MY FRIENDS

A Libyan exile contemplates his time away from his troubled homeland.

Khaled Abd al Hady, the narrator of Matar’s third novel, moved to England for college in 1983, well aware of the risks of encountering people criticizing his homeland. Years earlier, on BBC Arabic World Service radio, he’d heard an allegorical short story by a young Libyan writer, Hosam Zowa, criticizing the Qaddafi regime; shortly after, the Arab announcer reading the story was assassinated. Still, at the prompting of a friend and classmate, Mustafa al Touny, he attends a protest at the Libyan embassy in London and is nearly killed by gunfire from inside the building. “Forever a marked man,” he can’t return home to his parents and sister in Benghazi or even share word of his injuries and their cause. As the years pass, Khaled settles into British life, finding and befriending Hosam as his friendship with Mustafa deepens; one running theme of the book is that friendship offers a space for honesty and affection that’s often foreclosed by family and country. Still, the mood is melancholy, and Matar captures it gorgeously: “It turns out it is possible to live without one’s family. All one has to do is to endure each day and gradually, minute by minute, brick by brick, time builds a wall.” Plotwise, the novel operates at a relatively low boil, and even passages on political and religious strife are delivered with a sinuous, Jamesian reserve. The Arab Spring of 2011 intensifies matters, prompting Khaled and his cohort to decide how much to engage in it. But even here, Matar is more philosophical than heated, exploring what sides of ourselves we deny for the sake of a cause. While some around Khaled engage in the revolution, he, like the book, is more restrained, echoing Hosam’s notion that “there is no salvation in war.”

A subtle, graceful, intimate exploration of loss and disconnection.