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360 pages, Hardcover
First published May 1, 2018
For the first time in years, I think of something Mama told me when I was little: that when you make a map, you don’t just paint the world the way it is. You paint your own.Joukhadar alternates between the legendary tale of a girl battling mythological beasts across windswept dunes on her quest to “map the lands of Anatolia, Bilad Ash-Sham, and the eastern Maghreb” and the story of a young Syrian refugee who makes a harrowing journey, alongside her family, in search of a new place to call home. Though their stories take place 800 years apart, their emotional trials and geographical triumphs overlap, albeit in unsurprising ways.
“Stones don’t have to be whole to be lovely,” he says. “Even cracked ones can be polished and set. Small diamonds, if they are clear and well cut, can be more valuable than big ones with impurities. Listen,” he says. “Sometimes the smallest stars shine brightest, no?”
Don’t forget ... stories ease the pain of living, not dying. People always think dying is going to hurt, but it doesn’t. It’s living that hurts us.
”Mama?!”
The booming is thunder in my bones. The room gets real still, only the beetles twitching at the cracks in the windows. My pulse pops in my wrist. On the table, my knife shakes against my napkin. The lines in Abusayid’s forehead are thick and deep as tree roots.
“It must be coming from another neighborhood,” mama says.
But she stops eating. She holds her fork in the air, a bite of cucumber salad dripping yogurt sauce. The light falls across the triangle of her nose, as straight as baba’s T-square
The tall lady’s voice is thick as water, ruby-purple as pomegranate seeds. Sweat darkens the gauzy linen of her hijab where it meets her forehead and her temples, and it glistens in the spaces between her fingers when she talks.
Zahra pushes my hands, ringing her wrist with her own fingers like a cuff.
“Do you know what would’ve happened to us if they hadn’t opened that truck??” she whispers. “Do you have any idea?”
I lock my knuckles against Zahra’s, the damp salt of her sweat oiling my hands. The humid morning strokes the red and white blisters on my legs, the cold’s fingerprints. Zahra stares me down, slipping my hands off her wrists like invisible bracelets. Her scar ripples her jaw like a bruise on the skin of an olive, the same way these blisters will leave pale opals of scar tissue on my shins. I think to myself, ‘life draws blood, and leaves its jewelry in our skin.’
There’s a moment I remember you can never build things the same way twice, and I wonder if I’ve got things figured out after all, if anything in the world can stay the same.
“I would have given mine up,” I say. “I wouldn’t mind having more scars, if you could’ve had less.”
“The Syria I knew is in me somewhere. And I guess it’s in you too, in its own way.”