Description:
Review
“With the first sentence, we enter a world too visible for the protagonists who can’t, nevertheless, turn away. The Beekeeper of Aleppo demands that we contemplate the way we humans process the horror around us, the senseless violence, the loss of what we hold dearest.”—Esmeralda Santiago, Aspen Words Literary Prize head judge
“Beekeeper Nuri and his wife, Afra, are devastated by the Syrian civil war. After violence claims their child and Afra’s eyesight, the couple is forced to flee Aleppo and make the fraught journey to Britain—and an uncertain future.”—USA Today (5 Books Not to Miss)
“In recounting the daily brutality as well as the glimmers of beauty, this novel humanizes the terrifying refugee stories we read about in the news. Lefteri explores questions of trust and portrays what trauma and loss can do to individuals and their relationships. . . . A beautiful rumination on seeing what is right in front of us—both the negative and the positive.”—The Boston Globe (Pick of the Week)
“Great for book club . . . a powerful story about the refugee experience, hope, and love.”—Real Simple
“Nuri's story rings with authenticity, from the vast, impersonal cruelties of war to the tiny kindnesses that help people survive it. . . . A well-crafted structure and a troubled but engaging narrator power this moving story of Syrian refugees.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“A haunting and resonant story of Syrian war refugees undertaking a treacherous journey . . . Readers will find this deeply affecting for both its psychological intensity and emotional acuity.”—Publishers Weekly
“In fluid, forthright language, Lefteri brings us humbly closer to the refugee experience as beekeeper Nuri and his wife, an artist named Afra who has gone blind form the horrors she’s witnessed, escape Aleppo and travel dangerously to Great Britain. . . . There’s no overloading the deck with drama; this story tells itself, absorbingly and heartrendingly.” —Library Journal
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
I am scared of my wife’s eyes. She can’t see out and no one can see in. Look, they are like stones, gray stones, sea stones. Look at her. Look how she is sitting on the edge of the bed, her nightgown on the floor, rolling Mohammed’s marble around in her fingers and waiting for me to dress her. I am taking my time putting on my shirt and trousers, because I am so tired of dressing her. Look at the folds of her stomach, the color of desert honey, darker in the creases, and the fine, fine silver lines on the skin of her breasts, and the tips of her fingers with the tiny cuts, where the ridges and valley patterns once were stained with blue or yellow or red paint. Her laughter was gold once, you would have seen as well as heard it. Look at her, because I think she is disappearing.
“I had a night of scattered dreams,” she says. “They filled the room.” Her eyes are fixed a little to the left of me. I feel sick.
“What does that mean?”
“They were broken. My dreams were everywhere. And I didn’t know if I was awake or asleep. There were so many dreams, like bees in a room, like the room was full of bees. And I couldn’t breathe. And I woke up and thought, please don’t let me be hungry.”
I look at her face, confused. There is still no expression. I don’t tell her that I dream only of murder now, always the same dream; it’s only me and the man, and I’m holding the bat and my hand is bleeding; the others aren’t there in the dream, and he is on the ground with the trees above him and he says something to me that I can’t hear.
“And I have pain,” she says.
“Where?”
“Behind my eyes. Really sharp pain.”
I kneel down in front of her and look into her eyes. The blank emptiness in them terrifies me. I take my phone out of my pocket, shine the light of the flashlight into them. Her pupils dilate.
“Do you see anything at all?” I say.
“No.”
“Not even a shadow, a change of tone or color?”
“Just black.”
I put the phone in my pocket and step away from her. She’s been worse since we got here. It’s like her soul is evaporating.
“Can you take me to the doctor?” she says. “Because the pain is unbearable.”
“Of course,” I say. “Soon.”
“When?”
“As soon as we get the papers.”
I’m glad Afra can’t see this place. She would like the seagulls though, the crazy way they fly. In Aleppo we were far from the sea. I’m sure she would like to see these birds and maybe even the coast, because she was raised by the sea. I am from eastern Aleppo, where the city meets the desert.
When we got married and she came to live with me, Afra missed the sea so much that she started to paint water, wherever she found it. Throughout the arid plateau region of Syria there are oases and streams and rivers that empty into swamps and small lakes. Before we had Sami, we would follow the water, and she would paint it in oils. There is one painting of the Queiq I wish I could see again. She made the river look like a storm-water drain running through the city park. Afra had this way of seeing truth in landscapes. The measly river in the painting reminded me of a struggle to stay alive. Thirty or so kilometers south of Aleppo, the river gives up the struggle of the harsh Syrian steppe and evaporates into the marshes.
