Book Review: The book of my lives

A Geography of The Soul: A passionate review of Alexandar Hemon’s The Book of My Lives

Spoilers in some quotes. If you haven’t read the book, try not to read the quotes.

cover photo of ‘THE BOOK OF MY LIVES’ Souce: goodreads

“Its [the city’s] indelible sensory dimension, its concreteness, seemed to defy the abstractions of war. I have learned since then that war is the most concrete thing there can be, a fantastic reality that levels both interiority and exteriority into the flatness of a crushed soul”.

In this marvelous book, there were two notions that I loved. The first is the relationship humans have with their cities; my dream-research project as an urban planner. Somewhere around the book Sasha Hemon refers to his relationship with Sarajevo, his home city, as a “geography of the soul”. When you love a city, when you own it, you feel it in your blood and in your bones. That’s why something inside us die when we leave our homes… our cities. [See previous blog post about Tadmor]. Hemon says “If my mind and my city were the same thing then I was losing my mind”. Phrases like this are what make this book so genuine. It sneaks under your skin and surprises you from the inside.

The second important thought is the duality of interiority and exteriority, the dominant thread line throughout the book. ‘The Book of My Lives’ explains almost everything through this philosophy; home and immigration, language, even child development. And this is how ‘the world doubles’ hence the different layers of relationships with things and people and different lives experienced internally and externally.

Very early in the book, we are faced with this duality through the concept of otherness and difference, “the moment you other someone, you other yourself”. We get introduced to the writer’s point of view on difference, and complex identities. “The moment you point at a difference, you enter, regardless of your age, an already existing system of differences, a network of identities, all of them ultimately arbitrary and unrelated to your intentions, none of them a matter of your choice”. It might be painfully unoriginal to the reader that I always find a way to insert Amin Maalouf’s writing in all my reviews, well… Ignore it! This specific idea of one’s identity as fragmented and contradictory pieces is what mesmerized me about Maalouf’s writings when I was younger and it thrills me to see it EVERYWHERE.

The mentioned system of differences is particularly visible in many sections referring to the author’s and his family’s experience as an immigrant and the way immigrants view the world. Again this dichotomy shows up in the obsessive comparisons between ‘Us’ and ‘Them’, pointing out the contradictions of our simplistic thinking;

“On the other hand, they didn’t really know how to live, which pointed at the ultimate, transcendental difference we had soul, and they were soulless. The fact that they did not love committing atrocities either and that we were at the centre of a brutal, bloody war, which under no circumstances could be constructed as love of life, didn’t at all trouble the good analyst”.

I greatly enjoyed the part about missing one’s food as I always ‘greatly enjoy’ writings about food, and Hemon struggles to find the secret ingredient of ‘the perfect borscht’, a Bosnia traditional dish, as much as he struggles not to lose the memories of his city, and his past life; “What I made in this land of sad abundance was nowhere near what I remembered. I was always missing at least one ingredient, not counting the mystery one. … The food needs to be prepared on the low but steady fire of love and consumed in a ritual of indelible togetherness. The crucial ingredient of the perfect borscht is a large, hungry family”.

Although laid simply as Us and Them and Interior and Exterior, I highly appreciate the writer’s depth in presenting existing complexity in the place where this discussion matters the most; in the Western democratic society. He calls it a ‘neoconservative approach to otherness’, where the good immigrant is the one who adapts to the determined ‘successful standards’ established by this society which is non-questionably the best ever to be created. And this kind of other is the only one ‘tolerable’.

“The others always remind us of who we truly are –we are not them and never will be, because we are naturally and culturally inclined toward the free market and democracy”.

This is not just an obvious disdain for our internal/external contradictions but also an attempt to expose the imaginary narrative of a happy-homogeneous multicultural community, a common space divided by imaginary lines of different identities, a space that we can only enter by acknowledging the supremacy of one culture.

 Legitimization fits snugly into the neo-liberal fantasy of multiculturalism, which is nothing if not a dream of a lot of others living together, everybody happy to tolerate and learn. Differences are thus essentially required for the sense of belonging: as long as we know who we are and who we are not, we are as good as they are. In the multicultural world there are a lot of them, which, incidentally, keeps Western democracies high above everyone else. And where the tolerance level is high, diversity can be celebrated and mind-expanding ethnic food can be explored and consumed, garnished with the exotic purity of otherness. 

I am incurably attracted to books tackling complex identity issues and Alexander Hemon surely has an issue with identity, let alone a complex one. Being a Bosnian, he was repeatedly faced with inquiries of his ethnic/ religious affiliation during and after the war, on which his reply would be: “I am complicated. A cluster of others”. I am greatly inspired by his answer and surely will use this statement in the future since the ‘neo-liberal, multicultural’ society I currently inhabit doesn’t seem to be bored with asking me the same question.

