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The Book of Disappearance
What if all the Palestinians in Israel simply disappeared one day?
The Book of Disappearance is set in contemporary Tel Aviv. Alaa is a young Palestinian man who is haunted by his grandmother’s memories of being displaced from Jaffa and becoming a refugee in her homeland. His Jewish neighbour and friend, Ariel, is a journalist who believes in Israel’s national myth but is critical of the military occupation of the West Bank and Gaza. He begins to search for clues about why Alaa and the Palestinians have vanished. Their stories, and the stories of the ordinary people of Jaffa and Tel Aviv, reveal the fissures at the heart of the Palestinian question.
Ibtisam Azem’s spare and evocative novel is an unforgettable glimpse into contemporary Palestine as it grapples with both the memory of loss and the loss of memory.
The Book of Disappearance is set in contemporary Tel Aviv. Alaa is a young Palestinian man who is haunted by his grandmother’s memories of being displaced from Jaffa and becoming a refugee in her homeland. His Jewish neighbour and friend, Ariel, is a journalist who believes in Israel’s national myth but is critical of the military occupation of the West Bank and Gaza. He begins to search for clues about why Alaa and the Palestinians have vanished. Their stories, and the stories of the ordinary people of Jaffa and Tel Aviv, reveal the fissures at the heart of the Palestinian question.
Ibtisam Azem’s spare and evocative novel is an unforgettable glimpse into contemporary Palestine as it grapples with both the memory of loss and the loss of memory.
Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2014
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About the author
Ibtisam Azem
7 books67 followersIbtisam Azem is a Palestinian novelist and journalist. She has published two novels in Arabic. The Book of Disappearance has been published in English, German, and Italian. Her first short story collection will be published in 2024. She lives in New York.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 519 reviews
August 7, 2019
Ibtisam Azem writes, "Changing the door lock. He has to change the door lock." I am reminded of my mother telling me that when a Jewish family moved into her home (as in they occupied it when they had to flee for their lives), the Jews replaced the doors to the house. My mother's family found their doors for sale in the market. They bought the doors to their own house because they still had the keys and thought they would be going back home. I am reminded of my father's aunt who saved money from a sewing business she had started. She built a home in West Jerusalem with the money she had saved. She was shot dead by an Israeli sniper who shot her through the kitchen window as she was feeding an infant nephew. I am reminded of my father who still yearns for a summer home by the sea in a town that has since been obliterated.I am reminded of an uncle who gave away all of his earnings as a school teacher to people who were desperate to feed their children. He was shot in the back as he was walking down the street. I am reminded of another aunt who bled to death, because she wasn't allowed to travel for medical treatment. Should I go on? The Book of Disappearance captivates the reader while bringing on immense sadness. Azem gives us this brilliant concept, what if all the Palestinians in Israel simply disappeared one day? What if?
Sinan Antoon adds a powerful afterward.
Sinan Antoon adds a powerful afterward.
April 17, 2025
Book 4/13
Now Shortlisted for the International Booker Prize 2025
Translated into English by Sinan Antoon
A powerful and heavy piece of speculative fiction which asks the following question: "What if all Palestinians vanished from their homeland overnight?" The novel focuses on 2 characters who are friends, one Israeli and one Palestian. Also, it shows different possible reactions of the government, media and random people.
It was very interesting although it was hard going at times before of a lack of flow in the narrative. It was an emotional and powerful read, event though a bit to blunt and one sided at times.
I was surprised that it was not on the shortlist, but I have a feeling that if you strip the idea, what it is left is a well written book but not enough for a masterpiece
Now Shortlisted for the International Booker Prize 2025
Translated into English by Sinan Antoon
A powerful and heavy piece of speculative fiction which asks the following question: "What if all Palestinians vanished from their homeland overnight?" The novel focuses on 2 characters who are friends, one Israeli and one Palestian. Also, it shows different possible reactions of the government, media and random people.
It was very interesting although it was hard going at times before of a lack of flow in the narrative. It was an emotional and powerful read, event though a bit to blunt and one sided at times.
I was surprised that it was not on the shortlist, but I have a feeling that if you strip the idea, what it is left is a well written book but not enough for a masterpiece
Read
November 16, 2025What if all Palestinians vanished without trace in the course of one single night?
In this book, set in Tel Aviv in 2012, Ibtisam Azem uses that dystopian-sounding premise to ask what it would be like if one morning, Israelis woke up to find that there were no Palestinians left, not in Tel Aviv itself or the adjacent city of Jaffa where there is a small Palestinian community, nor in any prison in Israeli territory. And not even in the West Bank or in Gaza, the territories most Palestinians have been living in since the State of Israel was set up in 1948.
The day after The Disappearance, as the author imagines it in this fictional account, some Israelis presume the Palestinians all left of their own accord during the night, and they are content to accept that unlikely explanation. After all, many had left very quickly in 1948, and after every succeeding conflict since.
Other Israelis suspect a plot, and fear that the Palestinians are hiding out somewhere, planning a massive attack on the Israeli people.
A small number secretly wonder if the Israeli Army had a hand in The Disappearance, but they don't want to ask too many questions.
Most just get on with their lives, and they even begin to move into the districts that have been vacated so mysteriously. The Disappearance has offered a solution to an age-old problem, so why not move on?
You and I might have the same reaction. Some of us just like to keep our heads down.
The story is told from the point of view of an Israeli journalist in Tel Aviv whose closest friend, also a journalist, happens to be Palestinian. The Israeli journalist has a key to his friend's apartment so he goes there to see if he can figure out what might have happened to him—they'd spent the previous evening together and the friend had behaved exactly as usual, and certainly not like someone who was planning to leave the country during the night. The Israeli journalist finds his friend's diary and begins to read it. It contains a record of the friend's grandmother's life which her grandson had constructed from the fragments she shared with him over the years.
The grandmother's story goes back to the 1948 Arab-Israeli conflict and how it played out in one small part of the territory: the old city of Jaffa.
Jaffa was home to thousands of Palestinians at that time, and had been for a long time. As a result of the 1948 conflict the majority of the Palestinians fled Jaffa permanently, and almost overnight. A small community remained but they didn't get to stay in their own districts which were quickly taken over by citizens of the newly founded state of Israel. So the displaced Palestinians move to a sector of Jaffa called Ajami. That small area is where the grandmother lived out her life after her family and most of her neighbours left in search of sanctuary in whatever Arab state agreed to accept them in 1948. Although pregnant with her only child, she had refused to follow her husband, which is how her grandson eventually grew up in a small family unit within Jaffa, and not in Beirut among his grandfather's extended family who'd been allowed to settle in Lebanon.
The grandson's record of his grandmother's life in Jaffa, threaded through the 2012 story of The Disappearance as lived hour by hour by the Israeli journalist character, makes for very moving reading.
This book was interesting to me quite apart from the subject matter. It describes very vividly both the ancient sea port of Jaffa and the modern city of Tel Aviv which was built beside it in the early decades of the twentieth century when increasingly threatened European Jews took refuge in the territory they were allowed to inhabit under the British Palestine mandate of 1920, although European Jews had been gradually moving to the area since the 1880s.
I travelled to Tel Aviv a couple of years ago to visit a relative who was working there, so the descriptions of the streets and buildings were very familiar. And although I was staying in the modern city of Tel Aviv, with its impressive Bauhaus-style buildings, it was the old city of Jaffa that attracted me most. I found myself walking along the seafront in the direction of Jaffa every day, and I would often wander its narrow back streets or sit in the shade of its old walls looking out at the Mediterranean.
I wish I'd known about this book then. It would have made the reading even more powerful.
In this book, set in Tel Aviv in 2012, Ibtisam Azem uses that dystopian-sounding premise to ask what it would be like if one morning, Israelis woke up to find that there were no Palestinians left, not in Tel Aviv itself or the adjacent city of Jaffa where there is a small Palestinian community, nor in any prison in Israeli territory. And not even in the West Bank or in Gaza, the territories most Palestinians have been living in since the State of Israel was set up in 1948.
The day after The Disappearance, as the author imagines it in this fictional account, some Israelis presume the Palestinians all left of their own accord during the night, and they are content to accept that unlikely explanation. After all, many had left very quickly in 1948, and after every succeeding conflict since.
Other Israelis suspect a plot, and fear that the Palestinians are hiding out somewhere, planning a massive attack on the Israeli people.
A small number secretly wonder if the Israeli Army had a hand in The Disappearance, but they don't want to ask too many questions.
Most just get on with their lives, and they even begin to move into the districts that have been vacated so mysteriously. The Disappearance has offered a solution to an age-old problem, so why not move on?
You and I might have the same reaction. Some of us just like to keep our heads down.
The story is told from the point of view of an Israeli journalist in Tel Aviv whose closest friend, also a journalist, happens to be Palestinian. The Israeli journalist has a key to his friend's apartment so he goes there to see if he can figure out what might have happened to him—they'd spent the previous evening together and the friend had behaved exactly as usual, and certainly not like someone who was planning to leave the country during the night. The Israeli journalist finds his friend's diary and begins to read it. It contains a record of the friend's grandmother's life which her grandson had constructed from the fragments she shared with him over the years.
The grandmother's story goes back to the 1948 Arab-Israeli conflict and how it played out in one small part of the territory: the old city of Jaffa.
Jaffa was home to thousands of Palestinians at that time, and had been for a long time. As a result of the 1948 conflict the majority of the Palestinians fled Jaffa permanently, and almost overnight. A small community remained but they didn't get to stay in their own districts which were quickly taken over by citizens of the newly founded state of Israel. So the displaced Palestinians move to a sector of Jaffa called Ajami. That small area is where the grandmother lived out her life after her family and most of her neighbours left in search of sanctuary in whatever Arab state agreed to accept them in 1948. Although pregnant with her only child, she had refused to follow her husband, which is how her grandson eventually grew up in a small family unit within Jaffa, and not in Beirut among his grandfather's extended family who'd been allowed to settle in Lebanon.
The grandson's record of his grandmother's life in Jaffa, threaded through the 2012 story of The Disappearance as lived hour by hour by the Israeli journalist character, makes for very moving reading.