I am scared of her eyes, but these damp walls, and the wires in the ceiling, and the billboards—I’m not sure how she would deal with all this, if she could see it. The billboard just outside says that there are too many of us, that this island will break under our weight. I’m glad she’s blind. I know what that sounds like! If I could give her a key that opened a door into another world, then I would wish for her to see again. But it would have to be a world very different from this one. A place where the sun is just rising, touching the walls around the ancient city and, outside those walls, the cell-like quarters and the houses and apartments and hotels and narrow alleys and open-air market where a thousand hanging necklaces shine with that first light, and, further away, across the desert land, gold on gold and red on red.
Sami would be there, smiling and running along those alleys with his scuffed sneakers, change in his hand, on his way to the store to get milk. I try not to think about Sami. But Mohammed? I’m still waiting for him to find the letter and money I left under the jar of Nutella. I think one morning there will be a knock at the door, and when I open it he will be standing there and I will say, “But how did you get all the way here, Mohammed? How did you know where to find us?”
Yesterday I saw a boy in the steamed-up mirror of the shared bathroom. He was wearing a black T-shirt, but when I turned around it was the man from Morocco, sitting on the toilet, pissing. “You should lock the door,” he said in his own Arabic.
I can’t remember his name, but I know that he is from a village near Taza, beneath the Rif mountains. He told me last night that they might send him to the detention center in a place called Yarl’s Wood—the social worker thinks there’s a chance they will. It’s my turn to meet her this afternoon. The Moroccan man says she’s very beautiful, that she looks like a dancer from Paris who he once made love to in a hotel in Rabat, long before he married his wife. He asked me about life in Syria. I told him about my beehives in Aleppo.
In the evenings the landlady brings us tea with milk. The Moroccan man is old, maybe eighty or even ninety. He looks and smells like he’s made of leather. He reads How to Be a Brit, and sometimes smirks to himself. He has his phone on his lap, and pauses at the end of each page to glance down at it, but no one ever calls. I don’t know who he’s waiting for and I don’t know how he got here and I don’t know why he has made such a journey so late in his life, because he seems like a man who is waiting to die. He hates the way the non-Muslim men stand up to piss.
There are about ten of us in this run-down B and B by the sea, all of us from different places, all of us waiting. They might keep us, they might send us away, but there is not much to decide anymore. Which road to take, whom to trust, whether to raise the bat again and kill a man. These things are in the past. They will evaporate soon, like the river.
I take Afra’s abaya from the hanger in the wardrobe. She hears it and stands, lifting her arms. She looks older now, but acts younger, like she has turned into a child. Her hair is the color and texture of sand since we dyed it for the photos, bleached out the Arabic. I tie it into a bun and wrap her hijab around her head, securing it with hairpins while she guides my fingers like she always does.
The social worker will be here at 1:00 p.m., and all meetings take place in the kitchen. She will want to know how we got here and she will be looking for a reason to send us away. But I know that if I say the right things, if I convince her that I’m not a killer, then we will get to stay here because we are the lucky ones, because we have come from the worst place in the world. The Moroccan man isn’t so lucky; he will have more to prove. He is sitting in the living room now by the glass doors, holding a bronze pocket watch in both of his hands, nestling it in his palms like it’s a hatching egg. He stares at it, waiting. What for? When he sees that I’m standing here, he says, “It doesn’t work, you know. It stopped in a different time.” He holds it up in the light by its chain and swings it, gently, this frozen watch made of
bronze
was the color of the city far below. We lived in a two-bedroom bungalow on a hill. From so high up we could see all the unorganized architecture and the beautiful domes and minarets, and far in the distance the citadel peeking through.
It was pleasant to sit on the veranda in the spring; we could smell the soil from the desert and see the red sun setting over the land. In the summer, though, we would be inside with a fan running and wet towels on our heads, and our feet in a bowl of cold water because the heat was an oven.
In July, the earth was parched, but in our garden we had apricot and almond trees and tulips and irises and fritillaries. When the river dried up, I would go down to the irrigation pond to collect water for the garden to keep it alive. By August, it was like trying to resuscitate a corpse, so I watched it all die and melt into the rest of the land. When it was cooler we would take a walk and watch the falcons flying across the sky to the desert.
I had four beehives in the garden, piled one on top of the other, but the rest were in a field on the outskirts of eastern Aleppo. I hated to be away from the bees. In the mornings, I would wake up early, before the sun, before the muezzin called out for prayer. I would drive the thirty miles to the apiaries and arrive as the sun was just rising, fields full of light, the humming of the bees a single pure note.
Reviews:
Great Read
Great offbeat read. Nice character development and story. I would recommend
Haunting and powerful!
