretched of this earth. Bilal and I would be in a place like this, perhaps hiking with at least one grown child, a teenage girl. Her father would teach her the names and benefits of all the plants we’d encounter. I would listen to stories of her life—her friends, romantic interests, dreams, and plans. We would eat together as a family and go home tired after a long day of being whole and free on earth. I feel the loss of what we never had, and it feels good to know that my heart stirs.