WHEN WE WERE TWINS

Taher is born in Ismailia, Egypt, in the midst of great violence during the Six-Day War in 1967 with Israel; he comes into the world on the heels of a fraternal twin sister, Aisha. He is a well-behaved, studious boy, impressing his family by memorizing the Quran by the time he is 6 years old. His bond with his sister, even as they drift apart as years pass, is mystically profound, depicted in the sentimentally overwrought language that typifies the author’s tortured prose: “Images are like twins. How are the twins the same? How are the twins different? Where is the summit, where does it all come together? The lightness of the mind overcomes the body, the lightness of the body overcomes the struggle—absolute freedom, absolute lightness beyond time, absolute understanding and connection.” Taher is first exposed to a mixture of Islamic radicalism and political dissent by his cousin Ahmed who, along with hundreds of others, is sent to prison after the assassination of Egypt’s president Anwar Sadat. Taher eventually travels to Afghanistan and joins the mujahedeen to fight against the Soviet invasion—though by moving to Germany to attend college, he seems to express a desire to live a normal life as well, a peacefully bourgeois existence similar to his sister’s. However, he begins to lean into extremist ideas about political resistance, an organic development intelligently charted by the author.  

Taher is a memorable protagonist—deeply thoughtful and morally sensitive, he disdains killing despite his political commitments: “But killing someone is killing yourself, don’t you see?…It always comes back and stays with you. Death comes back. There is no escape. By killing, you poison the blood of your children. There is no life after killing. Not for you. Not for your children. Not for their children. Ever. Killing someone without killing yourself is impossible.” Hinc’s portrayal of him as a saintly, blameless child who grows into an adult capable of hijacking an airplane is delicately rendered—it is never quite clear what ultimately motivates his transformation (is it a genuine religious calling or the pain he experiences as a result of the deaths of his parents?). However, the prose is leaden, overheated, and littered with clichés. The tone is prophetic—the omniscient narrator imparts philosophical insights that read as condescendingly didactic. The reader may sense that the novel is intended as a parable of some kind, though it is never quite clear what lesson is meant to be gleaned. As a psychological snapshot of radicalization, this is a subtle work, one that astutely highlights the many ways in which Egyptians could feel betrayed, not only by Western powers more interested in their resources than their freedom, but also by their own leaders. However, as a work of dramatic literature, Hinc’s novel falls flat—her sermonizing hinders the reader’s full immersion in the story.