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Summary
Summary
Already an international sensation and prize-winning bestseller in France, an evocative coming-of-age story of a young boy, a lost childhood and a shattered homeland.
SHORTLISTED FOR THE ALBERTINE PRIZE * NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY ESQUIRE * LONGLISTED FOR THE ANDREW CARNEGIE MEDAL FOR EXCELLENCE IN FICTION * LONGLISTED FOR THE ASPEN WORDS LITERARY PRIZE
Burundi, 1992. For ten-year-old Gabriel, life in his comfortable expatriate neighborhood of Bujumbura with his French father, Rwandan mother and little sister Ana, is something close to paradise.
These are carefree days of laughter and adventure - sneaking Supermatch cigarettes and gorging on stolen mangoes - as he and his mischievous gang of friends transform their tiny cul-de-sac into their kingdom.
But dark clouds are gathering over this small country, and soon their peaceful existence will shatter when Burundi, and neighboring Rwanda, are brutally hit by civil war and genocide.
A novel of extraordinary power and beauty, Small Country describes an end of innocence as seen through the eyes of a child caught in the maelstrom of history. Shot through with shadows and light, tragedy and humor, it is a stirring tribute not only to a dark chapter in Africa's past, but also to the bright days that preceded it.
Author Notes
Gaël Faye was born in 1982 in Burundi to a French father and Rwandan mother. In 1995, after the outbreak of the civil war and the Rwandan genocide, the family moved to France. An author, songwriter and hip-hop artist, he released his first solo album, Pili Pili sur un croissant au beurre, in 2013. Small Country is his first novel. A bestseller in France, it has been awarded numerous literary prizes, among them the Prix Goncourt des Lycéens, and is being published in thirty countries worldwide. He lives in Paris.
Reviews (5)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Faye debuts a precise and potent voice in his deeply affecting novel about coming of age during the mid-1990s Tutsi genocide. Ten-year-old Gabriel has a peaceful, mischievous childhood marred only by the growing rift between his French father and Rwandan mother. He and his friends roam the streets of their well-heeled neighborhood in the Burundi capital of Bujumbura, stealing mangos and avoiding the bully Francis; Gabriel daydreams about moving to France to be with his pen pal crush Laure. But then Burundi's first democratic elections in 1993 sputter into a military coup, while rumors of impending civil war across the border in Rwanda stoke ethnic tensions among Gabriel's peers and the entire city. Gabriel's mother crosses the border to seek news of her Tutsi family and returns traumatized; Gabriel retreats into voracious reading as his friends get involved with guerrilla warfare. Faye includes a range of individuals representing the economic and racial complexities of postcolonial Africa. The most powerful moments come as Gabriel stumbles through processing his alarming new realities with delayed understanding. The juxtaposition of everyday growing pains and the fallout from atrocities is heightened by Faye's lovely prose, which builds a heartrending portrait of the end of childhood. (June) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Booklist Review
*Starred Review* French hip-hip artist and debut novelist Faye's semiautobiographical tale of 10-year-old Gabriel and his family living through the turmoil in Burundi and Rwanda in the early 1990s explores the classic themes of home and identity overlaid with the horrors of genocide and fleeing refugees. Yvonne, Gabriel's mother, is a Tutsi from Rwanda married to a Frenchman, Michel, in a union that embodies the complex conflicts underpinning colonial relationships. Faye's look at the slow poisoning of minds as some groups are designated as Other offers a close-up of the beast that is mob mentality. The ghastliness of news headlines comes alive in Gabriel and his younger sister Ana's flight from Burundi to France and personalizes the Rwandan genocide and the life of the Rwandan refugees. The Tutsi-Hutu violence, the notion of identity to a biracial child, and the impossible choices of those living in troubled territories are all explored in a straightforward style befitting a young narrator. Vividly translated by Ardizzone, this powerful tale, a best-seller overseas, presents a world where there are no easy demarcations of good and evil, sane and insane, or pure and corrupted, as Faye focuses not on offering judgement but rather on capturing the full impact of social and political disintegration.--Viswanathan, Shoba Copyright 2010 Booklist
New York Review of Books Review