As for how cities come alive in this book I have lots and lots to admire. The city in Hemon’s book is far more than buildings and spaces. The city is us. I happen to agree with this idea even if I lack the talent to call it “a beautiful thing, an indestructible republic of urban spirit – [the city] was fully alive both inside and outside me”.

And since our cities are us you can read the collective mind of people by walking in a city. In Sarajevo – a city worthy of all the music and mystic of its name – you can read it all in people’s faces during the times building up to  the war. I read these parts with a personal experience and God this was so brilliantly written I saw my own city before my eyes. “The city was deflated, the euphoria exhausted……. it was all over. The war had arrived and now we were waiting to see who would live, who would kill, and who would die”. The inexplicable human-city relationship is strongly manifested through memory connections and sense of displacement. Since he spent the war outside Bosnia and visited Sarajevo only after the war, we get a chance to compare his changing feelings of displacement first as an immigrant in Chicago, then as a visitor back in Sarajevo to find everything “familiar to the point of pain and entirely uncanny and distant”.

Again, everything we read we do with personal perspective, and I found an additional thing to admire in this book and writer. We are both fellow ‘flaneurs’. Hemon describes wandering in cities and his love of wandering around, he imagines himself as one of Baudelaire’s flaneurs, as “someone who wanted to be everywhere and nowhere in particular, for whom wandering in the city was the main means of communication with it”.

I have to add reading as another way to communicate with the city, and if one didn’t have plans to visit Sarajevo before, this book will make them do. This man is one of the most delicate writers I have read, and I feel that even when reading his book for the hundredth time, it will still make me cry.

The Book of My Lives is simply a celebration of life, love, diversity, chess, and books. And as Hemon describes moments that have divided his life between ‘before’ and ‘after’, I must say that as a passionate reader, this book certainly divided my reading life into ‘before’ reading it and ‘after’.

“Narrative imagination- and therefore fiction- is a basic evolutionary tool of survival. We process the world by telling stories and produce human knowledge through our engagement with imagined selves”.

Humanity & Vengeance Against The Father Figure

Image: Palmyra, Syria – 2 by James Gordon from Los Angeles, California, USA – Palmyra, Syria. Licensed under CC BY 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons

Worldly known as ‘The Cradle of Civilizations” or so my people like to claim is the nickname of our land, that we have inherited the land that supposedly gave humanity the first alphabet, first musical composition and the three monolithic religions (I am perfectly aware Islam was born in Arabia but some claim Mohammed was greatly influenced by crossing path with Christians and Jews during his travels to Syria while others claim Islam only gained world status when the state capital was moved to Damascus). Again, this only shows my people’s obsession with linking our geographic location to the most prominent and important events of the ancient world.

And this is how we like to view ourselves; both important and ancient. Today mid of may 2015 we are neither.

Our importance is reduced to flashes in world-news daily broadcast and some UN reports, while the proof of our ancient existence is diminishing by the minute.

With the recent news over possibility of losing of Syria’s most important sites in Palmyra (Tadmor in Arabic) the sudden world interest is a little bit disturbing. My feelings swing between two extremes; sadness and fear of loss and guilt from caring too much for a ‘tourist site’ while hundreds die everyday. Knowing that international pleas for protection wouldn’t have an effect, still at the same time feeling gratitude that Tadmor isn’t completely forgotten.

I am sitting in a public library that, for some weird reason, plays slow melancholic music for visitors, slow melancholic rain is falling outside, I walk nearby the travel section and pick up the only book about Syria; The French Hachette blue guide. It has a large photo of Palmyra’s columns on the cover. Now the conspiracy against my sanity is complete!

Let’s wait for what will happen before getting completely desperate. If we believe what my people say about our land, then we can picture the current state as a virtual killing by the modern human of its home. The modern man doesn’t need his childhood home anymore. The modern man is a grown-up.

I, on the other hand, am still nostalgic about my centuries-old ancestors. As I watch the rain silently, I hope for a miracle to save that magical place. I am fully aware that the war had costed us all so many things, so many people. The hardest of course were the people we knew, people we shared magical times with. For me, Tadmor is one of those people (I strongly believe places have souls) and in Tadmor; I felt pride and joy between the ruins, had a chill when I entered its burial towers for the first time, and got attached to her famous queen.

The imminent loss is also personal. Soon this person will seize to exist except in our unreliable memories and a few hashtags.

15/05/2015