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The geopolitical conflict between Israelis and Palestinians forms the context and backdrop of the entire novel, circumscribing the lives of its protagonists and their ability to be perceived as individuals. When Tal says she knows “that history is relentless; it doesn’t think about people who want a quiet life, it just grinds on, sometimes destroying everything in its way” (81), her frustration with a conflict that feels ancient and inevitable is clear. The choices that were made before she and Naïm were born dictate how they live, how they are “supposed” to see the world, and even whom they are allowed to like, forcing them to live without freedom of choice. As Tal and Naïm cope with the impacts of the broader conflict on their ability to shape their own lives, sharing their individual dreams and identities, the novel emphasizes the humanity of people caught in global events beyond their control.
It is the individual impact of this geopolitical conflict that initially drives Tal to take action by writing her letter: The bombing at the nearby café takes on a personal dimension for her when she learns that a girl just three years older than her has been killed the day before her wedding. This frames the wider external conflict in more personal, internal terms, as Tal begins to think about where she might be in another three years and about how life can hinge on the smallest decisions, such as whether or not to go to a cafe. At times, she has a sense of resignation about the limitations the threat of violence puts upon her, noting that the generational conflict passed down to young Israelis and Palestinians is “just the way it is: we were born in a part of the world that’s on fire, where people feel old very young, where it’s almost a miracle if someone dies a natural death” (61). However, Tal refuses to yield to powerlessness, instead reaching out—and ultimately connecting with Naïm—because she hopes to find a miracle, to reconcile these external and internal conflicts and create a way forward for herself as an individual.
For Naïm, the limitations the conflict creates in his life are both physical and emotional: He cannot travel freely, befriend whomever he wants, or imagine a world where these things are possible. These impacts are closely tied to The Complexities of Identity and Belonging in a Divided Society, as Naïm feels as though the conflict has taken away his individuality in the eyes of the world and that “[t]he singular doesn’t exist anymore: no me, you, him, her, there’s just the plural–Palestinians. The poor Palestinians. Or the evil Palestinians, it all depends” (50). It has limited his identity to what others think of him because of what they see on the news or hear from their neighbors, taking away his own individuality and that of countless other young men like him. By exploring these impacts through Naïm’s point of view, the novel demonstrates how conflicts dehumanize individuals, as well as the perils of viewing an entire nation or culture through the lens of prevailing stereotypes or media perspectives.
Like many young people, Tal and Naïm struggle with complex questions about who they are and where they belong in their respective societies. Some of these struggles are connected to the impacts of the larger geopolitical conflict on their individual lives, and others are representative of the kinds of decisions and dreams many young people explore as they come into adulthood; these struggles develop the characters as unique individuals with hopes and dreams. As they explore their different identities in the world and in relation to each other—Israeli and Palestinian, “Bakbouk” and “Gazaman,” aspiring filmmaker and aspiring doctor—Tal and Naïm demonstrate how societal divisions complicate the rites of passage often associated with coming of age.
Tal struggles to a lesser extent than Naïm with her sense of belonging, having already determined that while she “would love to see Paris, Venice, Beijing, and New York, [...] [Jerusalem] is where I want to live” (9). Rather, she encounters difficulty shaping her identity as an Israeli in response to the violence she witnesses, feeling as though her head is “in pieces” after the cafe bombing and the bus bombing. The conflict and division around her causes her to question her pursuit of a career as a filmmaker and even her own identity: “I’d like to now be me, for a while. To take a break from my own memory” (97). The fact that her connection with Naïm is what brings her back to her sense of self and purpose demonstrates that unity, rather than division, can provide healing, peace, and a path forward.