This book was interesting to me quite apart from the subject matter. It describes very vividly both the ancient sea port of Jaffa and the modern city of Tel Aviv which was built beside it in the early decades of the twentieth century when increasingly threatened European Jews took refuge in the territory they were allowed to inhabit under the British Palestine mandate of 1920, although European Jews had been gradually moving to the area since the 1880s.
I travelled to Tel Aviv a couple of years ago to visit a relative who was working there, so the descriptions of the streets and buildings were very familiar. And although I was staying in the modern city of Tel Aviv, with its impressive Bauhaus-style buildings, it was the old city of Jaffa that attracted me most. I found myself walking along the seafront in the direction of Jaffa every day, and I would often wander its narrow back streets or sit in the shade of its old walls looking out at the Mediterranean.
I wish I'd known about this book then. It would have made the reading even more powerful.
October 28, 2015
قلّما ينجح نص أدبي في اختبار الكتابة عن النكبة وآثارها واستمراريتها. من هنا تأتي أهميّة هذا العمل. "سفر الاختفاء" رواية آسرة تواجه ذاكرة الفقدان وفقدان الذاكرة. تأخذنا إلى قلب فلسطين وهو المكان الذي تجئ منه أصلاً حيث تدمير المكان وذاكرته لا يزال فعلاً يومياً. في "سفر الاختفاء" تحوم أشباح التاريخ وضحاياه وتتجول في شوارع فلسطين (مهما تغيّرت الأسماء تظل فلسطين) وتقض مضاجع المستعمرين وأحفادهم. وتعيد الأشباح طرح الأسئلة الأصلية وتطالب بحصتها من الماضي والحاضر. الأدب هنا يحقق أحد شروطه الأساسية: الدفاع عن الذاكرة والحياة بلغة جميلة. اقرأوا هذه الرواية!
March 5, 2025
Longlisted for International Booker Prize 2025 - It says a lot that this book, which imagines the disappearance of all Palestinians, was actually written in 2014 and has nothing to do with recent events. Unfortunately, the premise is not matched by the novel itself, despite the weight behind such an idea. For me, the most interesting parts were the reactions to the disappearance, from personal to official, but I didn’t feel that there was much evolution in them.
April 6, 2025
A novel that contemplates if might makes right and what memory and remembering around concepts of justice means.
”War” was a big word when I was young. But I grew bigger and it grew smaller. There are so many wars around us we’ve gotten used to them.
One of my favourites of the International Booker 2025 longlist, The Book of Disappearance is a novel from 2014 that centres around the disappearance one day of the 4 million Palestinians. In the 48 hours that ensue, Ibtisam Azem both dives into familial histories and how memory and trauma is transmitted, and imagines how Israeli society would respond to such an event. Jaffa, reduced in inhabitants by 96% during the Nakba and now part of Tel Aviv is the setting of the novel, which alternates between red notebook entries of a Palestinian man (Alaa) and the journalistic observations of Ariel, his Israeli neighbour. The book reminds me of Prix Goncourt winner The Anomaly by Hervé Le Tellier in central concept being supernatural but never fully explained.
Alaa’s part is so well written as a touching monologue to a recently deceased loved one. Meanwhile we have an appropriating Alaa’s apartment in Tel Aviv, while he moved to Jaffa in the apartment of the one he dedicates his notebook to, which both are highly symbolic and elicit an emotional response while offering a mirror to the real world.
No clear pathway or simple solutions emerge, while there are already hints of fracturing and new conflicts at the end of the novel, with a big unifying enemy gone leading to Mizrahi jews being discriminated against and settlers trying to increase their power.
This is an impressive and compelling read on a complex if never more timely subject. The novel seems to ask Does might make right? and instead of the socially acceptable answer it gives us something truer and more close to the real world.
Quotes:
But memory is dense fog that spreads or clears as one gets older.
She preferred to die in Jaffa than to leave it.
It was a coincidence that her family survived.
Survivors are lonely.
When I walk in Palestine I feel that I am walking on corpses.
We inherit memory the way we inherit the color of our eyes and skin. We inherit the sound of laughter just as we inherit the sounds of tears.
Perhaps I am writing out of fear. Against forgetfulness. I write to remember, and to remind, so memories are not erased. Memory is my last lifeline.
Sometimes I feel so sad I cannot cry.
But my father was always busy with work. Do you know I think it’s because I didn’t know him well that most of my memories with him are beautiful?
Had there been a God, this wouldn’t have happened.
No one leaves their country just like that. Leaving was like suicide, and staying was suicide too.
I neither hate the Arabs nor love them. They don’t mean much to me. I just want them to leave us alone. But I doubt that that’s possible.
News headers like: Have Our Problems Disappeared Forever?
History is stories and stories have histories.
It’s either us or them.
Were it not for the persistent pinpricks of conscience, things would be fine.
Longing for you is like holding a rose of thorns!
Longing is thorns.
If God wanted to be merciful to him, he would’ve done so while he was still alive.
Just like Nasser said. ‘What’s taken by force can only be taken back by force.’
Have All Our Problems Been Solved, Once and for All?
The Disappearance Event
I think that’s the only language they understand. Yelling.
It is no longer possible to live in a country where the desire to eliminate the other has reached the level of genocide.
Rights are never lost as long as one demands them.
”War” was a big word when I was young. But I grew bigger and it grew smaller. There are so many wars around us we’ve gotten used to them.
One of my favourites of the International Booker 2025 longlist, The Book of Disappearance is a novel from 2014 that centres around the disappearance one day of the 4 million Palestinians. In the 48 hours that ensue, Ibtisam Azem both dives into familial histories and how memory and trauma is transmitted, and imagines how Israeli society would respond to such an event. Jaffa, reduced in inhabitants by 96% during the Nakba and now part of Tel Aviv is the setting of the novel, which alternates between red notebook entries of a Palestinian man (Alaa) and the journalistic observations of Ariel, his Israeli neighbour. The book reminds me of Prix Goncourt winner The Anomaly by Hervé Le Tellier in central concept being supernatural but never fully explained.
Alaa’s part is so well written as a touching monologue to a recently deceased loved one. Meanwhile we have an appropriating Alaa’s apartment in Tel Aviv, while he moved to Jaffa in the apartment of the one he dedicates his notebook to, which both are highly symbolic and elicit an emotional response while offering a mirror to the real world.
No clear pathway or simple solutions emerge, while there are already hints of fracturing and new conflicts at the end of the novel, with a big unifying enemy gone leading to Mizrahi jews being discriminated against and settlers trying to increase their power.
This is an impressive and compelling read on a complex if never more timely subject. The novel seems to ask Does might make right? and instead of the socially acceptable answer it gives us something truer and more close to the real world.
Quotes:
But memory is dense fog that spreads or clears as one gets older.
She preferred to die in Jaffa than to leave it.
It was a coincidence that her family survived.
Survivors are lonely.
When I walk in Palestine I feel that I am walking on corpses.
We inherit memory the way we inherit the color of our eyes and skin. We inherit the sound of laughter just as we inherit the sounds of tears.
Perhaps I am writing out of fear. Against forgetfulness. I write to remember, and to remind, so memories are not erased. Memory is my last lifeline.
Sometimes I feel so sad I cannot cry.
But my father was always busy with work. Do you know I think it’s because I didn’t know him well that most of my memories with him are beautiful?
Had there been a God, this wouldn’t have happened.
No one leaves their country just like that. Leaving was like suicide, and staying was suicide too.
I neither hate the Arabs nor love them. They don’t mean much to me. I just want them to leave us alone. But I doubt that that’s possible.
News headers like: Have Our Problems Disappeared Forever?
History is stories and stories have histories.
It’s either us or them.
Were it not for the persistent pinpricks of conscience, things would be fine.
Longing for you is like holding a rose of thorns!
Longing is thorns.
If God wanted to be merciful to him, he would’ve done so while he was still alive.
Just like Nasser said. ‘What’s taken by force can only be taken back by force.’
Have All Our Problems Been Solved, Once and for All?
The Disappearance Event
I think that’s the only language they understand. Yelling.
It is no longer possible to live in a country where the desire to eliminate the other has reached the level of genocide.
Rights are never lost as long as one demands them.
August 7, 2025
I loved this book. Simply put.
It was thought provoking and moving and beautifully written (and translated).
I got this back when it was long listed for the International Booker Prize but when it didn’t make it to the shortlist it slipped off my radar. For #WomenInTranslation month I decided to finally get around to it and I’m so glad I did.
There’s so much to unpack in this relatively short story: the legacy of a land and its people; their close connection to language and landscape; a look at media and who gets to write and shape history.
I found the alternating chapters and viewpoints to balance each other perfectly with little interludes into other minor characters or random people bringing an even fuller picture to the narrative.
And that ending. Wow. It came full circle and is haunting in a way I won’t soon forget.
If you haven’t picked this one up yet I highly, highly recommend it. It’s one I will be thinking about for a long while.
It was thought provoking and moving and beautifully written (and translated).
I got this back when it was long listed for the International Booker Prize but when it didn’t make it to the shortlist it slipped off my radar. For #WomenInTranslation month I decided to finally get around to it and I’m so glad I did.
There’s so much to unpack in this relatively short story: the legacy of a land and its people; their close connection to language and landscape; a look at media and who gets to write and shape history.
I found the alternating chapters and viewpoints to balance each other perfectly with little interludes into other minor characters or random people bringing an even fuller picture to the narrative.
And that ending. Wow. It came full circle and is haunting in a way I won’t soon forget.
If you haven’t picked this one up yet I highly, highly recommend it. It’s one I will be thinking about for a long while.
Read
February 13, 2025I started this book last summer, but even from the first few pages I was affected by the writing and was having a hard time sleeping. This book messed me up! I finally was able to read straight through it. While the conceit of the book could be called bombastic some of the things Azem is doing are subtle and brilliant.
What would Israel do if all Palestinians instantly disappeared? We get to see the immediate 48 hours following this miracle? Attack? Conspiracy? Azem never tells us, which is amazing restraint.
