World Affairs
The curse of topicality
Published 31 July 2006
In the Country of Men
Hisham Matar Viking, 245 pp, £12.99
ISBN 0670916390
Free publicity is too tempting for publishers and literary agents to resist. Books tied to current affairs, particularly those about Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Libya or anywhere else connected with the so-called war on terrorism, are eagerly snapped up by commissioning editors. This is not necessarily a bad thing, especially if the book in question is a non-fiction attempt to delve behind the headlines. But when it comes to fiction, topicality at any price can be undesirable.
In the Country of Men, the first novel by the Libyan writer Hisham Matar, is a case in point. Matar seems to have set out to write a novel about a lonely child in Tripoli but - perhaps to tempt a publisher - shoehorns in Libyan politics under Gaddafi in a manner that precisely tallies with western stereotyping.
The narrator, Sulieman, is a 24-year-old Libyan in exile in Egypt, looking back on events in Tripoli in the summer of 1979. It is a time of political unrest, student protests and growing dissent. But Sulieman's life is marked more by the frequent absences of his father and the isolated house that he shares with an unhappy mother. His father is a businessman who travels abroad, and the novel starts with Sulieman's startling discovery that his father is not on one of his trips but in hiding.
Shortly afterwards, he and his mother are followed by a car that belongs to the secret police, the Revolutionary Committee. To his dismay, he realises that the henchmen in the car are the same ones who, a few days earlier, arrested Ustah Rashid, a teacher, respected neighbour and good friend of Sulieman's father. Sulieman gradually discovers that his father belongs to a political cell that opposes Gaddafi. His mother is harassed, their house is searched, his father's books are burned, and eventually his father is caught, detained and tortured.
Sulieman relates these events with a minimal appreciation of what his father and his comrades were trying to achieve. His account provides us with no insight into Libyan politics of the per-iod, nor, oddly, does it generate any sympathy for the dissidents. Not even the show trial and hanging of Ustah Rashid, which is shown on the regime-controlled television, are as shocking as they are meant to be. It is possible that, in the age of Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo, it is no longer possible to be easily shocked, but it is certain that the whole episode is written in a weirdly sketchy, vague style. This is presumably because Matar didn't originally intend to write about tyranny and opposition in Libya. The thoughtful and well-written parts of this novel are those describing a child suffering from a deep sense of isolation and seeking solace in poetry and religious delusions. But who would publish a book about the troubles of a Libyan child when, in the eyes of the western media, the whole country is reduced to the delusions of Gaddafi?
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