4.5 starsLet me start off by saying that this is a book everyone needs to read, especially given the current environment we live in with the immigration issue at the forefront of topics recently here in the Western part of the world. Though I have read plenty of books over the years about the immigrant experience from different viewpoints, including from the refugee and asylum perspectives, few of those books have been as haunting and affecting as this one. The story of Nuri and Afra and their harrowing journey to escape the conflict in Syria, the tremendous losses they endure one right after the other -- the loss of their home, their livelihoods, their family, their precious child, even their own souls – ordinary citizens caught up in horrible circumstances not of their making, already having to suffer through so much loss and devastation, yet somehow still finding the will to live, to push ahead through the grief and the desperation and finally arrive at their destination, only to face an uncertain future. This is one of those stories that reminded me once again just how much we often take for granted as we go about our daily lives and how we should be so much more grateful than we usually are for everything we do have.This was a heart-wrenching, emotional read that brought tears to my eyes more than once, yet it was also thought-provoking and relevant to so much of what is going on in the world today. I will admit that it did take me a little while to get used to the book’s unique format (with the last word of each chapter acting as the bridge that starts the flashback to the past in the next chapter), but the beautifully written story as well as the realistically rendered characters (all of whom I adored) more than made up for my brief struggle with the format. Nuri and Afra are characters that I know will stay with me for a long time to come, as the penetrating sadness around their story is one that is difficult to forget. With that said though, there were also moments of hope amidst the desperation, such as when Nuri and Afra finally make it to their destination (not a spoiler, since we are already told this from the very first page) and are met with much kindness from the people they end up staying with at the refugee center as they wait for their asylum applications to be processed. These interactions at the refugee center in present time brought a certain element of hope to the story, which helped to balance out the overwhelming sadness of the past narrative recounting Nuri and Afra’s harrowing journey – at the same time, it made their story all the more poignant and powerful.Part of what made this story feel so realistic was the fact that the author Christy Lefteri based a lot of it on her previous experience working with refugees as a UNICEF-sponsored volunteer in Athens, Greece. In addition to that though, there was also Lefteri’s personal connection as a daughter of refugees (both her parents fled war-torn Cyprus back in the 1970s), which combined with her volunteer experience to produce such a powerful and inspiring story. I know my review probably doesn’t say a whole lot, but in a way, the vagueness is a bit deliberate, as I feel the story already speaks for itself and nothing I say will be able to do it justice. All I’m going to say is that this book definitely deserves to be read – and sooner rather than later!Received ARC from Ballantine Books (Random House) via NetGalley.
A must read
The Beekeeper of Aleppo is a heart-wrenching, emotional read that brought tears to my eyes more than once, yet it is also thought-provoking and relevant to so much of what is going on in the world today. The story is beautifully written as well as the realistically rendered characters (all of whom I adored).Nuri and Afra are characters that I know will stay with me for a long time to come, as the penetrating sadness around their story is one that is difficult to forget. Both characters experience PTSD and feels disconnected when it comes to personal relationships. Many of their fears are due to traumatic experiences and even though Afra is the one without sight, there are times where they both lose their vision. With that said though, there were also moments of hope amidst the desperation, such as when Nuri and Afra finally make it to their destination (not a spoiler, since we are already told this from the very first page) and are met with much kindness from the people they end up staying with at the refugee center as they wait for their asylum applications to be processed. These interactions at the refugee center in present time brought a certain element of hope to the story, which helped to balance out the overwhelming sadness of the past narrative recounting Nuri and Afra’s harrowing journey – at the same time, it made their story all the more poignant and powerful.The Syrians in The Beekeeper of Aleppo experienced tragedy, and lost so much when they escaped their beloved homeland, which became a war zone. Their search for freedom and safety was emotionally and physically tragic and deeply painful, yet I fully and completely loved this book. Lefteri’s research and experiences have allowed her to get to the heart of the human emotions. With vivid prose and insight, she takes us to the lowest point of desperation while simultaneously revealing the hope that exists, even when we have lost everything. I highly recommend this book!
What will Syria's refugees find if they ever return?
Beautifully written, this is a glimpse into what was once Syria, and the destruction of a homeland, and its families. It was especially evocative for me because I was privileged to spend a month touring Syria during the period of mourning for Haffez Assad in the summer of 2000. I traveled in a bus with 12 teachers on a Fulbright-Hayes sponsored trip with three professors of Middle Eastern studies from the University of Arizona. We experienced a walking tour of Damascus with a professor of architecture, we climbed crusader castles, walked the Roman stone roads and passed through ancient city gates and picked up pottery shards from the first century AD, laying them back to preserve them.We visited with farmers, played frisbee with young boys herding camels while they hand spun their hair into wool, met with teachers, were invited into homes, ate the best chickpea soup (ful) in Aleppo and toured the citadel that is now used again by the military and visited Maaloula where a Christian community still spoke Aramaic.My heart aches for what was, for the people who left, and those who stayed, and the war ruins that now scar the ancient ruins. I wonder if it will ever be home again for her exiles.This beautiful novel made me revisit it all. How must her people long for their homeland.
dobra lektura
Polecam
Eye-opening, moving and a good read...