Azem’s control of pov is perfect, opening with Alaa’s perspective - grieving, he keeps a journal in conversation with his late grandmother, a survivor of the Nakba and who chose to stay. We then see how the disappearance plays out in farms, prisons, and hospitals - there’s an interesting scene here that shows the arbitrary divisions created by the state. Ariel, a “liberal” zionist of British descent, and supposed friend of Alaa, is the other main pov and who eventually controls the narrative - we only get to read from the journal when he feels like it; the Palestinian perspective is filtered through and fragmented by the colonizer. As he helps himself to Alaa’s writing and now empty apartment, he begins to realize that he didn’t really know or listen to his friend. What is he going to do with this new found knowledge? The answer is actually maddening, leading to a diabolical and damning ending.
This was gripping, haunting, painful, and beautiful. There are subjects that are brutal, but what actually affected me most was the love Alaa’s grandmother had for Jaffa, how she still saw its beauty, what she lost to live and die there as a refugee in her homeland. Through writing her memories and sharing his own, Alaa sees how the Nakba continues.
What would Israel do if all Palestinians instantly disappeared? We get to see the immediate 48 hours following this miracle? Attack? Conspiracy? Azem never tells us, which is amazing restraint.
Azem’s control of pov is perfect, opening with Alaa’s perspective - grieving, he keeps a journal in conversation with his late grandmother, a survivor of the Nakba and who chose to stay. We then see how the disappearance plays out in farms, prisons, and hospitals - there’s an interesting scene here that shows the arbitrary divisions created by the state. Ariel, a “liberal” zionist of British descent, and supposed friend of Alaa, is the other main pov and who eventually controls the narrative - we only get to read from the journal when he feels like it; the Palestinian perspective is filtered through and fragmented by the colonizer. As he helps himself to Alaa’s writing and now empty apartment, he begins to realize that he didn’t really know or listen to his friend. What is he going to do with this new found knowledge? The answer is actually maddening, leading to a diabolical and damning ending.
This was gripping, haunting, painful, and beautiful. There are subjects that are brutal, but what actually affected me most was the love Alaa’s grandmother had for Jaffa, how she still saw its beauty, what she lost to live and die there as a refugee in her homeland. Through writing her memories and sharing his own, Alaa sees how the Nakba continues.
July 6, 2025
What happens when four million Palestinians disappear overnight?
It is hard to see the central conceit of The Book of Disappearance as mere speculative fiction at a time when millions of Palestinian people are in fact actively being bombed, starved and killed by a genocidal settler-colony; as Palestinian lives continue to be erased and absented from public discourse except for where they can be presented as a threat, a problem, or worse, a justification; as the Nakba is repeated all over again and livestreamed for a world that looks on in silent complicity. It would be easy, wouldn't it, if they just disappeared without a trace, with not a single drop of blood shed? It would fulfil the foundational myth and fantasy of the state of Israel, wouldn't it – the complete annihilation of the 'other'? Would it rid us of guilt, or just complexity?
In Ibtizam Azem's harrowing novel, the sudden disappearance of Palestinian bodies from the Land is at once a 'fantastic' event, a reflection of catastrophes past, and and a chilling warning about the present continuous.
The book opens with the perspective of Alaa, a Jaffan journalist living and working in Tel Aviv, grieving the loss of his grandmother and the losses she, as a survivor of the 1948 Nakba, used to recall to him: the loss of dignity, the loss of the Jaffa she knew and loved. Alaa's journal is all that tethers us to Palestinian memory, the memory of Palestine, when him and his people all suddenly vanish. Is it a miracle? A strike? A conspiracy? Ariel, a 'liberal' zionist of British descent and supposed friend of Alaa's, is as determined to find out as the rest of his 'country'. He goes to Alaa's to seek answers and slowly helps himself in, first to his home and then, damningly, to his narrative. In refracting Alaa's recollections through his settler-colonial gaze – one that sees but refuses to acknowledge – Azem paints a searing portrait of the occupation: as it is the world knows of a people being slowly eradicated, but in the end it will seem, as it does here, sudden, shocking, perverse.
In an interview with the Booker Prize, the author admits that the idea of the disappearance came to her from anger and disbelief, at Israeli minister of defence (and later PM) Yitzhak Rabin saying he wished the sea swallowed Gaza whole; at historian Benny Morris regretting that the Israelis did not 'finish the job' in 1948. It came from Israeli politicians false claims about the privileges Palestinians enjoyed under their genocidal regime, and the attendant, recurring questions of who gets to remember the story of a people who were never really seen in the first place. Except for Alaa, all the voices here, fleeting or dominant, are Israeli.
But the disappearance isn't merely about the occupation, which here continues to ignore, or else ruefully suffer (for there is no longer space or opportunity to apologise or redress), the hauntings of Palestinian memory. The target shifts: citizenship is even more tightly regulated, 'vacated' homes are 'reconsecrated' and appropriated, and Mizrahi Jews become the new 'other'. A civilisation built on blood never stops needing blood.
Instead, this vanishing act, a literalisation of what the poet Mahmoud Darwish called a 'presence of absence', is never explained within the bounds of the book. But if it were, it would speak also to an imagined otherwise, a wishful liberation of Palestinian bodies – free, for the first time since the occupation began, of Israeli control, whence their relationship to their land, their cities, and their shared history can no longer be annexed. Insofar as there are no answers, the possibility of return lingers no matter how steadily the settler agenda seems to advance.
Ten years after it was first published, The Book of Disappearance continues to raise questions (and point to the absence – not a lack but a disawoval – of easy answers) with more urgency than ever. Sinan Antoon's 2019 translation is supple, retaining the gravity and intonations of the original Arabic rather than reforming the text entirely for anglophone readers. This is a difficult read, tenacious despite all odds, and all the more powerful for it.
It is hard to see the central conceit of The Book of Disappearance as mere speculative fiction at a time when millions of Palestinian people are in fact actively being bombed, starved and killed by a genocidal settler-colony; as Palestinian lives continue to be erased and absented from public discourse except for where they can be presented as a threat, a problem, or worse, a justification; as the Nakba is repeated all over again and livestreamed for a world that looks on in silent complicity. It would be easy, wouldn't it, if they just disappeared without a trace, with not a single drop of blood shed? It would fulfil the foundational myth and fantasy of the state of Israel, wouldn't it – the complete annihilation of the 'other'? Would it rid us of guilt, or just complexity?
In Ibtizam Azem's harrowing novel, the sudden disappearance of Palestinian bodies from the Land is at once a 'fantastic' event, a reflection of catastrophes past, and and a chilling warning about the present continuous.
The book opens with the perspective of Alaa, a Jaffan journalist living and working in Tel Aviv, grieving the loss of his grandmother and the losses she, as a survivor of the 1948 Nakba, used to recall to him: the loss of dignity, the loss of the Jaffa she knew and loved. Alaa's journal is all that tethers us to Palestinian memory, the memory of Palestine, when him and his people all suddenly vanish. Is it a miracle? A strike? A conspiracy? Ariel, a 'liberal' zionist of British descent and supposed friend of Alaa's, is as determined to find out as the rest of his 'country'. He goes to Alaa's to seek answers and slowly helps himself in, first to his home and then, damningly, to his narrative. In refracting Alaa's recollections through his settler-colonial gaze – one that sees but refuses to acknowledge – Azem paints a searing portrait of the occupation: as it is the world knows of a people being slowly eradicated, but in the end it will seem, as it does here, sudden, shocking, perverse.
In an interview with the Booker Prize, the author admits that the idea of the disappearance came to her from anger and disbelief, at Israeli minister of defence (and later PM) Yitzhak Rabin saying he wished the sea swallowed Gaza whole; at historian Benny Morris regretting that the Israelis did not 'finish the job' in 1948. It came from Israeli politicians false claims about the privileges Palestinians enjoyed under their genocidal regime, and the attendant, recurring questions of who gets to remember the story of a people who were never really seen in the first place. Except for Alaa, all the voices here, fleeting or dominant, are Israeli.
But the disappearance isn't merely about the occupation, which here continues to ignore, or else ruefully suffer (for there is no longer space or opportunity to apologise or redress), the hauntings of Palestinian memory. The target shifts: citizenship is even more tightly regulated, 'vacated' homes are 'reconsecrated' and appropriated, and Mizrahi Jews become the new 'other'. A civilisation built on blood never stops needing blood.
Instead, this vanishing act, a literalisation of what the poet Mahmoud Darwish called a 'presence of absence', is never explained within the bounds of the book. But if it were, it would speak also to an imagined otherwise, a wishful liberation of Palestinian bodies – free, for the first time since the occupation began, of Israeli control, whence their relationship to their land, their cities, and their shared history can no longer be annexed. Insofar as there are no answers, the possibility of return lingers no matter how steadily the settler agenda seems to advance.
Ten years after it was first published, The Book of Disappearance continues to raise questions (and point to the absence – not a lack but a disawoval – of easy answers) with more urgency than ever. Sinan Antoon's 2019 translation is supple, retaining the gravity and intonations of the original Arabic rather than reforming the text entirely for anglophone readers. This is a difficult read, tenacious despite all odds, and all the more powerful for it.
March 7, 2025
Longlisted for the 2025 International Booker Prize
Your Jaffa resembles mine. But it is not the same. Two cities impersonating each other. You carved your names in my city, so I feel like I am a returnee from history. Always tired, roaming my own life like a ghost, a ghost who lives in your city. You too are a ghost, living in mine. And we call both cities Jaffa.
The Book of Disappearance is Sinan Antoon's translation of a 2014 original سفر الاختفاء by Ibtisam Azem. Antoon has previously featured in the International Booker Prize, in its earlier form as the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize, as self-translator of his own novel, وحدها شجرة الرمان / The Corpse Washer, one of only three author/translators to achieve this.
His translation of this book was originally published in 2019 by Syracuse Press in the US, but was re-edited and UK published by And Other Stories in 2024, hence its eligiblity this year.
And this is clearly a very timely book to publish - the author's own recent take on it here at Arab Lit, and since then we've had the bizarre and disturbing spectacle of the US President posting approvingly a 'Trump Gaza' video that was intended as political satire.
The novel is set in Jaffa and Tel Aviv, and the underlying premise is a Saramago-like parable of imagination - what would happen if all the Palestinians in Israel vanished overnight.
