Book Eight for 2025: ” The Thirty Names of Night”, Zeyn Joukhadar


While his previous novel, Book Seven for the year, focused on map making, what it is like to be a refugee, and the stories of two, strong girls centuries apart, one of this novel’s main focus is birds. One narrator, at first no name and then later Nadir, relates part of the novel. His mother was an ornithologist who died in a tragic fire. Her ghost often speaks to him. The other main character, Laila, was a famous artist, an illustrator and painter of birds who mysteriously disappeared decades ago. She and a Black ornithologist insisted they had seen a new species of ibis, and she is supposed to have made drawings and paintings of this rare bird but all evidence disappeared with her.

This is also the story of various non-cisgender characters, some of whom hid their true identities from even those closest to them. Additionally, it is the tale of the lives of Syrian Americans in a NYC neighborhood, plus its destruction and renewal. As in his previous novel, the language and descriptions are poetic, often haunting, and sometimes heartbreaking. It also illustrates how our lives are often interrelated even when we are unaware, only to be discovered after years of searching.

I am guessing that the novel is at least somewhat autobiographical given that Nadir, born a girl, knows inside that he is really a boy. Between this novel and the first one, the author transitions from female to male.

Both books are beautifully written and I highly recommend reading them.

Book Seven for 2025: “The Map of Salt and Stars”, Zeynab Joukhadar


Two young heroines dominate this fascinating novel which switches back and forth between the Syria of 2011 and the 12th century. The latter is a girl who disguises herself as a boy to join the quest of a famous mapmaker. Nour, the first girl, lost her father to cancer in NYC. Then her mother, a mapmaker, decides to move herself and the three daughters back to Homs, Syria. They barely settle into their new life when the civil war breaks out and a bomb destroys their house. They become refugees. This is the tale of their harrowing journey from Syria to Jordan to Egypt to Libya to Algeria, then Morocco and finally to Cuenta, the Spainish city on the north coast of Africa, where their uncle lives.

To keep sane, Nour repeatedly tells herself the story of Rawiya, the disguised girl who is an apprentice to the map maker. When he was alive, this was the favorite traditional story her father told her. The book alternates between what is really occurring to Nour and her refugee family and this ancient story. At the beginning of the section for each country through which they travel, there is a touching and beautifully written poem in the shape of the map of that country. The poem for Jordan/Egypt is printed below.

Sunday Poem


This morning snow capped mountains

brought me joy.

In afternoon I

strolled through gardens,

lunched with daughter near gurgling streams.

Flowers smiled at me,

A bamboo forest beckoned.

Nature’s beauty overcame negativity, despair.

We will

Endure

Overcome.

A New Year


On this new day in a new year

I want you to promise yourself to

-laugh when you see the sunrise

-dance in the moonlight even if you

think you cannot dance

-remember your best day ever, then

make a new best day

-hug your loved ones, tell them you

love them

-walk in nature, touch a flower.

A new year brings no promises.

The world contains too much violence, hate.

Yet you, yes, you your precious self

can transform the world,

project joy where you think there is none,

bring laughter somewhere, sometime,

reach out to others,

send positive vibrations into the universe.

You can make a difference,

make the world a better place.

Tis The Season


Tis the season to…

Feel joy when the morning

sun caresses your face;

Laugh when you hear

children playing in the

street;

Give thanks for being alive,

having friends and family;

Walk down your street or

take a hike, touch a flower,

a tree and appreciate nature’s

simple bounties;

Remember the time your

loved one took your face

in gentle hands and smiled;

Give the gift of kindness,

peace, and compassion to everyone,

strangers, friends, family,

the unknown;

Promise yourself to live your

best self in the year to come,

to never forget that life

is a gift.

Langston Hughes in Uzbekistan


It’s 1932.

Movie roles promised to 22 Black Americans.

“Black and White” in the

Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic.

Treated like royalty, wined, dined, at

their own expense.

Hughes–ridiculous script. All went

home except Hughes. He stayed,

traveled, saw cotton grown from Aral

Sea water–now no water, desolate

desert.

In Tashkent, Uzbeks, Turkmen, Tartars

honored him, flowers, fruit.

No English.

He met a Red Army Captain from

high Pamir Mountains. Hughes

described him, Black with Oriental eyes.

Hughes called him Yeah Man.

He called Hughes Yang Zoon.

Weeks together never understanding

each other’s words.

Hughes’ poetry book

“The Weary Blues” first

American book translated to

Uzbek. Original English version

lost. He describes this new place:

“Look: here

Is a country

Where everyone shines.”

Note: You can find a version of this book translated into English from Uzbek by Muhabbat Bakeava and Kevin Young.

Autumn


As a summer person, I’m less excited than others I know to see it end. This abecedarian poem allowed me to experiment with words without searching for profound meanings, allowed me to play.

Autumn

brings

chills

dreary

evenings

fog.

Gone

heat

intense

joy.

Kindness

lingers while I

meander

near

oceans

playing

quickly,

running in

sunshine.

Tomorrow

under a

vanishing

wind in a

xeroscape

yard, I will

Zoom my next meeting.

An Abecedarian Poem for Sudan


While a lot of the world is focused on Ukraine and Israel/Gaza, since April 2023, two groups, the Sudanese Armed Forces and the Rapid Support Forces, have been fighting for control of Sudan. 11.1 million people are displaced and more than 17,000 killed, mostly civilians including children. Currently, for the second time since 2003, famine lurks at the door of Darfur state. Although I wrote the poem thinking about Sudan, a lot of the same conditions apply to Congo.

Amidst the denuded trees along a wide

boulevard walked a tall, dark-haired girl

carrying a large basket filled with a few

deep red pomegranates, two brown

eggs and three delicate pastries

filled with pineapple, cinnamon, and

guava, her favorite. She felt lucky.

Her mother sent her to the market, her mother

ill with ague, shivering, fevered,

jaundiced, too young to be dying, her father

killed in the endless wars which had

leveled so many cities and villages.

Men filled with the desire for revenge, for power,

never thinking how forgiveness and love could

overcome the endless devastation.

People plagued by angry men, men so

quick to condemn all not their tribe, their own,

retribution driving them week after week.

Some lay dying on the streets or dead as

the girl walked around their bodies

under the relentless, tropical sun.

Void of relief, fearful but determined, she

walked on toward the remains of her home.

Xenophobia once again stalked the streets,

young men brandishing assault rifles. Animals in the

zoo seem kinder, more caring.