The book was nicely written; a quick and easy read. The author paints a picture of the experiences of refugees and the hardships they face when trying to get to a safer country; her experiences as a UN volunteer make reading this all the more real and eye-opening. The moving story of the characters in this book highlights the importance of understanding the alternative view and not one that is usually portrayed in the media of refugees being a 'burden' on countries they flee to.I will look forward to more from the author as I found that her choice of clear and simple language allowed the book to flow well and despite the subject and content of the book, made it all the more entertaining to read.Would definitely recommend.
Compelling
Beautiful book. Heartbreaking and hopeful at the same time.
Recommended!
Loved this book. Good eye opener and well written
from Aleppo, Syria to the UK
シリアでは、アサド政権と反体制派の戦いが熾烈を極めて、Aleppo の街は崩壊していく。私たちもテレビの画面でその戦禍の様子をしばしば目にし、なぜ同じ国どうしでこんな事態が起こるのだろうと心を痛めるが、しかしそれは遠い国の出来事として通過していく。本書は2016年、Aleppo の街で養蜂を営む青年 Mustafa と彼の年下のいとこの Nuri が、それぞれの事情で、ついに故郷を捨てて、難民となり、イギリスを目指す物語である。Mustafa は目の前で人々が銃撃されるのを目撃し、あまりの凄絶さに、自分も陰から彼らを撃ってしまい、逃げるために街を去る。Nuri に手紙を残して。Nuri には妻の Afra と息子の Sami がいたが、半壊の家に暮らしていた彼らに爆撃が襲い、Sami は青い空を見上げたまま死亡し、Afra は失明する。Mustafa はいくつもの難関を通り抜けて、今ではイギリスのヨークシャーで、また養蜂を一から始めようとしている。そして Nuri に自分を追ってイギリスに来るようにと誘う。時折の機会を見つけてはメールをやりとりする2人の、相手を思う心には胸をつかれる。Mustafa は言う。Where there are bees there are flowers, and where there are flowers there is new life and hope.物語は主に Nuri と Afra のイギリスへ向かおうとする様子を中心に展開する。シリアからトルコのイスタンブールへ、そしてゴムボートで（テレビの画面さながらに) ギリシャを目指す。それは言葉に尽くせない艱難の連続。アテネの難民キャンプではいろいろなことが起こる。知り合った幾人かとはある種の連帯感や、共感も生まれる。シリアから、アフガニスタンから、アフリカから、ソマリアから、様々な言葉も飛び交い、敵愾心をあらわにする者もいれば、温かい思いやりを示す人もいる。不確かな先行きを待ちながら過ごす難民生活は悲惨そのものだ。ここで私が改めて知ることになったのは、どこの地域にも、ＮＧＯで働く人たちが、組織的に難民の世話をしていることだった。著者自身も同時期、ギリシャのアテネでユニセフのボランティアとして働いていたということで、その経験も生かされているのだろう、難民生活のようす、その中で生じる様々なできごとが、リアルに描かれている。Nuri は目の見えなくなった Afra に献身的に寄り添う。しかし最愛の息子 Sami を失ったことで、あるいはギリシャでの待機中に起こった事柄で、ふたりの気持ちはすれ違ったり、屈折したものになったりする。けれど、その奥底にあるのはやはりお互いに対する変わらぬ愛だ。折にふれそれが読む者の心をうつ。Nuri は、旅の途中に親しくなり、やがて姿を消した少年に、Ｓami の姿を重ね、アーティストだった Afra は、目が見えなくなって無気力に沈んでいたが、ノートパッドに絵を描き始め、Nuri は生きるために何をでもやり、密入国業者を探し当てて、イギリスへの道を模索する･････全体的に平易な英語で書かれているが、現在と過去の内容が行き来してわかりづらい部分も。ともあれ、難民の現実をリアルに描き出し、私たちにいろいろなことを教えてくれる。多くの人に読んでほしい本である。
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The Beekeeper of Aleppo: A Novel
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Visit the Ballantine Books Store
The Beekeeper of Aleppo: A Novel
AED6653
Quantity:
Order today to get by 7-14 business days
Delivery fee of AED 20. Free for orders above AED 200.
Imported From: United States
At BOLO, we work hard to ensure the products you receive are new, genuine, and sourced from reputable suppliers.
BOLO is not an authorized or official retailer for most brands, nor are we affiliated with manufacturers unless specifically stated on a product page. Instead, we source verified sellers, authorized distributors or directly from the manufacturer.
Each product undergoes thorough inspection and verification at our consolidation and fulfilment centers to ensure it meets our strict authenticity and quality standards before being shipped and delivered to you.
If you ever have concerns regarding the authenticity of a product purchased from us, please contact Bolo Support. We will review your inquiry promptly and, if necessary, provide documentation verifying authenticity or offer a suitable resolution.
Your trust is our top priority, and we are committed to maintaining transparency and integrity in every transaction.