NO TURNING BACK: Life, Loss, and Hope in Wartime Syria, by Rania Abouzeid. (Norton, $17.95.) Abouzeid has spent years on the ground in Syria covering the civil war, and she combines extraordinary reporting with a historical and political overview of the origins of the conflict. In her book she focuses on a small group of characters, and their stories offer an intimate look at the impact of violence and tragedy. A GENTLEMAN IN MOSCOW, by Amor Towles. (Penguin, $17.) In Towles's hugely popular novel, an aristocrat under arrest watches from a posh hotel as the Russian Revolution unfolds. Our reviewer, Craig Taylor, wrote, "What saves the book is the gorgeous sleight of hand that draws it to a satisfying end, and the way he chooses themes that run deeper than mere sociopolitical commentary." LOOK ALIVE OUT THERE: Essays, by Sloane Crosley. (Picador/MCD, $17.) Fans of Crosley, the author of "I Was Told There'd Be Cake" and "How Did You Get This Number," will be pleased to see her signature wit on full display in this new collection. The pieces draw on everything from her volcano-scaling escapades to the death of her solitary downstairs neighbor. Her observations, even the most sobering, are shot through with hope. THE BALCONY, by Jane Delury. (Back Bay/Little, Brown, $15.99.) This debut novel leaps back and forth to tell the stories of a property's inhabitants, starting in the 19 th century through the recent past. The state of the house, from dilapidation to haphazard renovation, mirrors the shifting relationships among its residents, including a Jewish family in hiding, a former courtesan and more. Our reviewer, Jan Stuart, praised the novel, writing, "The vivid intimacy of Delury's canvas is enhanced by descriptive prose at once concise and lush." TAILSPIN: The People and Forces Behind America's Fifty-Year Fall - and Those Fighting to Reverse It, by Steven Brill. (Vintage, $16.95.) In this lament, Brill places a special focus on the laws and public decisions that have ushered in the current political and legal stalemates. It's not all depressing reading, however, as Brill is careful to highlight people and groups he believes are working to address our present problems. SMALL COUNTRY, by Gael j ··4 paye Trans|atecj by Sarah 4 Ardizzone. (Hogarth, $15.) A best seller in France, this novel borrows some ele"???? ments from the author's life to tell the story of a young boy, Gabriel, who is uprooted from his happy childhood in Burundi after civil war between the Hutus and Tutsis breaks out in the 1990s. The book charts Gabriel's loss of innocence in the face of violence.
Kirkus Review
Faye's debut tells the story of Gabriel, a preteen boy in mid-1990s Burundi when violence from the Rwandan genocide spills over the border.Gabriel wishes he were elsewhere. The social fabric is deteriorating around him. But staying home and reading does not slow the pace of his losses. His mother goes to Rwanda to try to save her Tutsi family members, while his French father stays home to look after the children. Eventually, the killing that was kept at arm's length comes to their street, and Gabriel loses almost everything. Though the situation is rich, it does not become so until about midway through the book. The first half is all calm before the storm: tiffs with other boys, a pen-pal crush, playing and getting into mischief outdoors. Life meanders along without tension or stakes. This might have worked if the language were particularly powerful or evocative. It is not. Awkward phrases Faye (or translator Ardizzone) uses, such as "footsteps to-ing and fro-ing" or "parched flamboyant tree," don't help. The book is not without strong points, including a wonderful paragraph toward the end about a murder that happens in broad daylight as people continue to go about their days. It's a pity the story does not start closer to these events and the language is not as strong throughout.Faye provides an interesting window into Burundi and a reminder of the specious logic and horrific cost of treating others like vermin. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Library Journal Review
In this debut, French singer/rapper Faye transforms his own background into an impressive, searing coming-of-age novel about a Burundian family's implosion during the 1990s. What seemed like an idyllic, privileged childhood for ten-year-old Gabriel-made memorable by mischievous adventures with close friends-begins to unravel with the harsh discord cleaving his French father from his Rwandan mother. His parents' personal disintegration mirrors -Burundi's political chaos, the terror and tragedy exacerbated by the Tutsi/Hutu genocide exploding next door in Rwanda. Alliances, loyalties, even passports become moot: the massacres leave few unscathed. Gaby bears witness, his distress growing over his unreliable parents, confusion about his own mixed-race identity, and