Out came a thought and then another...

Hisham Matar's first book, In the Country of Men, about a young boy trying to understand life, love, loss in the background of a 1970s Libya made it to the Booker 2006 longlist last week.

Matar was born in New York in 1970 and grew up in Libya, Egypt and England. Suleiman, the narrator of In the Country of Men was also born in 1970 and Matar admits to some similarity in the timeline. However Suleiman is an only child (and Matar is not) and the author adds that that is an important factor in explaining the internal monologues in the book.

In this conversation with Stephen Moss for the Guardian, Matar talks about his debut work of fiction

Why isn't Hisham Matar angrier? In 1990, when he was a student in London, his father - a Libyan dissident living in Cairo - was kidnapped, taken back to Tripoli, imprisoned, tortured. He smuggled several letters out from Abu Saleem jail detailing his treatment, but there has been no word since 1995. The not-knowing must be hideous - so how to square that with this charming, engaging, patient young man?
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The novel that has so excited the critics draws on Matar's troubled childhood in Libya, yet draws away from it too. I find his calmness about his kidnapped father strange, and can't stop nagging away at it. Why not go back to Libya, where supposedly long-closed doors are creaking open, look for him, try to find out what happened? "Maybe if I watch Rambo a few times I might be convinced of that idea," he says. "But life doesn't work that way. In any case, to go back would feel like a betrayal of a lot of the people I knew. I know so many people in Libya who are in prison - three cousins and an uncle, friends who have been killed, hanged by the neck."

There is anger, of course, when you prod. He calls the vacancy in his life "torturous". "You don't know the fate of this person that is central to your life. Your horizon continues to drop. In the beginning you want justice, but then you want to see him, to speak with him. Later, you don't even want that - you just want to know whether he is alive or dead."

The reviews of In the Country of Men show mixed reactions. On the one hand is effusive praise in the Observer and in the Guardian and on the other,in the New Statesman the complaint of it being over-rated(the undesirable topicality in fiction, as that author calls it).

The Observer reviewer Oscar Turner writes

At a time when western leaders have been cosying up to Gaddafi, it is salient to be reminded of the cruelty of his reign. In the Country of Men is a powerful political novel and a tender evocation of universal human conflicts - over identity, forgiveness, love. It is due to be published in 13 languages and, despite its short length, took several years to write. It was more than worth the wait.

Kamila Shamsie's review in the Guardian has a few good words about Hisham Matar's writing

And whatever his subject, Matar writes beautifully. In describing the world of seas and mulberries he is a sensualist; when writing of executions and arrests he is a nuanced observer with a gift for conveying both absurdity and raw emotion. His description of a public execution is an exceptional piece of writing - he is not afraid to bring in details that seem entirely incongruous with the setting, yet serve to give it an air of greater verisimilitude. A man trying to resist being taken to the gallows reminds Sulaiman of "the way a shy woman would resist her friends' invitation to dance, pulling her shoulders up to her ears and waving her index finger nervously in front of her mouth". The scene is by turns absurd, painful and terrifying - and, with consummate confidence, at the crucial moment of the hanging Matar is able to step back from the detailed descriptions and evocative imagery to tell us, simply and chillingly: "Everybody seemed happy."

Whether In the Country of Men makes it to the shortlist or not, it does seem like the subject and its story will make an impact on many readers.

Posted by Echo/Lavanya on Tuesday, August 22, 2006 at 4:00 PM | Permalink