All product information, images, descriptions, and reviews originate from the manufacturer or from trusted sellers overseas. BOLO is not affiliated with, endorsed by, or an authorized retailer for most brands listed on our website unless stated otherwise.
While we strive to display accurate information, variations in packaging, labeling, instructions, or formulation may occasionally occur due to regional differences or supplier updates. For detailed or manufacturer-specific information, please contact the brand directly or reach out to BOLO Support for assistance.
Unless otherwise stated, all prices displayed on the product page include applicable taxes and import duties.
BOLO operates in accordance with the laws and regulations of United Arab Emirates. Any items found to be restricted or prohibited for sale within the UAE will be cancelled prior to shipment. We take proactive measures to ensure that only products permitted for sale in United Arab Emirates are listed on our website.
All items are shipped by air, and any products classified as “Dangerous Goods (DG)” under IATA regulations will be removed from the order and cancelled.
All orders are processed manually, and we make every effort to process them promptly once confirmed. Products cancelled due to the above reasons will be permanently removed from listings across the website.
Description:
Review
“With the first sentence, we enter a world too visible for the protagonists who can’t, nevertheless, turn away. The Beekeeper of Aleppo demands that we contemplate the way we humans process the horror around us, the senseless violence, the loss of what we hold dearest.”—Esmeralda Santiago, Aspen Words Literary Prize head judge
“Beekeeper Nuri and his wife, Afra, are devastated by the Syrian civil war. After violence claims their child and Afra’s eyesight, the couple is forced to flee Aleppo and make the fraught journey to Britain—and an uncertain future.”—USA Today (5 Books Not to Miss)
“In recounting the daily brutality as well as the glimmers of beauty, this novel humanizes the terrifying refugee stories we read about in the news. Lefteri explores questions of trust and portrays what trauma and loss can do to individuals and their relationships. . . . A beautiful rumination on seeing what is right in front of us—both the negative and the positive.”—The Boston Globe (Pick of the Week)
“Great for book club . . . a powerful story about the refugee experience, hope, and love.”—Real Simple
“Nuri's story rings with authenticity, from the vast, impersonal cruelties of war to the tiny kindnesses that help people survive it. . . . A well-crafted structure and a troubled but engaging narrator power this moving story of Syrian refugees.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“A haunting and resonant story of Syrian war refugees undertaking a treacherous journey . . . Readers will find this deeply affecting for both its psychological intensity and emotional acuity.”—Publishers Weekly
“In fluid, forthright language, Lefteri brings us humbly closer to the refugee experience as beekeeper Nuri and his wife, an artist named Afra who has gone blind form the horrors she’s witnessed, escape Aleppo and travel dangerously to Great Britain. . . . There’s no overloading the deck with drama; this story tells itself, absorbingly and heartrendingly.” —Library Journal
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
I am scared of my wife’s eyes. She can’t see out and no one can see in. Look, they are like stones, gray stones, sea stones. Look at her. Look how she is sitting on the edge of the bed, her nightgown on the floor, rolling Mohammed’s marble around in her fingers and waiting for me to dress her. I am taking my time putting on my shirt and trousers, because I am so tired of dressing her. Look at the folds of her stomach, the color of desert honey, darker in the creases, and the fine, fine silver lines on the skin of her breasts, and the tips of her fingers with the tiny cuts, where the ridges and valley patterns once were stained with blue or yellow or red paint. Her laughter was gold once, you would have seen as well as heard it. Look at her, because I think she is disappearing.
“I had a night of scattered dreams,” she says. “They filled the room.” Her eyes are fixed a little to the left of me. I feel sick.
“What does that mean?”
“They were broken. My dreams were everywhere. And I didn’t know if I was awake or asleep. There were so many dreams, like bees in a room, like the room was full of bees. And I couldn’t breathe. And I woke up and thought, please don’t let me be hungry.”
I look at her face, confused. There is still no expression. I don’t tell her that I dream only of murder now, always the same dream; it’s only me and the man, and I’m holding the bat and my hand is bleeding; the others aren’t there in the dream, and he is on the ground with the trees above him and he says something to me that I can’t hear.
“And I have pain,” she says.
“Where?”
“Behind my eyes. Really sharp pain.”
I kneel down in front of her and look into her eyes. The blank emptiness in them terrifies me. I take my phone out of my pocket, shine the light of the flashlight into them. Her pupils dilate.
“Do you see anything at all?” I say.
“No.”
“Not even a shadow, a change of tone or color?”
“Just black.”
I put the phone in my pocket and step away from her. She’s been worse since we got here. It’s like her soul is evaporating.
“Can you take me to the doctor?” she says. “Because the pain is unbearable.”
“Of course,” I say. “Soon.”
“When?”
“As soon as we get the papers.”
