In this epistolary novel, the protagonist, Ramatoulaye Fall, spends her mandatory quarantine after the death of her husband and writes this long letter to her best friend Aïssatou. In this letter, she not only recounts her widowhood but also her life as a woman, wife, and mother. In so few pages, Mariama Bâ does not simply describes the life of a particular woman, but more widely the condition of women in general. She underlines the importance of access to education, as well as the generational differences between the women of yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

The novel is beautifully written and does a great job of advocating for women's rights while providing a variety of points of view, also looking into the future, exemplified in the main character’s daughters. 

Finally, what I find primordial with African literature, and with literature in general that is not part of the mainstream Western canon, is to not confine these works in a box: Mariama Bâ talks not only about the Senegalese woman (as she does of course) but also about women everywhere. Generally speaking, authors who are outside the Western canon and/or part of marginalized communities (ex. LGBTQIA+, BIPOC, etc), put work out there in the world that usually risks being analyzed uniquely through that lens. 

This is the first book of what will be a series, and damn am I disappointed!

I am disappointed because I bought this and started reading it immediately, and I DID NOT KNOW IT WAS A SERIES, NOW I READ IT AND LOVED IT AND I HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL 2024 TO READ THE SEQUEL.

Hum, sorry.

In this Chinese-inspired fantasy novel set in Huaxia, young boys and girls are in charge of protecting the Great Wall and the remaining human population from an alien invader species. However, while the boys are the ones in charge of piloting the Chrysalises (human-energy driven robots), the girls are merely an instrument for the boys, and they almost every time die But not Zetian. Zetian will not only attempt to revenge her sister's death, but when she will get paired up with Li Shimin, the strongest and most discussed pilot in Huaxia, she will unveil some history-changing details about this flawed system. 

Iron Widow is an explosive mixture of futuristic-science-fiction-dystopian fantasy, with references to Chinese history and mythology, with a great capacity of reimagining literary and real-life clichés such as love triangles. This book not only has everything you could ask for from a fantasy book, but it is also a monument to the shattering of gender codes. And at the center of it all you have a vengeance-driven plot with unapologetic feminine rage and grey characters that I cannot wait to see developing, personally hope they will develop into full villains.

This book has been everywhere, but if you were still on the fence on whether to read it or not, take this as your sign to do so!

Héctor Tobar is a Pulitzer writer with many successful books behind him that I’ve never read, but that I will definitely add to my wishlist after reading his newest release « Our Migrant Souls » (already available to purchase).

In this informative yet emotional essay, Tobar brings the reader around the United States both geographically and historically speaking, uncovering and dismantling the meaning and myths of being “Latino” today, but also of notions so commonly used as “race” and “ethnicity”. He does so not through the sterility of definitions, numbers, or statistics, but through history and most importantly through people and their stories.

This essay is short, yet it effectively showcases the global condition of “the migrant” while not stripping the migration experience of its multiplicity of experiences. He places people’s experiences at the center of the paradox of the migrant in the United States: constantly needed yet constantly mistreated. While it is an essay centered on the USA context, I felt that many concepts and reflections expressed in the essay apply to the universal migrant experience, and I could not avoid thinking about how the same paradoxes apply to migrants in Italy (my country).

« "Ethnicity" and “race" are sold to us as boxes containing our skin tones and our surnames, but the truth about you, about us, will not fit in any box. »

His daughter asks her father the innocent question « Papa, why do you dance when you walk? ». This a simple question that will force author Abdourahman A. Waberi to embark on an intimate journey reminiscing his childhood in Djibouti, between bullies, a strict and yet distant family, school, and books as his only friends. But most importantly, he has to relive one of his worst moments in life, when he began to « dance as he walked »: a bully, an aggression, and then an infection that left him with a lifelong limp.

Abdourahman A. Waberi gives a heartfelt account of his childhood and his journey from Djibouti to France as a beautiful gift to his daughter while also coming to terms with his past.

The book is touching and well written, without too much pretension, and I recommend it if you are looking for a mix between biography, novel and lyrical prose.

In this masterpiece, Susan Abulhawa gifts us with a heart-wrenching novel following the Palestinian family of the Abulhejas throughout four generations of Israeli occupation. The family is forcibly removed from their hometown of Ein Hod and moved into the Jenin refugee camp. Through the different components of the family and their different dreams and destinies, Susan Abulhawa tells not only the Abulhejas story but the stories of all Palestinians.

If you are looking for a historical novel that will give you some understanding of the creation of Israel and how it impacted people’s lives, this is for you: while giving some historical information, it concentrates and gives a central spot on the stage to the humanistic side of things, particularly showing how Palestinians lived the invasion first, and how the protraction of the occupation as well as the international community silent acceptance of it bred sentiments of injustice which eventually fueled rebellion.

As you might know, if you have been following me for a while, Susan Abulhawa’s « Against the loveless world » is one of my favorite books ever, and I can easily say that « Mornings in Jenin » has joined it in my top reads ever, and Susan Abulhawa the list of my favorite writers. The novel is not an easy read, and how could it be considering the Palestinian struggle? But it is a necessary one. It has primordial historical relevance, and if I could rewrite the scholastic programs I would add it to the list of essential readings. 

