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A review by purely_romantic
Mornings in Jenin by Susan Abulhawa
challenging
dark
emotional
reflective
sad
tense
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
5.0
CWs at the end.
I finished this book minutes before writing this review so forgive me if this is not as polished, nor as coherent. A stream of consciousness is perhaps more appropriate because I cannot review *Mornings in Jenin* as if style and plot and narrative structure were at the forefront of my mind. I do not care about technicalities because I can only speak about how this made me feel. About how I am crying even as I write this, and my grief for an entire people is too large for words, too large for my body.
Language fails me at this moment as I try to describe what reading this book at this particular moment in time feels like. At some points, the images described on the page of people wailing at the sight of their dead families, mothers crying over their children’s corpses, children being shot as they played were blurring with the real footage I see every day. There is no separation of fact from fiction, only a grim, bleak reality of endless grief and rage.
I cannot care about literary analysis while reading this because to do so is to create a cognitive distance entrenched in me by Western academic disciplines that requires I observe from afar. I reject that practice at this moment. While I have in no way experienced these levels of pain and fear, there is a generational sense memory I carry in my bones that knows colonial violence, that knows how a heart can break when my land is ravaged, that feels like shattering when my people are hurting. Through these four generations of characters, each who experiences the same violence over and over again, Abulhawa creates the sense of an endless cycle of occupation, of stolen land and dreams, a never-ending nightmare of lost loved ones and homes, with only smatterings of reprieves that could be pierced by a bullet, by a bomb at any moment. Yehya’s pain was Hasan’s pain was Dalia’s pain was Yousef’s pain was Amal’s pain was my pain. It should be all our pain to watch other human beings suffer like this.
And yet, through all this horror, my god did I feel the characters’ unceasing pride and love for their country. The fondness for their homes, the laughter and joy at being around family, the intricacies of large, community-based cultures that I recognize in my own society, shone through like a beacon. The cheeky pranks of children, the matchmaking relatives, the sounds of older family members’ never-ending advice and instructions knitted the fabric of ancient traditions and customs, livelihoods and sacred love for their home. I am so grateful I was allowed to look into these moments of joy and endurance, that I see still in the faces of the adults and children of Ga*a.
Saying I’m glad this book exists feels strange because these horrors should have never happened. But I am. I am privileged to know the people of Pa*est*ne through the journeys of these characters, to find moments of connection and to bear witness to their past and present. I pray for a day when writers and artists need only write of their love for their olive trees and orange trees, of the sea and their bustling cities, of their families and the nuances of Arab culture, and don’t have to beg for the world to see them.
CWs: war; gen*ci*e; eth*ic clean*ing; injury and death in graphic detail; forced exile and displacements; grief; mentions of tor*ure, assault and beatings; kidnapping and child abduction; oppression, racism and xenophobia and Islamaphobia
I finished this book minutes before writing this review so forgive me if this is not as polished, nor as coherent. A stream of consciousness is perhaps more appropriate because I cannot review *Mornings in Jenin* as if style and plot and narrative structure were at the forefront of my mind. I do not care about technicalities because I can only speak about how this made me feel. About how I am crying even as I write this, and my grief for an entire people is too large for words, too large for my body.
Language fails me at this moment as I try to describe what reading this book at this particular moment in time feels like. At some points, the images described on the page of people wailing at the sight of their dead families, mothers crying over their children’s corpses, children being shot as they played were blurring with the real footage I see every day. There is no separation of fact from fiction, only a grim, bleak reality of endless grief and rage.
I cannot care about literary analysis while reading this because to do so is to create a cognitive distance entrenched in me by Western academic disciplines that requires I observe from afar. I reject that practice at this moment. While I have in no way experienced these levels of pain and fear, there is a generational sense memory I carry in my bones that knows colonial violence, that knows how a heart can break when my land is ravaged, that feels like shattering when my people are hurting. Through these four generations of characters, each who experiences the same violence over and over again, Abulhawa creates the sense of an endless cycle of occupation, of stolen land and dreams, a never-ending nightmare of lost loved ones and homes, with only smatterings of reprieves that could be pierced by a bullet, by a bomb at any moment. Yehya’s pain was Hasan’s pain was Dalia’s pain was Yousef’s pain was Amal’s pain was my pain. It should be all our pain to watch other human beings suffer like this.
And yet, through all this horror, my god did I feel the characters’ unceasing pride and love for their country. The fondness for their homes, the laughter and joy at being around family, the intricacies of large, community-based cultures that I recognize in my own society, shone through like a beacon. The cheeky pranks of children, the matchmaking relatives, the sounds of older family members’ never-ending advice and instructions knitted the fabric of ancient traditions and customs, livelihoods and sacred love for their home. I am so grateful I was allowed to look into these moments of joy and endurance, that I see still in the faces of the adults and children of Ga*a.
Saying I’m glad this book exists feels strange because these horrors should have never happened. But I am. I am privileged to know the people of Pa*est*ne through the journeys of these characters, to find moments of connection and to bear witness to their past and present. I pray for a day when writers and artists need only write of their love for their olive trees and orange trees, of the sea and their bustling cities, of their families and the nuances of Arab culture, and don’t have to beg for the world to see them.
CWs: war; gen*ci*e; eth*ic clean*ing; injury and death in graphic detail; forced exile and displacements; grief; mentions of tor*ure, assault and beatings; kidnapping and child abduction; oppression, racism and xenophobia and Islamaphobia
Content Warnings
Graphic: Grief, Death, Genocide, Xenophobia, Death of parent, Colonisation, War, Injury/Injury detail, Racism, and Gun violence