The novel is largely told from two perspectives, that of Alaa, whose grandmother was in Jaffa in 1948, one of a small minority (just 4,000 from a population of 100,000) to remain in the city after it was captured by the Haganah; and that of his neighbour and friend Ariel, a journalist and liberal Zionist.
Alaa disappears along with the other Palestinians, and his story is one that is largely read by Ariel from his diaries, which he discovers when he enters Alaa's empty flat, in the form of a letter to Alaa's late grandmother. This portrays very effectively her palimpsestic view of the city that lies underneath the modern-day city, and the lives of those who lived there before.
I was certain there was another city on top of the one we lived in, wearing it. I was certain that your city, the one you kept talking about, which has the same name, has nothing to do with my city. It resembles it a great deal. The names, orange groves, scents, al-Hamra Cinema, Apollo, weddings, Prophet Rubin's feast, Iskandar Awad Street, al-Nuzha Street, al-Sa'a Square... etc. Where do all these names come from? We would be walking and you start mentioning other names too. Names not written on signs. I had to learn to see what you were seeing.
And all those people. I got to know their problems, how they were forced to leave Jaffa. I knew all the boring (and at times interesting) details of their lives. I knew the jokes they used to tell. All this without having met a single one of them. And I probably never will.
Ariel is focused on the pre 1948 architecture of Tel Aviv, particularly the 4,000 Bauhaus-style buildings constructed by those fleeing Nazi Germany, particularly after the Bauhaus school was closed in 1933:
The memory of white, and the memory of black. Does a place have memory? What if we were to take a person who knew nothing of the place's history, not even its name or geographic location, and we took him and had him walk in the city or place, would he feel the place's memory? Which memory? Ariel wondered this while remembering arguments he had with Alaa on this subject. He was looking at street signs and names. He was counting the important landmarks of the avenue: the architecture, houses, and stories he had read or heard. This city has the largest number of Bauhaus buildings, the style fascism banned. Bauhaus found its freedom here: creative architecture, whose philosophy broke free from complexity to combine form and function. This style of architecture found a home in this tiny country after it fled fascist Europe, Ariel thought as he looked at the buildings. But he couldn't hide his admiration of the ones designed by Yehuda Magidovitch, whose original style one recognizes in many houses on Rothschild.
Ariel laughed when he remembered the story he read about Churchill's visit, and how Dizengoff, then the mayor, took big old trees from adjacent areas and spread them around so they would appear as if they had been there for a lifetime. But one tree fell down and embarrassed him. Laughing, Churchill said, "Without roots nothing will grow here."
The disappearance of the Palestinians is deliberately not explained in the novel which focuses on the reaction of the Jewish community which remains. The initial assumption is it must be a general strike, or a preparation for an attack, or possibly a masterstroke executed by the Israeli authorities, but one reaction is relief, as Ariel explains in one of his press articles included in the novel:
I have known fear and have lived through strange days during which we believed, even if briefly during wars, that we only had two options: life or death. As if we were reliving the fear of Masada once again. "Masada Will Not Fall Again" was and still is the slogan that sums up the general mood here. Considering how foggy things are today, this slogan is on people's minds more than ever. Everyone is on high alert. I experienced this personally before, during the two intifadas, the war in southern Lebanon, Saddam's Scud missile attack, and the wars with Hezbollah and Hamas. Let alone the bus explosions. But today is different.
The city that never rests, as its denizens like to say, rested for the first time in its history.
And as it becomes clearer they really have simply vanished, settlers start to move in to 'consecrate' the abandoned houses, whereas others simply see the opportunity to acquire some nice real estate.
The Israeli government announces that all citizens must register at a census office, or if overseas either return to Israel or register with an Israeli embassy, by 3 a.m. on the day which marks 48 hours since the disappearance, or they will lose their right to reside in the country. But the novel ends as 3am passes, somewhat ambiguously - something happens, but what is left to the reader.
I do have some reservations about the novel. On a longlist that features some excellent prose, in a variety of styles, this was a little flat. And the Saramago-like element - the aftermath of the disappearance - felt it could have been further developed - all the action takes place in just 48 hours, with more confusion than anything, with little on how the society would have coped (e.g. would, as some secular characters fear, they become the next focus of attention).
On the positive side, for a book that is clearly written by someone with a particular view of the situation - the Nakba and the colonial nature of the Israeli occupation - the character of Ariel was sympathetically drawn and the reader largely left to form their own views. And the portrayal of Jaffa and Tel Aviv and the city beneath the city, is very effectively done.
3.5 stars rounded to 4.
The judges' take
Speculative and meditative, haunting and deeply humane, Azem’s second novel is an exceptional exercise in memory-making, history, and psycho-geography. The premise – the overnight disappearance of all Palestinians – is at once ambitious and audacious, shocking and unsettling. The author dares us to imagine, and from this place of imagination erupts a challenge: to read differently, against the grain. The book alternates between the perspectives of Alaa (whose grandmother was displaced during the Nakba) and his neighbour-friend Ariel (a liberal Zionist journalist), between past and present. Azem’s strength is in having fun with a conceit that’s not for the faint-hearted. We found that this palimpsestic and potent novel – originally published over a decade ago, and translated into English with a coolness and spareness – offered newfound socio-political, moral and emotional resonances and implications in the current climate.
Your Jaffa resembles mine. But it is not the same. Two cities impersonating each other. You carved your names in my city, so I feel like I am a returnee from history. Always tired, roaming my own life like a ghost, a ghost who lives in your city. You too are a ghost, living in mine. And we call both cities Jaffa.
The Book of Disappearance is Sinan Antoon's translation of a 2014 original سفر الاختفاء by Ibtisam Azem. Antoon has previously featured in the International Booker Prize, in its earlier form as the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize, as self-translator of his own novel, وحدها شجرة الرمان / The Corpse Washer, one of only three author/translators to achieve this.
His translation of this book was originally published in 2019 by Syracuse Press in the US, but was re-edited and UK published by And Other Stories in 2024, hence its eligiblity this year.
And this is clearly a very timely book to publish - the author's own recent take on it here at Arab Lit, and since then we've had the bizarre and disturbing spectacle of the US President posting approvingly a 'Trump Gaza' video that was intended as political satire.
The novel is set in Jaffa and Tel Aviv, and the underlying premise is a Saramago-like parable of imagination - what would happen if all the Palestinians in Israel vanished overnight.
The novel is largely told from two perspectives, that of Alaa, whose grandmother was in Jaffa in 1948, one of a small minority (just 4,000 from a population of 100,000) to remain in the city after it was captured by the Haganah; and that of his neighbour and friend Ariel, a journalist and liberal Zionist.
Alaa disappears along with the other Palestinians, and his story is one that is largely read by Ariel from his diaries, which he discovers when he enters Alaa's empty flat, in the form of a letter to Alaa's late grandmother. This portrays very effectively her palimpsestic view of the city that lies underneath the modern-day city, and the lives of those who lived there before.
I was certain there was another city on top of the one we lived in, wearing it. I was certain that your city, the one you kept talking about, which has the same name, has nothing to do with my city. It resembles it a great deal. The names, orange groves, scents, al-Hamra Cinema, Apollo, weddings, Prophet Rubin's feast, Iskandar Awad Street, al-Nuzha Street, al-Sa'a Square... etc. Where do all these names come from? We would be walking and you start mentioning other names too. Names not written on signs. I had to learn to see what you were seeing.
And all those people. I got to know their problems, how they were forced to leave Jaffa. I knew all the boring (and at times interesting) details of their lives. I knew the jokes they used to tell. All this without having met a single one of them. And I probably never will.
Ariel is focused on the pre 1948 architecture of Tel Aviv, particularly the 4,000 Bauhaus-style buildings constructed by those fleeing Nazi Germany, particularly after the Bauhaus school was closed in 1933:
The memory of white, and the memory of black. Does a place have memory? What if we were to take a person who knew nothing of the place's history, not even its name or geographic location, and we took him and had him walk in the city or place, would he feel the place's memory? Which memory? Ariel wondered this while remembering arguments he had with Alaa on this subject. He was looking at street signs and names. He was counting the important landmarks of the avenue: the architecture, houses, and stories he had read or heard. This city has the largest number of Bauhaus buildings, the style fascism banned. Bauhaus found its freedom here: creative architecture, whose philosophy broke free from complexity to combine form and function. This style of architecture found a home in this tiny country after it fled fascist Europe, Ariel thought as he looked at the buildings. But he couldn't hide his admiration of the ones designed by Yehuda Magidovitch, whose original style one recognizes in many houses on Rothschild.
Ariel laughed when he remembered the story he read about Churchill's visit, and how Dizengoff, then the mayor, took big old trees from adjacent areas and spread them around so they would appear as if they had been there for a lifetime. But one tree fell down and embarrassed him. Laughing, Churchill said, "Without roots nothing will grow here."
The disappearance of the Palestinians is deliberately not explained in the novel which focuses on the reaction of the Jewish community which remains. The initial assumption is it must be a general strike, or a preparation for an attack, or possibly a masterstroke executed by the Israeli authorities, but one reaction is relief, as Ariel explains in one of his press articles included in the novel:
I have known fear and have lived through strange days during which we believed, even if briefly during wars, that we only had two options: life or death. As if we were reliving the fear of Masada once again. "Masada Will Not Fall Again" was and still is the slogan that sums up the general mood here. Considering how foggy things are today, this slogan is on people's minds more than ever. Everyone is on high alert. I experienced this personally before, during the two intifadas, the war in southern Lebanon, Saddam's Scud missile attack, and the wars with Hezbollah and Hamas. Let alone the bus explosions. But today is different.
The city that never rests, as its denizens like to say, rested for the first time in its history.
And as it becomes clearer they really have simply vanished, settlers start to move in to 'consecrate' the abandoned houses, whereas others simply see the opportunity to acquire some nice real estate.
The Israeli government announces that all citizens must register at a census office, or if overseas either return to Israel or register with an Israeli embassy, by 3 a.m. on the day which marks 48 hours since the disappearance, or they will lose their right to reside in the country. But the novel ends as 3am passes, somewhat ambiguously - something happens, but what is left to the reader.
