As the last reading for this course, I made sure to take notes and reflect on the text as heavily as possible. I wanted to bring something more significant from it than a blog post, and I feel I did.

In this novella written by Jose Eduardo Agualusa, we meet our protagonist, Daniel Benchimol, who dreams of meeting and interviewing numerous historical figures from all across the political spectrum, some deviating completely into literature.

One of his interviewees was Muammar Gaddafi, whose tyranny I witnessed from the first row. I could bet every dollar in my bank account that Agualusa was no witness to the horrors the citizens under Gaddafi’s regime had to endure. The novel’s account of Gaddafi “fleeing” to his “hometown” seems as though Gaddafi is a lost orphan trying to escape the chaos to find the arms of a loving mother. After interviewing him, Daniel says he saw him on TV, where people found him with blood on his face as he shaded his body, trying to protect himself from the punches. He’s described as dazed and astonished with Daniel, further enhancing his perceived doe-eyed innocence by expressing that he feels sorry for him. I don’t know if this was more aggravating or if it was the fact that when the soldiers who were rightfully fighting against his tyranny yelled, “God is Great!” they were described as murderers.
Furthermore, he adds, “I felt sorry for him. I felt even sorrier for God.” This passage was taxing to read, knowing I worship the same God they worship. They were yelling God is great, because finding Gaddafi in his humiliated state was a symbol of an ending to the suffering they encountered under his rule. They were belittled, cheated, and ridiculed by a man finally under their feet, receiving their fists. These were only a few sentences, but the amount was enough to analyze his language. He sounded like one whose opinion no war victim welcomes, an outsider looking in. God requires, appreciates, and asks for remorse from no one.

My frustration reminded me of Professor Jon’s words; the author is never as prominent as the book. However, the author has responsibility for the effects of the book, how they make us feel, and what the words bring forth. The power of narrative in the Libyan Revolution was censored and stripped from its victims for so long that passing by this text in a class I take in a university far out of my tax bracket in a town far from home sickens and baffles me. I get shell shock from balloons and sweat when a sound startles my ears. Reading about someone who took an apathetic rather than empathetic approach to history and whose cultural footprint has no trace upsets me beyond belief.

With all due respect to Mr. Agualusa, writing is a journey and often a selfish one, however, it reminds me that when writing, the words we write can be soft on our tongue but thorns to the heart of another.

Questions (because we must):
Do you write for you? Even if you believe it won’t be read, is there a voice inside that says “some thoughts must remain thoughts due to their weight”?