What’s doubly frustrating about this whole business is that I had so much to say about this book. Some stories tend to be a little one-dimensional and the sum of what I have to say about them is ‘This was absolute crap’. But that wasn’t the case here. There was tons of material worth analyzing. My notes went on and on and on, and even while I was reading I knew I was going overboard, knew I would end up with a super long review, but turns out we’re going to be stuck with a super short one.
Overall, my final impression is that it’s a good read, the equivalent of a weaker Kamila Shamsie. Shamsie does to perfection what the author has tried to achieve here: the idea of large-scale politics affecting our individual lives. While Shamsie’s best work tackles things at a global level, this book’s vibe felt more similar to her more localized narratives such as Salt and Saffron, another book which got a very similar rating from my end. Mostly that’s because both books had that similar thread of interesting but not enough. Just good enough to be better than the average, but not overwhelming great, even though the beginning was strong, with a sentence that hooked me completely.
My parents tell me that we are defined by the wars we have lived, regardless of whether we can name them. They did not have the luxury of not knowing their wars.
The story revolves our teenaged narrator, a young girl living in Pakistan during the 1970’s, during the Cold War and Bhutto and Zia and one of Pakistan’s most tumultuous historical moments (which isn’t saying much considering how tumultuous everything that comes before and after this decade continues to be). Politics has always been an important part of a lot of Pakistani books, mainly for 2 reasons. A, because so much of our lives are ruled by it, but also B, because the kind of genres that sometimes ignore politics such as young adult, horror, romance, etc. aren’t really as pervasive in Pakistan as contemporary fiction, which relies pretty heavily on the holy trinity of religion, politics, and terrorism to form its plot. This book takes on even more, tackling nationality, language, and identity within what is essentially a very simple plot.
The beginning of this story is simple if you have an eye for color, a gift for geography, and a mind for fractions. My father, Javid, is brown and Pakistani; my mother, Irene, is white and Dutch; and my siblings and I are half-and-halfs.
A huge part of the story is about belonging: belonging to a country, and what the connotations of that belonging are. Because our narrator is what she herself calls a ‘half-and-half’, there is an overwhelming sense of discomfort that she attests to while living in Pakistan but studying in an American school. Personally, I didn’t really care for the first person perceptive, or maybe it was just because it had been so long since I had read a really good narrative written in such a manner, but I felt uncomfortable through a significant portion of the story. Sometimes that was also because I didn’t believe such a young narrator could harbor the kind of nuanced thoughts that usually adults view the world through. I don’t mean to be disparaging of younger protagonists and usually argue for intricacy in the inner lives of teenagers, but there’s a difference between the thought process of an adult and a child that the author seemed unable to balance quite properly in a few scenes. Still, overall the book presented an admirable level of complexity in its characters and plot, enough to paint the world grey instead of its usual black and white.
As a rule, truth is as wide and all-encompassing as you let it be, and there is always more of it.
Anything else I have to say about this book is going to be vague and unreferenced, because of the deleted notes fiasco mentioned earlier. I do remember that there were lots and lots of local references, in a manner that particularly warmed my very desi heart. Growing up, I read a copious amount of western literature, which mentioned in numerous ways western books, tv shows, songs, and on and on. So it was great to see how very particular to the region this book was: all the street names, shops, clothing brands, even very tiny stuff like the butter they used or the drinks they drank were things I knew and recognized, which made me particularly happy, which made me feel very seen.
There was also a wealth of material on languages which I am particularly miffed about losing, because the book addresses the complexities of being bilingual without being didactic, which I am a particular fan of. Honestly, I feel like this book lends itself really well to the possibility of being a thesis subject, purely because there’s so much to discuss here. Even beyond languages, there are conversations about what separates the rich from the poor, or what it means to be of a particular skin colour. Patriotism is also an oft-mentioned conversation topic, with characters frequently questioning what it means to love a country, even in the face of all its multiple flaws.
My home is a barrage of headlines. You see, my country is at war. My cities are burning. My capital is a police checkpoint where journalists disappear.
I’m not sure if the author meant for it to be read as such but featuring Islamabad as the City of Spies is a clever twist on Karachi’s oft-used title of City of Lights. This is one of the few points I managed to remember from the original notes I took, none of which exist anymore, and so we are going to have to stop here. Overall, I recommend this book as a one time read, good for a lazy afternoon and better still if a friend has read it so you can discuss the complexities together. 3 stars overall.
He explained that when your country called on you, it was your duty to run right back to it with arms outstretched and fall on your knees, ready to deliver whatever it needed.