In this middle-grade novel we follow two young brothers who loose touch of each other, both in a literal and metaphorical sense during the war in Syria. Even if they thought they were safe in their village, one day war eventually reaches them, and as they loose their father, Omar and Sufyan loose their childhood.

As Omar is the eldest brother, he feels the pressure to become the man of the family, while Sufyan does not trust his ability to do so, which pushes him to look for alternative ways to earn money for the family, their sick mother and little sister. In doing so, he unknowingly joins an extremist group that abducts him and other boys to join in fightings. This will force Omar to go out of his comfort zone to try and find him again with the help of his friend Salma, but will the family ever be reunited ? 

I enjoyed the book which is short and effective in showing how children are not allowed to be children anymore in conflict zones, however, I found that the novel was too short, and the story felt rushed, to the point in some parts it almost seemed I was reading a summary of the book rather than the book itself.

It was still an enjoyable and touching reading, and I hope I will be able to read more complex works by Haya Saleh. I would suggest this for teenagers, but do check the trigger warnings before of course. 

In questo piccolo libro, Djaimilia Pereira de Almeida esplora la realtà di vivere tra due identità (europea e africana, portoghese e angolana) attraverso la sua esperienza con i capelli. In questo libro, la storia è raccontata da Mila, figlia di una madre angolana nera e di un padre portoghese bianco, con capelli che la gente commenta spesso e dà costantemente la propria opinione su come trattarli: i capelli sono una rappresentazione di molto più che semplici capelli.

Ho iniziato questo libro aspettandomi qualcosa di simile a un'autobiografia, e credo sia per questo che sono rimasta un po' delusa, non tanto dal contenuto, quanto piuttosto dalla struttura e dallo stile. In effetti, il libro non segue una struttura chiara e mi è sembrato un po' confuso, il che credo sia una scelta consapevole dell'autrice, che in un'intervista ha anche spiegato che voleva che il libro fosse un'esperienza per  i/le lettori/trici simile a "sfogliare un album di fotografie". 

Se siete amant* del flusso di coscienza, questo è il libro che fa per voi. Se non lo siete, ma volete conoscere le esperienze di una donna nera di origini miste in Europa, credo che questo libro possa fare al caso vostro, infatti é piuttosto breve e se riuscite a fare astrazione dello stile, come ho fatto io, lo finirete comunque sapendo di aver imparato qualcosa e ampliato la vostra mente. Ma non aspettatevi una profonda analisi sociale e/o una decostruzione del razzismo in Europa, è più che altro un resoconto di esperienze personali.

In this touching novel, we follow an Ethiopian family during the violent 70’a revolution. A family with their components so different from each other, but all affected by one tragic event after the other.

I found that it provides a well-balanced narrative, resulting in a book that is both historically informative and plot-driven.

However, while I enjoyed the reading and do recommend it, there were some aspects of the novel that bothered me and which are the reason this will not enter my best reads of this year.

First of all, the alternate POV is a little too quick to my taste, and I felt we do not get enough time with each character: I think it is one of that books that deserved to be longer. Moreover, many secondary characters deserved more space and their storylines were quickly explained and closed in just a couple of lines. Finally, I felt that the POV is mainly masculine, and the women in the story did not get as much storyteller time as the men. 

Still, it is a relevant book that will emotionally engage you, all in a historical setting that does not get much space in literature.

If like me you are trying to read more diverse feminist literature, then this is a must-read to add to your list.

« Black and Female » it’s a collection of three essays by author, playwright, and film-maker Tsitsi Dangarembga. In these three enlightening and heartfelt essays she explores her relationships towards race and gender, covering different aspects of her own experience.

She explores her traumatic memories of life with a foster family, then the difficulties of being a young female Zimbabwean published author, and exposes how the intersection of history, gender, and race affect not only her life but those of many others, in a very tangible way. 

With this book, she gives us a perfect balance between personal experience and general analysis of today's society and the legacy of colonialism. It is short but stirring, and the proof you do not need to write a 500 pages essay to hit your target. I would say short but (more than) effective.

Two sisters who don’t know each other, living in two different countries, will be reunited under unfortunate events: they look the same, but they couldn’t be more unlike. While discovering the secret lives of their father they were not aware of, they will also come to know each other and learn about their distinct lives, which will ultimately help them understand their father double life between the USA and the Dominican Republic, between them two.

Even if I’m not a big reader of YA, I found this one enjoyable, with a nice rhythm mainly as a result of the alternate point of view between the two sisters and their opposite lives. In addition to this, the author explores some themes such as forgiveness, sisterhood, and grieving graciously, without falling into cliches or extreme oversimplifications, which can sometimes be the case for other authors with a mainly teenager audience.

The only aspect of the book which still has me confused is the form of the novel itself: while I understand Acevedo’s writing has its roots in poetry, I still don’t see why the book was in verses. I’m not a poetry fan, so there’s no doubt this is why I was a little bothered by the form of the novel itself, but I also didn’t find it brought anything to the novel.