shock at the unrelenting casual violence even among his tween companions. He finds temporary respite in books offered by a neighbor, but little can assuage the horrors around him. Escape comes at an exorbitantly high price. Chimerical narrator Dominic Hoffman embodies youthful Gaby with a chilling mix of exuberance and fear; he's equally affecting as Gaby's elders-from dismissive colonial expats and demanding foreigners to abusive militia and petrified victims. VERDICT With the novel already an internationally best-selling, major prize-winning achievement, this indelible audio edition should be widely available. ["Faye eloquently speaks to the untenable choices, among love of country, family, or survival, that victims in conflict zones are forced to make": LJ 4/15/18 review of the -Hogarth: Crown hc.]-Terry Hong, -Smithsonian -BookDragon, -Washington, DC © Copyright 2018. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof*** Copyright © 2018 Gaël Faye I don't really know how this story began. Papa tried explaining it to us one day in the pick-up. 'In Burundi, you see, it's like in Rwanda. There are three different ethnic groups. The Hutu form the biggest group, and they're short with wide noses.' 'Like Donatien?' I asked. 'No, he's from Zaire, that's different. Like our cook, Prothé, for instance. There are also the Twa pygmies. But we won't worry about them, there are so few they don't really count. And then there are the Tutsi, like your mother. The Tutsi make up a much smaller group than the Hutu, they're tall and skinny with long noses and you never know what's going on inside their heads. Take you, Gabriel,' he said, pointing at me, 'you're a proper Tutsi: we can never tell what you're thinking.' I had no idea what I was thinking, either. What's anyone supposed to make of all this? So I asked a question instead: 'The war between Tutsis and Hutus . . . is it because they don't have the same land?' 'No, they have the same country.' 'So . . . they don't have the same language?' 'No, they speak the same language.' 'So, they don't have the same God?' 'No, they have the same God.' 'So . . . why are they at war?' 'Because they don't have the same nose.' And that was the end of the discussion. It was all very odd. I'm not sure Papa really understood it, either. From that day on, I started noticing people's noses in the street, as well as how tall they were. When my little sister Ana and I went shopping in town, we tried to be subtle about guessing who was a Hutu and who was a Tutsi. 'The guy in white trousers is a Hutu,' we would whisper, 'he's short with a wide nose.' 'Right, and the one towering over everybody in a hat, he's extra-skinny with a long nose, so he must be a Tutsi.' 'See that man over there, in the striped shirt? He's a Hutu.' 'No, he's not - look, he's tall and skinny.' 'Yes, but he's got a wide nose!' That's when we began to have our suspicions about ethnic labels. Anyway, Papa didn't want us talking about it. He thought children should stay out of politics. But we couldn't help it. The atmosphere was becoming stranger by the day. At school, fights broke out at the slightest provocation, with friends calling each other 'Hutu' or 'Tutsi' as an insult. When we were all watching Cyrano de Bergerac , one student was even overheard saying: 'Look at him, with a nose like that he's got to be Tutsi.' Something in the air had changed. And you could smell it, no matter what kind of nose you had. I am haunted by the idea of returning. Not a day goes by without the country calling to me. A secret sound, a scent on the breeze, a certain afternoon light, a gesture, sometimes silence is enough to stir my childhood memories. 'You won't find anything there, apart from ghosts and a pile of ruins,' Ana keeps telling me. She refuses to hear another word about that 'cursed country'. I listen and I believe her. She's always been more clear-headed than I. So I put it out of my mind. I decide, once and for all, that I'm never going back. My life is here. In France. Except that I no longer live anywhere. Living somewhere means a physical merging with its landscape, with every crevice of its environment. There's none of that here. I'm passing through. I rent. I crash. I squat. My town is a dormitory that serves its purpose. My apartment smells of fresh paint and new linoleum. My neighbours are perfect strangers, we avoid each other politely in the stairwell. I live and work just outside Paris. In Saint-Quentin-en- Yvelines. RER line C. This new town is like a life without a past. It took me years to feel 'integrated'. To hold down a stable job, an apartment, hobbies, friendships. I enjoy connecting with people online. Encounters that last an evening or a few weeks. The girls who date me are all different, each one beautiful in her own way. I feel intoxicated listening to them, inhaling the fragrance of their hair, before surrendering to the warm oblivion of their arms, their legs, their bodies. Not one of them fails to ask me the same loaded question, and it's always on our first date: 'So, where are you from?' A question as mundane as it is predictable. It feels like an obligatory rite-of-passage, before the relationship can develop any further. My skin - the colour of caramel - must explain itself by offering up its pedigree. 