I do have some reservations about the novel. On a longlist that features some excellent prose, in a variety of styles, this was a little flat. And the Saramago-like element - the aftermath of the disappearance - felt it could have been further developed - all the action takes place in just 48 hours, with more confusion than anything, with little on how the society would have coped (e.g. would, as some secular characters fear, they become the next focus of attention).
On the positive side, for a book that is clearly written by someone with a particular view of the situation - the Nakba and the colonial nature of the Israeli occupation - the character of Ariel was sympathetically drawn and the reader largely left to form their own views. And the portrayal of Jaffa and Tel Aviv and the city beneath the city, is very effectively done.
3.5 stars rounded to 4.
The judges' take
Speculative and meditative, haunting and deeply humane, Azem’s second novel is an exceptional exercise in memory-making, history, and psycho-geography. The premise – the overnight disappearance of all Palestinians – is at once ambitious and audacious, shocking and unsettling. The author dares us to imagine, and from this place of imagination erupts a challenge: to read differently, against the grain. The book alternates between the perspectives of Alaa (whose grandmother was displaced during the Nakba) and his neighbour-friend Ariel (a liberal Zionist journalist), between past and present. Azem’s strength is in having fun with a conceit that’s not for the faint-hearted. We found that this palimpsestic and potent novel – originally published over a decade ago, and translated into English with a coolness and spareness – offered newfound socio-political, moral and emotional resonances and implications in the current climate.
April 8, 2025
What if all Palestinians vanished from their homeland overnight? Would that be enough for Israelis to feel safety or even that would be taken as an act of terrorism and exploited in a victimising way in favour of Israel? “The Book of Disappearance” by Ibtisam Azem, is a book I wished I have read 10 years ago. I would be angry for 10 more years, but I would have known earlier history and I would have contributed in my way in creating memory. It’s a difficult book because of its content, but easy to digest as we already know a lot after the events of October the 7th. It is written using 2 different perspectives: that of Alaa, a young Palestinian who recently lost his grandma and lives devastated among her past memories in Tel Aviv, and the other of Ariel, Alaa’s friend, who is a liberal zionist working as a journalist. When all Palestinians disappear with no explanation one morning, Ariel will try to understand what happened and in his effort to do so he will read Alaa’s personal journal. But will he understand the illusion and deception of Zionism or indulge in acts similarly to what a settler would do? The writing is beautiful, almost magnetic. Especially Alaa’s part that is so lyrical and poetic. As a whole it feels like an existential piece of literature and it will make you reflect a lot on the distortion of history, colonialism, love, loss and resilience. No wonder it is long listed for the International Booker Prize this year.
This is a book about love and loss. The importance of your ancestors in shaping your life. How the death of someone you love equals emptiness. Dying the way you want to and the difficulties of starting anew within sorrow. A story about zionism and antisemitism. The irrational belief of having a godly right to kill and expel people. Colonialism and occupation that make people live as shadows among shadows and cities unable to recognise their people. Stolen houses that come with stolen memories. It is also a book about the cleanest campaign of ethnic cleansing witnessed by humanity and the use of victimisation by Israel to fulfil its purpose. Genocide and forced displacement. Racism, persecution, suffering, political prisoners and refugees. War crimes and rape as a war tactic. Lives that according to some people have no value and souls coming loose. Discriminatory policies and cultivation of fear and hatred. The power to decide who lives and who dies. A book about history and memory. The importance of knowledge of events against the unstoppable spreading of lies. Asking questions to learn the truth and listening to the breath of cities bearing witness to stories. Engraved memories that have holes and lies served as general truths. Mostly though, this is a book about loving life and never losing hope even when you have every right to. Seeing beauty in ugliness and believing in ideas that become weapons of liberation. The liberty to believe in whatever you want. The illusion that armies follow laws and adhere to humanist values. The potential of believing in tolerance and dialogue and finding a solution. A viable solution for every human life.
This is a 4-4.5/5 for me!
Why should you read “The Book of Disappearance”:
Because you will realise that the love for your country can make you choose to die there instead of leaving.
Because you will acknowledge that leaving and staying, as conditions, can both hurt you the same and irreversibly.
Because you will accept that what is just another day for you, can be the most traumatic day in the life of someone else.
Because you will understand that people wither away and die when they no longer savour life.
Because you will feel how strange and irrational is people wishing on your death just because of your race or origin.
Because you will confirm that history is never fully recorded and our memory is always truncated.
Because you will cherish what the holocaust taught us: that the desire to live always triumphs over the desire to murder.
Because you will realise, if you still haven't, that a new holocaust is taking place, and unfortunately Palestinians are the new Jews.
Favourite quotes:
“Survivors are lonely”.
“An illusion is enough to live the lie that later becomes the truth”.
“You used to say that you would walk in the morning, but couldn’t recognize the city or the streets. As if they, too, were expelled along with the people who were forced to leave”.
“We inherit memory the way we inherit the color of our eyes and skin. We inherit the sound of laughter just as we inherit the sound of tears. Your memory pains me”.
“I write to remember and to remind, so memories are not erased. Memory is my last lifeline”.
“What we live is truncated. Even what I lived is truncated is my memory. As if my memory is a glass house, full of cracks like wrinkles, but still it stands. From inside it we can see out, but something is muddled. “Muddled” doesn’t mean our view is hazy, or that both points of view are equal. These are the lies of those who write in the white books that we are forced to read. It is muddled because the pain is too great for us to endure looking out through the memory house. So we store memory in a black box inside our heads and hearts, but it pains us and gnaws from within. And we rust, day after day. Yes, rust. I wonder at times why I feel all this sadness. Where does it come from? I realize soon thereafter: your memory is a burden that pains me.”
“There are so many wars around us we’ve gotten used to them”.
This is a book about love and loss. The importance of your ancestors in shaping your life. How the death of someone you love equals emptiness. Dying the way you want to and the difficulties of starting anew within sorrow. A story about zionism and antisemitism. The irrational belief of having a godly right to kill and expel people. Colonialism and occupation that make people live as shadows among shadows and cities unable to recognise their people. Stolen houses that come with stolen memories. It is also a book about the cleanest campaign of ethnic cleansing witnessed by humanity and the use of victimisation by Israel to fulfil its purpose. Genocide and forced displacement. Racism, persecution, suffering, political prisoners and refugees. War crimes and rape as a war tactic. Lives that according to some people have no value and souls coming loose. Discriminatory policies and cultivation of fear and hatred. The power to decide who lives and who dies. A book about history and memory. The importance of knowledge of events against the unstoppable spreading of lies. Asking questions to learn the truth and listening to the breath of cities bearing witness to stories. Engraved memories that have holes and lies served as general truths. Mostly though, this is a book about loving life and never losing hope even when you have every right to. Seeing beauty in ugliness and believing in ideas that become weapons of liberation. The liberty to believe in whatever you want. The illusion that armies follow laws and adhere to humanist values. The potential of believing in tolerance and dialogue and finding a solution. A viable solution for every human life.
This is a 4-4.5/5 for me!
Why should you read “The Book of Disappearance”:
Because you will realise that the love for your country can make you choose to die there instead of leaving.
Because you will acknowledge that leaving and staying, as conditions, can both hurt you the same and irreversibly.
Because you will accept that what is just another day for you, can be the most traumatic day in the life of someone else.
Because you will understand that people wither away and die when they no longer savour life.
Because you will feel how strange and irrational is people wishing on your death just because of your race or origin.
Because you will confirm that history is never fully recorded and our memory is always truncated.
Because you will cherish what the holocaust taught us: that the desire to live always triumphs over the desire to murder.
Because you will realise, if you still haven't, that a new holocaust is taking place, and unfortunately Palestinians are the new Jews.
Favourite quotes:
“Survivors are lonely”.
“An illusion is enough to live the lie that later becomes the truth”.
“You used to say that you would walk in the morning, but couldn’t recognize the city or the streets. As if they, too, were expelled along with the people who were forced to leave”.
“We inherit memory the way we inherit the color of our eyes and skin. We inherit the sound of laughter just as we inherit the sound of tears. Your memory pains me”.
“I write to remember and to remind, so memories are not erased. Memory is my last lifeline”.
“What we live is truncated. Even what I lived is truncated is my memory. As if my memory is a glass house, full of cracks like wrinkles, but still it stands. From inside it we can see out, but something is muddled. “Muddled” doesn’t mean our view is hazy, or that both points of view are equal. These are the lies of those who write in the white books that we are forced to read. It is muddled because the pain is too great for us to endure looking out through the memory house. So we store memory in a black box inside our heads and hearts, but it pains us and gnaws from within. And we rust, day after day. Yes, rust. I wonder at times why I feel all this sadness. Where does it come from? I realize soon thereafter: your memory is a burden that pains me.”
“There are so many wars around us we’ve gotten used to them”.
August 28, 2025
The Book of Disappearance is a literary dissection of Zionism as an ongoing colonial project. The speculative premise, that every Palestinian vanishes overnight, is impossible to read as pure fantasy, because it represents a magnification of the logic already embedded in the settler state: that Palestinian life is expendable, that their erasure is the condition for Israel’s existence. Fayez Sayegh was blunt about this in 1965: Zionism “uses colonization for nation-building,” which “was essentially incompatible with the continued existence of the ‘native population’ in the coveted country".
The novel’s most incisive achievement is its portrayal of Ariel, the liberal Zionist neighbor whose grief is always qualified, whose empathy never transcends the ideological horizon of a state that cannot conceive of itself without Palestinian absence. Ariel embodies that contradiction perfectly. He mourns Alaa in the abstract while contemplating what new possibilities might open in a land scrubbed clean of its indigenous people. The oxymoron of the “humane settler,” which Ghassan Kanafani dismissed as colonial myth, collapses under the weight of the novel itself.
Alaa’s diary, by contrast, is a radical archive, a refusal to disappear even in disappearance. His catalog of streets, smells, and textures; his invocation of his grandmother’s memories; his quiet insistence that to name is to resist all serve as antidote to a political order that renders Palestinians as abstractions. The novel makes that abstraction impossible.