By contrast, Naïm never loses sight of who he is—Gazaman, after all—but is stymied by a lifelong sense of not belonging to the society around him. He emphasizes the extent to which he feels pulled in opposite directions when he writes, “I hate feeling two things at once; it’s like having an argument with myself” (31). This argument with himself about whether he detests or admires Tal is representative of his other internal conflicts about his place in Muslim and Palestinian society. Naïm’s appreciation of Western music, his enjoyment of the Israeli singing competition Kohav nolad, his view of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and even his status as an only child set him apart. His desire to forget everything connected with Gaza at the end of the novel suggests that, like Tal, the only way to form his own identity is by forgetting the divisions that he has experienced. Naïm’s narrative illustrates how the tropes associated with developing a sense of identity and belonging—falling in love, embracing new interests and friends, and even going to school to embark on a career—are complicated by life within a divided society.
The structure of the novel provides an ideal vehicle for this theme, as Tal and Naïm’s interwoven points of view demonstrate that storytelling and communication can be powerful tools for the purposes of both connection and division. The characters narrate stories about the distant and recent past, their present circumstances, and their hopes and fears for the future; however, they also see and hear negative news stories and rumors about people on the other side of the conflict. Tal acknowledges as much in her initial letter, which is both an act of faith in storytelling and communication to change the world for the better, and an illustration of everything she has merely heard about “the Palestinians” through other people’s stories. She acknowledges that “I’m full of fear and full of hope writing to you like this. […] I’m not sure I’ll manage to say what I want to say” (17).
Naïm’s journal entries and responses to Tal demonstrate both the positive and negative power of storytelling and communication. He writes his own stories to make sense of the world for himself, and both characters are slowly transformed through their emails. However, Naïm points out the danger of believing in every story. He notes that Tal’s perspective of “the Palestinians” has been colored by what she hears on the news, rather than what individuals like him have experienced. It is only after Tal demonstrates her openness to really communicate and her desire to hear his stories with an open mind that the two can form a connection. While the power of storytelling and communication are presented as positive in the novel, they do offer one caveat: Because of this power, people must be careful about what stories they choose to communicate and believe.
As dual protagonists, Tal and Naïm represent the struggle between hope and despair in times of conflict. While the respective tones of their initial emails suggest Tal will represent hope for peace while Naïm will represent despairing cynicism, the transformations they experience throughout the narrative represent the extent to which these states are tenuous and easily influenced by circumstance. Hope is omnipresent throughout the novel; it is developed through the motif of dreams and symbolized by the bottle Tal’s parents saved on the day they believed peace was possible, which Tal sends to Gaza as a gesture of reconciliation. Her letter states this hope explicitly: “But if this letter is lucky enough to reach you, if you […] think we should learn to know each other […] mainly because we want to get on with living our lives in peace” (17). Her act is an attempt to find inner peace after the violence at the cafe, or what her father calls “defending yourself against despair” (133). The defense against despair characterizes Tal throughout the novel, and, as a result, her period of despair after witnessing the bus bombing is more significant, suggesting that even the most hopeful and well-intentioned people can grow exhausted by generations of conflict.
It is this exhaustion that Naïm expresses early in the novel, explaining how despair can make way for all kinds of other emotions, including hatred and anger. His description of his uncle in his first email reveals what happens when people harden themselves against hope and possibility:
My little cousin entered a competition [for peace] and he was really happy when they sent him a box of chocolates. Except that the organization that gave them to him had bought the chocolates in Israel and his father threw them away. ‘We don’t eat enemy chocolates,’ he told Yacine. And of course Yacine cried and said they were the chocolates of peace […] but his father wouldn’t give in. He’s a hard man, my uncle Ahmed (23).
Without hope, even a prize promoting peace can be a symbol of the enemy. However, despite his anger and his insistence that people in Gaza feel devastated all the time, Naïm gradually reveals that the agony he is experiencing is a result of hope—hope that maybe there are second chances instead of second wars, and that his hard work will pay off and he will be accepted to medical school in Canada. By demonstrating how both Tal and Naïm experience inner conflict, the novel illuminates the uneasy reality that generational, external conflicts like the one they are living through can force hope and despair to live side by side.
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