'I'm a human being.' My answer rankles with them. Not that I'm trying to be provocative. Any more than I want to appear pedantic or philosophical. But when I was just knee- high to a locust, I had already made up my mind never to define myself again. The evening progresses. My technique is smooth. They talk. They enjoy being listened to. I am drunk. Deep in my cups. Drowning in alcohol, I shrug off sincerity. I become a fearsome hunter. I make them laugh. I seduce them. Just for fun, I return to the question of my roots, deliberately keeping the mystery alive. We play at cat-and-mouse. I inform them, with cold cynicism, that my identity can be weighed in corpses. They don't react. They try to keep things light. They stare at me with doe-like eyes. I want them. Sometimes, they give themselves up. They take me for a bit of a character. But I can entertain them for only so long. I am haunted by the idea of returning but I keep put- ting it off, indefinitely. There's the fear of buried truths, of nightmares left on the threshold of my native land. For twenty years I've been going back there - in my dreams at night, as well as in the magical thinking of my days - back to my neighbourhood, to our street where I lived happily with my family and friends. My childhood has left its marks on me, and I don't know what to do about this. On good days, I tell myself it has contributed to my being strong and sensitive. But when I'm staring at the bottom of a bottle, I blame my childhood for my failure to adapt to the world. My life is one long meandering. Everything interests me. Nothing ignites my passion. There's no fire in my belly. I belong to the race of slouchers, of averagely inert citizens. Every now and again I have to pinch myself. I notice the way I behave in company, at work, with my office col- leagues. Is that guy in the lift mirror really me? The young man forcing a laugh by the coffee machine? I don't recognise him. I have come from so far that I still feel astonished to be here. My colleagues talk about the weather or what's on TV. I can't listen to them anymore. I'm having trouble breathing. I loosen my shirt collar. My clothes restrict me. I stare at my polished shoes: they gleam, offering a disappointing reflection. What's become of my feet? They're in hiding. I never walk barefoot outdoors any more these days. I wander over to the window. Under the low-hanging sky, and through the grey sticky drizzle, there's not a single mango tree in the tiny park wedged between the shopping centre and the railway lines. This particular evening, on leaving work, I run for refuge to the nearest bar, opposite the station. I sit down by the table- football and order a whisky to mark my thirty-third birth- day. I try ringing Ana, but she's not answering her mobile. I refuse to give up, re-dialling her number several times, until I remember she's on a business trip in London. I want to talk to her, to tell her about the phone call I received this morning. It's a sign. I have to return, if only to be clear in my own mind. To bring this obsessive story to an end, once and for all. To close the door behind me. I order another whisky. The noise from the television above the bar temporarily drowns out my thoughts. A 24-hour news channel is broadcasting images of people fleeing war. I witness their makeshift boats washing up on European soil. The children who dis- embark are frozen, starving, dehydrated. Their lives played out on the global football pitch of insanity. Whisky in hand, I watch them from the comfort of the VIP Box. Public opinion holds that they've fled hell to find El Dorado. Bullshit! What about the country inside them? - nobody ever mentions that. Poetry may not be news. But it is all that human beings retain from their journey on this earth. I look away from images that capture reality, if not the truth. Perhaps those children will write the truth, one day. I'm as gloomy as a motorway service station in winter. Every birthday it's the same: this intense melancholy that comes crashing down on me, like a tropical downpour, when I think about Papa, Maman, my friends, and that never-ending party with the crocodile at the bottom of our garden . . . Excerpted from Small Country: A Novel by Gaël Faye All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
