Finished West of Kabul, East of New York today. I devoured it. Finishing a book I love is almost painful--I rush through the story, barely breathing, I live in the book, my dreams are colored with its characters and places. Then, with the end so near, twenty pages left, I try to savor every phrase. But I can't help myself, and I chase the story to the last page.
West of Kabul, East of New York is this incredible story of an Afghan American's life pre-September 11th. It's the story of Afghanistan's torment, of Islam's unravelling, of Persian folklore, of the beauty of kinship and clan, of straddling cultural identity--it's a story of a family stretched across borders, a tender love affair, and of political struggle. The story of a man finding his voice in the face of tragedy.
I'm obsessed with literature that delves into multicultural identity-a story that makes you learn about the human condition and an intimate look into culture, a story of finding a voice. Maybe it's because I've never felt definable, never felt like I fit into neat categories...maybe it's because I'm still searching for my voice.