I’m glad Afra can’t see this place. She would like the seagulls though, the crazy way they fly. In Aleppo we were far from the sea. I’m sure she would like to see these birds and maybe even the coast, because she was raised by the sea. I am from eastern Aleppo, where the city meets the desert.
When we got married and she came to live with me, Afra missed the sea so much that she started to paint water, wherever she found it. Throughout the arid plateau region of Syria there are oases and streams and rivers that empty into swamps and small lakes. Before we had Sami, we would follow the water, and she would paint it in oils. There is one painting of the Queiq I wish I could see again. She made the river look like a storm-water drain running through the city park. Afra had this way of seeing truth in landscapes. The measly river in the painting reminded me of a struggle to stay alive. Thirty or so kilometers south of Aleppo, the river gives up the struggle of the harsh Syrian steppe and evaporates into the marshes.
I am scared of her eyes, but these damp walls, and the wires in the ceiling, and the billboards—I’m not sure how she would deal with all this, if she could see it. The billboard just outside says that there are too many of us, that this island will break under our weight. I’m glad she’s blind. I know what that sounds like! If I could give her a key that opened a door into another world, then I would wish for her to see again. But it would have to be a world very different from this one. A place where the sun is just rising, touching the walls around the ancient city and, outside those walls, the cell-like quarters and the houses and apartments and hotels and narrow alleys and open-air market where a thousand hanging necklaces shine with that first light, and, further away, across the desert land, gold on gold and red on red.
Sami would be there, smiling and running along those alleys with his scuffed sneakers, change in his hand, on his way to the store to get milk. I try not to think about Sami. But Mohammed? I’m still waiting for him to find the letter and money I left under the jar of Nutella. I think one morning there will be a knock at the door, and when I open it he will be standing there and I will say, “But how did you get all the way here, Mohammed? How did you know where to find us?”
Yesterday I saw a boy in the steamed-up mirror of the shared bathroom. He was wearing a black T-shirt, but when I turned around it was the man from Morocco, sitting on the toilet, pissing. “You should lock the door,” he said in his own Arabic.
I can’t remember his name, but I know that he is from a village near Taza, beneath the Rif mountains. He told me last night that they might send him to the detention center in a place called Yarl’s Wood—the social worker thinks there’s a chance they will. It’s my turn to meet her this afternoon. The Moroccan man says she’s very beautiful, that she looks like a dancer from Paris who he once made love to in a hotel in Rabat, long before he married his wife. He asked me about life in Syria. I told him about my beehives in Aleppo.
In the evenings the landlady brings us tea with milk. The Moroccan man is old, maybe eighty or even ninety. He looks and smells like he’s made of leather. He reads How to Be a Brit, and sometimes smirks to himself. He has his phone on his lap, and pauses at the end of each page to glance down at it, but no one ever calls. I don’t know who he’s waiting for and I don’t know how he got here and I don’t know why he has made such a journey so late in his life, because he seems like a man who is waiting to die. He hates the way the non-Muslim men stand up to piss.
There are about ten of us in this run-down B and B by the sea, all of us from different places, all of us waiting. They might keep us, they might send us away, but there is not much to decide anymore. Which road to take, whom to trust, whether to raise the bat again and kill a man. These things are in the past. They will evaporate soon, like the river.
I take Afra’s abaya from the hanger in the wardrobe. She hears it and stands, lifting her arms. She looks older now, but acts younger, like she has turned into a child. Her hair is the color and texture of sand since we dyed it for the photos, bleached out the Arabic. I tie it into a bun and wrap her hijab around her head, securing it with hairpins while she guides my fingers like she always does.
The social worker will be here at 1:00 p.m., and all meetings take place in the kitchen. She will want to know how we got here and she will be looking for a reason to send us away. But I know that if I say the right things, if I convince her that I’m not a killer, then we will get to stay here because we are the lucky ones, because we have come from the worst place in the world. The Moroccan man isn’t so lucky; he will have more to prove. He is sitting in the living room now by the glass doors, holding a bronze pocket watch in both of his hands, nestling it in his palms like it’s a hatching egg. He stares at it, waiting. What for? When he sees that I’m standing here, he says, “It doesn’t work, you know. It stopped in a different time.” He holds it up in the light by its chain and swings it, gently, this frozen watch made of
bronze
was the color of the city far below. We lived in a two-bedroom bungalow on a hill. From so high up we could see all the unorganized architecture and the beautiful domes and minarets, and far in the distance the citadel peeking through.
It was pleasant to sit on the veranda in the spring; we could smell the soil from the desert and see the red sun setting over the land. In the summer, though, we would be inside with a fan running and wet towels on our heads, and our feet in a bowl of cold water because the heat was an oven.
In July, the earth was parched, but in our garden we had apricot and almond trees and tulips and irises and fritillaries. When the river dried up, I would go down to the irrigation pond to collect water for the garden to keep it alive. By August, it was like trying to resuscitate a corpse, so I watched it all die and melt into the rest of the land. When it was cooler we would take a walk and watch the falcons flying across the sky to the desert.
