Libya, 1979. Nine-year-old Suleiman’s days are circumscribed by the narrow rituals of childhood: outings to the ruins surrounding Tripoli, games with friends played under the burning sun, exotic gifts from his father’s constant business trips abroad. But his nights have come to revolve... read more
“Nationalism is as thin as a thread, perhaps that's why many feel it must be anxiously guarded.”
If love starts somewhere, if it is a hidden force that is brought out by a person, like light off a mirror, for me that person was her. There was anger, there was pity, even the dark warm embrace of hate, but always love and always the joy that surrounds the beginning of love.Highlighted by 21 Kindle customers
Nationalism is as thin as a thread, perhaps that’s why many feel it must be anxiously guarded.Highlighted by 19 Kindle customers
How readily and thinly we procure these fictional selves, deceiving the world and what we might have become if only we hadn’t got in the way, if only we had waited to see what might have become of us.Highlighted by 18 Kindle customers
It’s one thing not to fear death, another to sing under its sword.Highlighted by 17 Kindle customers
Why does our country long for us so savagely? What could we possibly give her that hasn’t already been taken?Highlighted by 16 Kindle customers
We drift through allegiances, those we are born into and those we are claimed by, always estranging ourselves.Highlighted by 16 Kindle customers
Grief loves the hollow; all it wants is to hear its own echo. Be careful.”Highlighted by 14 Kindle customers
How much of him is there in me? Can you become a man without becoming your father?Highlighted by 14 Kindle customers
Something was absent in the stadium, something that could no longer be relied on. Apart from making me lose trust in the assumption that “good things happen to good people,” the televised execution of Ustath Rashid would leave another, more lasting impression on me, one that has survived well into my manhood, a kind of quiet panic, as if at any moment the rug could be pulled from beneath my feet. After Ustath Rashid’s death I had no illusions that I or Baba or Mama were immune from being burned by the madness that overtook the National Basketball Stadium.Highlighted by 8 Kindle customers
it’s a sign of madness, I know, to claim to know what is in another man’s heart.Highlighted by 8 Kindle customers
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