To read this novel is to confront the impossibility of democracy in a state whose entire existence is predicated on the extermination of the Other. The Book of Disappearance forces the reader to understand that there is no “liberal” iteration of a settler project predicated on elimination, only variations of the same violence. It is a rare work of fiction that marries emotional precision with ideological clarity. This is not simply a novel about what it would feel like if Palestinians vanished; it is a novel about the fact that the world, in its complicity, has already realized that vanishing.
The genocidal violence we witness today is the logical endpoint of the ideology Azem interrogates. The book reads as documentary rather than speculative fiction - a record of the world we inhabit, where Palestinian life is not only devalued but systematically targeted for elimination, and where that elimination is justified, rationalized, and too often ignored.
The novel’s most incisive achievement is its portrayal of Ariel, the liberal Zionist neighbor whose grief is always qualified, whose empathy never transcends the ideological horizon of a state that cannot conceive of itself without Palestinian absence. Ariel embodies that contradiction perfectly. He mourns Alaa in the abstract while contemplating what new possibilities might open in a land scrubbed clean of its indigenous people. The oxymoron of the “humane settler,” which Ghassan Kanafani dismissed as colonial myth, collapses under the weight of the novel itself.
Alaa’s diary, by contrast, is a radical archive, a refusal to disappear even in disappearance. His catalog of streets, smells, and textures; his invocation of his grandmother’s memories; his quiet insistence that to name is to resist all serve as antidote to a political order that renders Palestinians as abstractions. The novel makes that abstraction impossible.
To read this novel is to confront the impossibility of democracy in a state whose entire existence is predicated on the extermination of the Other. The Book of Disappearance forces the reader to understand that there is no “liberal” iteration of a settler project predicated on elimination, only variations of the same violence. It is a rare work of fiction that marries emotional precision with ideological clarity. This is not simply a novel about what it would feel like if Palestinians vanished; it is a novel about the fact that the world, in its complicity, has already realized that vanishing.
The genocidal violence we witness today is the logical endpoint of the ideology Azem interrogates. The book reads as documentary rather than speculative fiction - a record of the world we inhabit, where Palestinian life is not only devalued but systematically targeted for elimination, and where that elimination is justified, rationalized, and too often ignored.
July 3, 2024
رواية جيدة في ثيمتها. تحكي عن يافا التي لا تزال تكافح في إثبات فلسطينيتها في وجه الاستيطان الإسرائيلي والتهويد. يعيب على الرواية استخدام الكاتبة للكثير من الجمل العبرية والتي لم تفسرها بالمطلق كما أن النهاية جاءت غير واضحة أو لا نهاية!
July 18, 2024
A brilliant Palestinian novel about a day where all Palestinian's suddenly vanish from their homeland. Ariel is a 'liberal Zionist' who says he is openminded but remains faithful to Israel. His Palestinian neighbour, Alaa, is one of the people who goes missing and Ariel spends the following days reading through Alaa's writing and discovering his inner thoughts and the history of his family.
This was a fascinating book which I found really haunting and I enjoyed reading about the fallout of the disappearance and how Israel dealt with being out of control of the situation and not knowing what had happened to the Arab people. It was written really well and I liked how it focused on the two main characters whilst also having some chapters that focused on Jaffa as a whole and how it has affected the entire community.
This was a fascinating book which I found really haunting and I enjoyed reading about the fallout of the disappearance and how Israel dealt with being out of control of the situation and not knowing what had happened to the Arab people. It was written really well and I liked how it focused on the two main characters whilst also having some chapters that focused on Jaffa as a whole and how it has affected the entire community.
July 30, 2018
لقد بدأ الفلسطينييون يتذكّرون تاريخهم مُنذ العام ١٩٤٨، كان عامًا مفصليًّا، مهمًّا لدرجة ألّا يُنسى، طاغيًا، مُسيطرًا، يحملُ الذاكرة كلّها، الأرقام كلّها، التّاريخ كلّه، الوطن كلّه، الرغبة، الفقد، النسيان، الهجرة، الغربة، الوجع، الأحبّة، منذ هذا التّاريخ بدأ الفلسطينييون يعرّفون أنفسهم كما اليوم؛ أبناء الذّاكرة.
تسردُ ابتسام عازم قصّة الفلسطينيين في الدّاخل المحتلّ، القصّة التّي لم يتطرق إليها الكثيرون، الحياة الصّعبة والمتناقضة التّي يعيشون فيها. تدور أحداث الرّواية في يافا - تل أبيب، بطل الرّواية علاء فقد جدّته، الوحيدة التّي بقيت من أهلها في البلاد عام النكبة، تأقلمت وعاشت في يافا وهي تنتظرُ التّحرير، بعد وفاتها بفترة قصيرة، يتغيّر علاء، تتغيّر نظرتهُ للأمور.. وليافا.
ذاتَ صباحٍ صيفيّ، يستيقظ الكيان المحتلّ، ليجد الفلسطينييون في الداخل والضّفة والقطاع قد اختفوا، لا علامات تدلّ على وجودهم في هذه الأرض أو الأماكن التّي اختفوا فيها، يستقيظ العالم ذات صباحٍ ليجدوا أن الفلسطينيين قد اختفوا فحسب.
رواية جميلة، موجعة جدًا، قيّمة، وصفت حالة الفلسطينيين بمهارة عالية، حساسة، تتمنى لو أنها لا تنتهي.
تسردُ ابتسام عازم قصّة الفلسطينيين في الدّاخل المحتلّ، القصّة التّي لم يتطرق إليها الكثيرون، الحياة الصّعبة والمتناقضة التّي يعيشون فيها. تدور أحداث الرّواية في يافا - تل أبيب، بطل الرّواية علاء فقد جدّته، الوحيدة التّي بقيت من أهلها في البلاد عام النكبة، تأقلمت وعاشت في يافا وهي تنتظرُ التّحرير، بعد وفاتها بفترة قصيرة، يتغيّر علاء، تتغيّر نظرتهُ للأمور.. وليافا.
ذاتَ صباحٍ صيفيّ، يستيقظ الكيان المحتلّ، ليجد الفلسطينييون في الداخل والضّفة والقطاع قد اختفوا، لا علامات تدلّ على وجودهم في هذه الأرض أو الأماكن التّي اختفوا فيها، يستقيظ العالم ذات صباحٍ ليجدوا أن الفلسطينيين قد اختفوا فحسب.
رواية جميلة، موجعة جدًا، قيّمة، وصفت حالة الفلسطينيين بمهارة عالية، حساسة، تتمنى لو أنها لا تنتهي.
March 14, 2025
Hay libros que no solo se leen, sino que se experimentan, y “The Book of Disappearance” de Ibtisam Azem pertenece a esa categoría. Desde la primera página, la autora propone una premisa sencilla y perturbadora: un día, todos los palestinos que viven en Israel desaparecen sin dejar rastro. No hay guerra, ni explosión, ni crisis sanitaria. Simplemente se esfuman, como si nunca hubieran estado. Y con ellos, desaparece también una parte de la memoria colectiva, de la historia y de la cotidianidad. Esta es una novela profundamente política, pero también profundamente humana.
La historia alterna entre dos voces principales: Alaa, un joven periodista palestino que vive en Jaffa y que desaparece como el resto de su pueblo; y su amigo judío israelí, Ariel, que tratar de entender qué ha pasado. A través del diario de Alaa, Ariel comienza a explorar una historia que hasta entonces había ignorado, una historia de desposesión, resistencia y dolor, pero también de familia, identidad y amor a la tierra. Lo que empieza como una experiencia íntima entre dos amigos, se convierte pronto en una rflexión sobre la existencia misma de un pueblo que, por un instante, ha sido borrado de la realidad.
Alaa es introspectivo, melancólico y observador. Su voz, recogida en forma de diario, nos sumerge en la vida cotidiana de un joven palestino en una tierra donde su mera existencia se considera un problema. Más allá de los grandes conflictos políticos, Alaa escribe sobre su infancia con su abuela, sus caminatas por Jaffa, la historia de su familia, y el peso constante de una identidad vivida como resistencia. Su motivación parece ser, más que cambiar el mundo, entenderlo y dejar testimonio de su lugar en él. Su desarrollo a lo largo del libro, aunque interrumpido por su desaparición, se nos revela a través de sus reflexiones, que van volviéndose más incisivas, más dolorosas, y también más amorosas hacia lo que ha perdido.
Ariel, en cambio, es racional, algo cínico, y representa a esa parte de la sociedad israelí que ha vivido cómodamente sin cuestionarse la historia completa. Su proceso de transformación es lento pero genuino. Al leer el diario de su amigo desaparecido, Ariel comienza a desmoronarse por dentro, a mirar su entorno con nuevos ojos, y a confrontar su complicidad silenciosa. Es un personaje bien construido, que no se convierte de la noche a la mañana, pero que va mostrando fisuras emocionales y éticas cada vez más profundas.
La abuela de Alaa es una figura central en el diario. Aunque no está presente en la narración actual, su influencia sobre Alaa es enorme. Representa la memoria viva del pueblo palestino, la conexión con una tierra anterior a las fronteras impuestas. Su voz, sus enseñanzas, sus silencios, se vuelven casi un símbolo de todo lo que se está perdiendo.
También destacan algunos personajes del entorno de Ariel, como compañeros de trabajo y vecinos, que reaccionan de formas muy distintas ante la desaparición de los palestinos. Algunos lo celebran, otros lo lamentan, y otros simplemente lo ignoran. Son pequeños reflejos de una sociedad diversa pero profundamente fracturada.
¿Qué pasa cuando un pueblo desaparece, no solo físicamente, sino también de la memoria colectiva? Azem no escribe panfletos políticos, pero su narrativa deja en claro las dinámicas de poder, colonización y exclusión que viven los palestinos en Israel. La relación entre Alaa y Ariel sirve como una metáfora del posible puente entre dos mundos, aunque ese puente esté colapsando. El acto de desaparecer no solo es literal, sino también simbólico. En muchos sentidos, los palestinos han sido invisibilizados durante décadas, y la autora lleva esta invisibilización a un extremo literal y perturbador.