I had four beehives in the garden, piled one on top of the other, but the rest were in a field on the outskirts of eastern Aleppo. I hated to be away from the bees. In the mornings, I would wake up early, before the sun, before the muezzin called out for prayer. I would drive the thirty miles to the apiaries and arrive as the sun was just rising, fields full of light, the humming of the bees a single pure note.
Reviews:
Great Read
Great offbeat read. Nice character development and story. I would recommend
Haunting and powerful!
4.5 starsLet me start off by saying that this is a book everyone needs to read, especially given the current environment we live in with the immigration issue at the forefront of topics recently here in the Western part of the world. Though I have read plenty of books over the years about the immigrant experience from different viewpoints, including from the refugee and asylum perspectives, few of those books have been as haunting and affecting as this one. The story of Nuri and Afra and their harrowing journey to escape the conflict in Syria, the tremendous losses they endure one right after the other -- the loss of their home, their livelihoods, their family, their precious child, even their own souls – ordinary citizens caught up in horrible circumstances not of their making, already having to suffer through so much loss and devastation, yet somehow still finding the will to live, to push ahead through the grief and the desperation and finally arrive at their destination, only to face an uncertain future. This is one of those stories that reminded me once again just how much we often take for granted as we go about our daily lives and how we should be so much more grateful than we usually are for everything we do have.This was a heart-wrenching, emotional read that brought tears to my eyes more than once, yet it was also thought-provoking and relevant to so much of what is going on in the world today. I will admit that it did take me a little while to get used to the book’s unique format (with the last word of each chapter acting as the bridge that starts the flashback to the past in the next chapter), but the beautifully written story as well as the realistically rendered characters (all of whom I adored) more than made up for my brief struggle with the format. Nuri and Afra are characters that I know will stay with me for a long time to come, as the penetrating sadness around their story is one that is difficult to forget. With that said though, there were also moments of hope amidst the desperation, such as when Nuri and Afra finally make it to their destination (not a spoiler, since we are already told this from the very first page) and are met with much kindness from the people they end up staying with at the refugee center as they wait for their asylum applications to be processed. These interactions at the refugee center in present time brought a certain element of hope to the story, which helped to balance out the overwhelming sadness of the past narrative recounting Nuri and Afra’s harrowing journey – at the same time, it made their story all the more poignant and powerful.Part of what made this story feel so realistic was the fact that the author Christy Lefteri based a lot of it on her previous experience working with refugees as a UNICEF-sponsored volunteer in Athens, Greece. In addition to that though, there was also Lefteri’s personal connection as a daughter of refugees (both her parents fled war-torn Cyprus back in the 1970s), which combined with her volunteer experience to produce such a powerful and inspiring story. I know my review probably doesn’t say a whole lot, but in a way, the vagueness is a bit deliberate, as I feel the story already speaks for itself and nothing I say will be able to do it justice. All I’m going to say is that this book definitely deserves to be read – and sooner rather than later!Received ARC from Ballantine Books (Random House) via NetGalley.
A must read
The Beekeeper of Aleppo is a heart-wrenching, emotional read that brought tears to my eyes more than once, yet it is also thought-provoking and relevant to so much of what is going on in the world today. The story is beautifully written as well as the realistically rendered characters (all of whom I adored).Nuri and Afra are characters that I know will stay with me for a long time to come, as the penetrating sadness around their story is one that is difficult to forget. Both characters experience PTSD and feels disconnected when it comes to personal relationships. Many of their fears are due to traumatic experiences and even though Afra is the one without sight, there are times where they both lose their vision. With that said though, there were also moments of hope amidst the desperation, such as when Nuri and Afra finally make it to their destination (not a spoiler, since we are already told this from the very first page) and are met with much kindness from the people they end up staying with at the refugee center as they wait for their asylum applications to be processed. These interactions at the refugee center in present time brought a certain element of hope to the story, which helped to balance out the overwhelming sadness of the past narrative recounting Nuri and Afra’s harrowing journey – at the same time, it made their story all the more poignant and powerful.The Syrians in The Beekeeper of Aleppo experienced tragedy, and lost so much when they escaped their beloved homeland, which became a war zone. Their search for freedom and safety was emotionally and physically tragic and deeply painful, yet I fully and completely loved this book. Lefteri’s research and experiences have allowed her to get to the heart of the human emotions. With vivid prose and insight, she takes us to the lowest point of desperation while simultaneously revealing the hope that exists, even when we have lost everything. I highly recommend this book!
What will Syria's refugees find if they ever return?
