“Those thoughts make my cheeks burn, but I don’t care. I am owed this. I’m owed at least my imagination.”
———————-
This book was somehow even more heartbreaking than I anticipated. I knew from the very beginning when Katouh opened with devastation that she would not flinch from loss or uncomfortable truths. There was incredibly strong imagery at play and nearly every scene that rooted in the landscape of a war, torn city and overrun hospital. 

The Khawf hallucination was an inspired plot mechanic to show the impact such acute and sustained trauma can have. While reading I couldn’t help but think about how I will likely never face these kinds of decisions and that there are so many people who right now are living through this level of horror all over the world. 

Using Kenan as a love interest provided a really welcome counterpoint of hope to the story. The debate over staying in Syria or leaving was eye-opening. I don’t have roots in this way as I am already an immigrant, so to see the dialogue happen was a novel perspective for me. 

Salama’s morally gray choices showed how even inherently good people can be driven to “bad“ decisions in the face of such calamity. We do not get to weigh in on the rightness of these acts, as people reading from the comfort of our homes. I was glad we got to follow the journey all the way through. 

This book made me cry, taught me some unexpected lessons, and had me marveling at the resilience and inner beauty of these survivors.