Lo mejor del libro es, sin duda, su premisa tan original como potente. La desaparición silenciosa y total de un pueblo es una idea perturbadora que obliga a repensar la manera en que tratamos la historia y la otredad. También es muy destacable la construcción de los dos protagonistas, sus voces distintas y complementarias.
Sin embargo, a pesar de lo potente y original que puede parecer la premisa, debo admitir que “The Book of Disappearance” no terminó de convencerme del todo. Hay una carga política evidente (como era de esperarse en una obra que aborda el conflicto israelí-palestino), pero lo que me resultó problemático fue el desequilibrio con el que se plantean las posturas. La narrativa se siente intensamente emocional, pero por momentos esa emoción roza el resentimiento, y eso afecta la posibilidad de construir un puente de diálogo o una mirada más matizada. Más que una exploración crítica del conflicto, a veces la novela parece un desahogo de rabia y frustración frente a la ocupación israelí, lo cual es comprensible desde el punto de vista humano, pero literariamente empobrece el debate.
Por momentos, el libro me dio la impresión de ser más un manifiesto político disfrazado de novela que una obra literaria completa. La carga emocional y simbólica es fuerte, sin duda, pero el texto a veces parece hablarle más a quienes ya comparten una postura ideológica clara, que a aquellos lectores que podrían estar buscando entender distintas perspectivas del conflicto. Me hubiera gustado que la autora explorara con mayor profundidad la complejidad de ambos lados, o que al menos matizara un poco más los conflictos internos de los personajes, para así evitar caer en una narrativa que parece señalar a un único culpable con demasiada insistencia.
La historia alterna entre dos voces principales: Alaa, un joven periodista palestino que vive en Jaffa y que desaparece como el resto de su pueblo; y su amigo judío israelí, Ariel, que tratar de entender qué ha pasado. A través del diario de Alaa, Ariel comienza a explorar una historia que hasta entonces había ignorado, una historia de desposesión, resistencia y dolor, pero también de familia, identidad y amor a la tierra. Lo que empieza como una experiencia íntima entre dos amigos, se convierte pronto en una rflexión sobre la existencia misma de un pueblo que, por un instante, ha sido borrado de la realidad.
Alaa es introspectivo, melancólico y observador. Su voz, recogida en forma de diario, nos sumerge en la vida cotidiana de un joven palestino en una tierra donde su mera existencia se considera un problema. Más allá de los grandes conflictos políticos, Alaa escribe sobre su infancia con su abuela, sus caminatas por Jaffa, la historia de su familia, y el peso constante de una identidad vivida como resistencia. Su motivación parece ser, más que cambiar el mundo, entenderlo y dejar testimonio de su lugar en él. Su desarrollo a lo largo del libro, aunque interrumpido por su desaparición, se nos revela a través de sus reflexiones, que van volviéndose más incisivas, más dolorosas, y también más amorosas hacia lo que ha perdido.
Ariel, en cambio, es racional, algo cínico, y representa a esa parte de la sociedad israelí que ha vivido cómodamente sin cuestionarse la historia completa. Su proceso de transformación es lento pero genuino. Al leer el diario de su amigo desaparecido, Ariel comienza a desmoronarse por dentro, a mirar su entorno con nuevos ojos, y a confrontar su complicidad silenciosa. Es un personaje bien construido, que no se convierte de la noche a la mañana, pero que va mostrando fisuras emocionales y éticas cada vez más profundas.
La abuela de Alaa es una figura central en el diario. Aunque no está presente en la narración actual, su influencia sobre Alaa es enorme. Representa la memoria viva del pueblo palestino, la conexión con una tierra anterior a las fronteras impuestas. Su voz, sus enseñanzas, sus silencios, se vuelven casi un símbolo de todo lo que se está perdiendo.
También destacan algunos personajes del entorno de Ariel, como compañeros de trabajo y vecinos, que reaccionan de formas muy distintas ante la desaparición de los palestinos. Algunos lo celebran, otros lo lamentan, y otros simplemente lo ignoran. Son pequeños reflejos de una sociedad diversa pero profundamente fracturada.
¿Qué pasa cuando un pueblo desaparece, no solo físicamente, sino también de la memoria colectiva? Azem no escribe panfletos políticos, pero su narrativa deja en claro las dinámicas de poder, colonización y exclusión que viven los palestinos en Israel. La relación entre Alaa y Ariel sirve como una metáfora del posible puente entre dos mundos, aunque ese puente esté colapsando. El acto de desaparecer no solo es literal, sino también simbólico. En muchos sentidos, los palestinos han sido invisibilizados durante décadas, y la autora lleva esta invisibilización a un extremo literal y perturbador.
Lo mejor del libro es, sin duda, su premisa tan original como potente. La desaparición silenciosa y total de un pueblo es una idea perturbadora que obliga a repensar la manera en que tratamos la historia y la otredad. También es muy destacable la construcción de los dos protagonistas, sus voces distintas y complementarias.
Sin embargo, a pesar de lo potente y original que puede parecer la premisa, debo admitir que “The Book of Disappearance” no terminó de convencerme del todo. Hay una carga política evidente (como era de esperarse en una obra que aborda el conflicto israelí-palestino), pero lo que me resultó problemático fue el desequilibrio con el que se plantean las posturas. La narrativa se siente intensamente emocional, pero por momentos esa emoción roza el resentimiento, y eso afecta la posibilidad de construir un puente de diálogo o una mirada más matizada. Más que una exploración crítica del conflicto, a veces la novela parece un desahogo de rabia y frustración frente a la ocupación israelí, lo cual es comprensible desde el punto de vista humano, pero literariamente empobrece el debate.
Por momentos, el libro me dio la impresión de ser más un manifiesto político disfrazado de novela que una obra literaria completa. La carga emocional y simbólica es fuerte, sin duda, pero el texto a veces parece hablarle más a quienes ya comparten una postura ideológica clara, que a aquellos lectores que podrían estar buscando entender distintas perspectivas del conflicto. Me hubiera gustado que la autora explorara con mayor profundidad la complejidad de ambos lados, o que al menos matizara un poco más los conflictos internos de los personajes, para así evitar caer en una narrativa que parece señalar a un único culpable con demasiada insistencia.
May 25, 2025
Zwei Dinge mag ich: Bücher mit politischem Hintergrund, die sich nicht so schnell selbst überleben, und bei denen ich ganz viel lerne und mich gleichzeitig gut unterhalten fühle. Beides war hier der Fall: Ibtisam Azem schildert Hintergründe zum Nahostkonflikt anhand persönlicher Schicksale und vieler kleiner Alltagsszenen. Ist zwar schon mehr als zehn Jahre alt, bietet aber immer noch reichlich Wissen, Geschichte und Verständnis zum aktuellen Konflikt. Plus: Sehr ausgewogen erzählt, mit Charakteren mit allen möglichen Ecken und Kanten.
Mehr zum Buch in unserer ausführlichen Besprechung @ Papierstau Podcast: #324: International Booker Prize 2025
Mehr zum Buch in unserer ausführlichen Besprechung @ Papierstau Podcast: #324: International Booker Prize 2025
April 20, 2025
I had high hopes for The Book of Disappearance. Its premise—a speculative imagining of what might happen if all Palestinians in Israel suddenly vanished—is incredibly compelling.
I hoped for an urgent and layered portrayal of contemporary life in Israel, especially from a Palestinian perspective. Unfortunately, this is a frustratingly shallow and clumsily executed novel whose reach far exceeds its grasp.
The story alternates between diary entries by Alaa, a Palestinian man who vanishes along with his community, and Ariel, his Jewish, Zionist neighbor left behind to grapple with the disappearance along with the rest of the nation.
I had trouble suspending disbelief while reading the diary sections, in which Alaa spiritually communicates with his recently deceased grandmother and transcribes entire conversations as though he were recording them on the spot. None of it rings true.
Worse still, Ariel’s reading of the notebook, which could have served as a catalyst for real introspection or change, leads nowhere. He emerges from it unaffected, with the same Zionist beliefs that the narrative initially seems prepared to interrogate.
The novel’s speculative premise is undermined by implausible plot choices, unnatural (and sometimes cringeworthy) dialogue, and a cartoonish portrayal of Israeli politics and media.
The author seems more concerned with delivering a moral verdict than telling a compelling, well-written story. I understand why it may have attracted critical attention, especially in the context of the ongoing Israel-Palestine conflict, but from a literary standpoint, this is a terrible book.
I hoped for an urgent and layered portrayal of contemporary life in Israel, especially from a Palestinian perspective. Unfortunately, this is a frustratingly shallow and clumsily executed novel whose reach far exceeds its grasp.
The story alternates between diary entries by Alaa, a Palestinian man who vanishes along with his community, and Ariel, his Jewish, Zionist neighbor left behind to grapple with the disappearance along with the rest of the nation.
I had trouble suspending disbelief while reading the diary sections, in which Alaa spiritually communicates with his recently deceased grandmother and transcribes entire conversations as though he were recording them on the spot. None of it rings true.
Worse still, Ariel’s reading of the notebook, which could have served as a catalyst for real introspection or change, leads nowhere. He emerges from it unaffected, with the same Zionist beliefs that the narrative initially seems prepared to interrogate.
The novel’s speculative premise is undermined by implausible plot choices, unnatural (and sometimes cringeworthy) dialogue, and a cartoonish portrayal of Israeli politics and media.
The author seems more concerned with delivering a moral verdict than telling a compelling, well-written story. I understand why it may have attracted critical attention, especially in the context of the ongoing Israel-Palestine conflict, but from a literary standpoint, this is a terrible book.
May 1, 2022
It is generally true that a minority in a society knows the majority better than the majority often knows itself. I was therefore very interested in reading what I hope would be an interesting Palestinian view of Jewish society in Israel and its relationship with the Palestinian minority. This very relationship was the subject of my own dissertation, but primarily from the point of view of the Jews, since I, unfortunately, cannot read Arabic. The premise of the book was particularly intriguing: one day, all the Palestinians within Israel and Palestine disappear. What would happen to Israel? I was looking forward to an incisive analysis of Israeli society from a Palestinian point of view. Alas, that is not what I found.