Beautifully written, this is a glimpse into what was once Syria, and the destruction of a homeland, and its families. It was especially evocative for me because I was privileged to spend a month touring Syria during the period of mourning for Haffez Assad in the summer of 2000. I traveled in a bus with 12 teachers on a Fulbright-Hayes sponsored trip with three professors of Middle Eastern studies from the University of Arizona. We experienced a walking tour of Damascus with a professor of architecture, we climbed crusader castles, walked the Roman stone roads and passed through ancient city gates and picked up pottery shards from the first century AD, laying them back to preserve them.We visited with farmers, played frisbee with young boys herding camels while they hand spun their hair into wool, met with teachers, were invited into homes, ate the best chickpea soup (ful) in Aleppo and toured the citadel that is now used again by the military and visited Maaloula where a Christian community still spoke Aramaic.My heart aches for what was, for the people who left, and those who stayed, and the war ruins that now scar the ancient ruins. I wonder if it will ever be home again for her exiles.This beautiful novel made me revisit it all. How must her people long for their homeland.
dobra lektura
Polecam
Eye-opening, moving and a good read...
The book was nicely written; a quick and easy read. The author paints a picture of the experiences of refugees and the hardships they face when trying to get to a safer country; her experiences as a UN volunteer make reading this all the more real and eye-opening. The moving story of the characters in this book highlights the importance of understanding the alternative view and not one that is usually portrayed in the media of refugees being a 'burden' on countries they flee to.I will look forward to more from the author as I found that her choice of clear and simple language allowed the book to flow well and despite the subject and content of the book, made it all the more entertaining to read.Would definitely recommend.
Compelling
Beautiful book. Heartbreaking and hopeful at the same time.
Recommended!
Loved this book. Good eye opener and well written
from Aleppo, Syria to the UK
シリアでは、アサド政権と反体制派の戦いが熾烈を極めて、Aleppo の街は崩壊していく。私たちもテレビの画面でその戦禍の様子をしばしば目にし、なぜ同じ国どうしでこんな事態が起こるのだろうと心を痛めるが、しかしそれは遠い国の出来事として通過していく。本書は2016年、Aleppo の街で養蜂を営む青年 Mustafa と彼の年下のいとこの Nuri が、それぞれの事情で、ついに故郷を捨てて、難民となり、イギリスを目指す物語である。Mustafa は目の前で人々が銃撃されるのを目撃し、あまりの凄絶さに、自分も陰から彼らを撃ってしまい、逃げるために街を去る。Nuri に手紙を残して。Nuri には妻の Afra と息子の Sami がいたが、半壊の家に暮らしていた彼らに爆撃が襲い、Sami は青い空を見上げたまま死亡し、Afra は失明する。Mustafa はいくつもの難関を通り抜けて、今ではイギリスのヨークシャーで、また養蜂を一から始めようとしている。そして Nuri に自分を追ってイギリスに来るようにと誘う。時折の機会を見つけてはメールをやりとりする2人の、相手を思う心には胸をつかれる。Mustafa は言う。Where there are bees there are flowers, and where there are flowers there is new life and hope.物語は主に Nuri と Afra のイギリスへ向かおうとする様子を中心に展開する。シリアからトルコのイスタンブールへ、そしてゴムボートで（テレビの画面さながらに) ギリシャを目指す。それは言葉に尽くせない艱難の連続。アテネの難民キャンプではいろいろなことが起こる。知り合った幾人かとはある種の連帯感や、共感も生まれる。シリアから、アフガニスタンから、アフリカから、ソマリアから、様々な言葉も飛び交い、敵愾心をあらわにする者もいれば、温かい思いやりを示す人もいる。不確かな先行きを待ちながら過ごす難民生活は悲惨そのものだ。ここで私が改めて知ることになったのは、どこの地域にも、ＮＧＯで働く人たちが、組織的に難民の世話をしていることだった。著者自身も同時期、ギリシャのアテネでユニセフのボランティアとして働いていたということで、その経験も生かされているのだろう、難民生活のようす、その中で生じる様々なできごとが、リアルに描かれている。Nuri は目の見えなくなった Afra に献身的に寄り添う。しかし最愛の息子 Sami を失ったことで、あるいはギリシャでの待機中に起こった事柄で、ふたりの気持ちはすれ違ったり、屈折したものになったりする。けれど、その奥底にあるのはやはりお互いに対する変わらぬ愛だ。折にふれそれが読む者の心をうつ。Nuri は、旅の途中に親しくなり、やがて姿を消した少年に、Ｓami の姿を重ね、アーティストだった Afra は、目が見えなくなって無気力に沈んでいたが、ノートパッドに絵を描き始め、Nuri は生きるために何をでもやり、密入国業者を探し当てて、イギリスへの道を模索する･････全体的に平易な英語で書かれているが、現在と過去の内容が行き来してわかりづらい部分も。ともあれ、難民の現実をリアルに描き出し、私たちにいろいろなことを教えてくれる。多くの人に読んでほしい本である。
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