What I found was a cartoonish portrayal of most of Israeli society that sacrifices any depth of character or nuance in favour of a pedantic message. Everything from the villainous prime minister (whose real-life model is cleverly hidden by the fictitious name "Titi") who opens every speech by extolling the virtues of Israel's democracy even as he goes on to abrogate the rights of Israel's Palestinian citizens, to the complete non-existence of a supreme court to challenge nonsensical laws like the one that deprives all Palestinians of their citizenship and property if they do not return within 48 hours (yes, this is a metaphor for the absent-present citizens, but the book doesn't do anything with this metaphor), to the main Jewish character of the story, Ariel, whose actions lack any reason, and even to the "radical leftist" columnist in Haaretz, whose rambling accusations get cut off half-way through.
If Azem wanted to tell the important stories of 1948, there is definitely room to tell them. However, her attempt to simply transpose the events of 1948 into a metaphorical present day, make for a flat story.
There is a second narrative in the book, that of the red notebook left behind by Ala'a, which is read by Ariel. This is a narrative of the cross-generational trauma caused by the Nakba. Again, an important topic and one that gets a slightly better treatment by Azem, but even this is done in what feels to me a repetitive manner. But more importantly, the two narratives neither drive nor influence one another. Whole blocks of the book are taken up by excerpts from the notebook, as they are read by Ariel. But they have no impact on his actions or feelings. It's not really clear why he keeps reading them, since they seem to make no difference to him. The order in which these chapters are placed in the book doesn't seem to have any rhyme or reason. All of which, again, makes for poor storytelling and degrades the potential impact of both of the two narratives.
As an Israeli, I often had a hard time to keep my suspension of disbelief, with descriptions and dialogue that felt extremely unnatural. Case in point, the feature interview in Haaretz with a soldier who was serving with a Druze soldier. The headline speaks of "the mask that has fallen", insinuating that the Druze soldier was, indeed, always an enemy of the state, and only now, with the supposed treason of him leaving his post, the mask has fallen. That this would be the interpretation that anyone, let alone Haaretz, would take strikes me as extremely unbelievable. Certainly, there would be much rejoicing from certain quadrants of Israeli society, but even there, the descriptions miss the mark time and again. (and I'm not even mentioning the impossibility of municipal workers going around and replacing all signs with Arabic one them with Hebrew-only signs not two days after the disappearance. This gives Israeli bureaucracy far too much credit). I'm also willing to gloss over the fact that, amazingly, not a single Palestinian disappeared within sight of a Jew. Not even those (few) mixed, Jewish-Palestinian couples. They don't exist in the book, of course.
Finally, there are the errors. Many of them are the result of the translation, no doubt. Maybe Azem, who I believe speaks Hebrew herself, should have taken a swipe at correcting mistakes in the translation where the transliteration of the Hebrew words in Arabic script into latin letters resulted in often comical constructions: "na'lamu ata mifen zeh na'lamuuuuu" is a sorry mess of what I can only presume means "ne'elmu, ata mevin et zeh? ne'elmuuuuu"; "Ata bu" is a hilarious distortion of "ata po" (clearly a result of Arabic having neither P nor O); "ahad ha'am" becomes "ehud ha'am"; etc.
Other mistakes were make by the author herself. I can forgive her saying that Dana International is Moroccan (she's of Yemenite origin). I'm more perplexed by her conflation of the Yom Kippur War of 1973 with the Six Days War of 1967 (chapter 10, p. 59: "'It reminds me of Yom Kippur, when the Arabs attacked us from all sides' ... 'There is no need for all this, please... We defeated them in just six days and regained our strength'").
All in all, I found this book disappointing, but probably not in a way that the author would be troubled by. She clearly didn't set out to create a nuanced discussion of Israeli society, but to send a admonishing message against it. Even there, I feel, this book would fail with all but those who already habour these views of Jewish Israelis, or those who know nothing about the region anyway. Which, granted, is a large enough audience. Still, a shame.
What I found was a cartoonish portrayal of most of Israeli society that sacrifices any depth of character or nuance in favour of a pedantic message. Everything from the villainous prime minister (whose real-life model is cleverly hidden by the fictitious name "Titi") who opens every speech by extolling the virtues of Israel's democracy even as he goes on to abrogate the rights of Israel's Palestinian citizens, to the complete non-existence of a supreme court to challenge nonsensical laws like the one that deprives all Palestinians of their citizenship and property if they do not return within 48 hours (yes, this is a metaphor for the absent-present citizens, but the book doesn't do anything with this metaphor), to the main Jewish character of the story, Ariel, whose actions lack any reason, and even to the "radical leftist" columnist in Haaretz, whose rambling accusations get cut off half-way through.
If Azem wanted to tell the important stories of 1948, there is definitely room to tell them. However, her attempt to simply transpose the events of 1948 into a metaphorical present day, make for a flat story.
There is a second narrative in the book, that of the red notebook left behind by Ala'a, which is read by Ariel. This is a narrative of the cross-generational trauma caused by the Nakba. Again, an important topic and one that gets a slightly better treatment by Azem, but even this is done in what feels to me a repetitive manner. But more importantly, the two narratives neither drive nor influence one another. Whole blocks of the book are taken up by excerpts from the notebook, as they are read by Ariel. But they have no impact on his actions or feelings. It's not really clear why he keeps reading them, since they seem to make no difference to him. The order in which these chapters are placed in the book doesn't seem to have any rhyme or reason. All of which, again, makes for poor storytelling and degrades the potential impact of both of the two narratives.
As an Israeli, I often had a hard time to keep my suspension of disbelief, with descriptions and dialogue that felt extremely unnatural. Case in point, the feature interview in Haaretz with a soldier who was serving with a Druze soldier. The headline speaks of "the mask that has fallen", insinuating that the Druze soldier was, indeed, always an enemy of the state, and only now, with the supposed treason of him leaving his post, the mask has fallen. That this would be the interpretation that anyone, let alone Haaretz, would take strikes me as extremely unbelievable. Certainly, there would be much rejoicing from certain quadrants of Israeli society, but even there, the descriptions miss the mark time and again. (and I'm not even mentioning the impossibility of municipal workers going around and replacing all signs with Arabic one them with Hebrew-only signs not two days after the disappearance. This gives Israeli bureaucracy far too much credit). I'm also willing to gloss over the fact that, amazingly, not a single Palestinian disappeared within sight of a Jew. Not even those (few) mixed, Jewish-Palestinian couples. They don't exist in the book, of course.
Finally, there are the errors. Many of them are the result of the translation, no doubt. Maybe Azem, who I believe speaks Hebrew herself, should have taken a swipe at correcting mistakes in the translation where the transliteration of the Hebrew words in Arabic script into latin letters resulted in often comical constructions: "na'lamu ata mifen zeh na'lamuuuuu" is a sorry mess of what I can only presume means "ne'elmu, ata mevin et zeh? ne'elmuuuuu"; "Ata bu" is a hilarious distortion of "ata po" (clearly a result of Arabic having neither P nor O); "ahad ha'am" becomes "ehud ha'am"; etc.
Other mistakes were make by the author herself. I can forgive her saying that Dana International is Moroccan (she's of Yemenite origin). I'm more perplexed by her conflation of the Yom Kippur War of 1973 with the Six Days War of 1967 (chapter 10, p. 59: "'It reminds me of Yom Kippur, when the Arabs attacked us from all sides' ... 'There is no need for all this, please... We defeated them in just six days and regained our strength'").
All in all, I found this book disappointing, but probably not in a way that the author would be troubled by. She clearly didn't set out to create a nuanced discussion of Israeli society, but to send a admonishing message against it. Even there, I feel, this book would fail with all but those who already habour these views of Jewish Israelis, or those who know nothing about the region anyway. Which, granted, is a large enough audience. Still, a shame.
February 17, 2022
The Book of Disappearance plays like a movie in my head. The premise of the book is quite original: one day all Palestinians within Israel disappear leaving some Israelis to celebrate and others to experience guilt and shame. The novel explores the theme of silence in the face of oppression and the role that memory plays in Palestinian history. While reading, I wondered why the author did not give much agency to Palestinians. Instead, they are all gone, and the book focuses on “the other” – that is the Israeli perspective on the disappearance. This novel is perhaps a warning, or a “worst case scenario” if Palestinians’ halt fighting for their cause and presents the damage that can occur if you forget or lose control of your narrative.
To summarize the novel, Alaa remembers all the stories his Tata (Grandma) told him about the past, especially how Palestine (Jaffa in particular) was before the Nakba. Alaa describes his Tata as someone who was strong and who always spoke out. Soon after Tata passes away, Alaa and all his fellow Palestinians in Israel suddenly disappear. Once Israelis start to notice the Arabs’ absence, Alaa’s Israeli friend Ariel enters his home looking for him. Ariel is a journalist writing an article about this troubling event and has no lead. He discovers Alaa’s red notebook and begins to read it to search for clues. In this notebook, Alaa writes about his late Tata and recounts his painful relationship with the place in which he lives. Ariel discovers that his friendship with Alaa is more complicated than he thought. Alaa had been feeling the weight of keeping memories of his people alive, while Ariel is part of a culture eager to make Alaa and his people forget.
As Ariel investigates the unanticipated event, the reader is faced with the theme of silence chapter after chapter. Tata seems to represent a generation that remembers the Nakba and who fights. She once told her grandson: “Rights are never lost as long as one demands them”. However, her descendants are not as willing to speak up and fight. Alaa’s mother was always spoken for by Tata and his father committed suicide so as not to be a burden to his family and so they would remember him as he is. The characters clearly feel a sense of hopelessness and exhaustion when it comes to fighting to keep memories of Palestine alive, especially when they are constantly faced with forgetting their history (example: street names from before the Nakba have been replaced with new ones). While reading I thought it was implied that Tata’s death represents the death of those who remember and experienced the Nakba while the following generation are now more exhausted. Alaa tries to hold on to the memories he has never experienced to keep the history of his people relevant, but it is very painful for him. He even admits that when you always talk about the past it grows bigger and devours you which happens literally in this book.
As I mentioned above, I wondered why the author removed any sort of agency from Palestinians. Even at the very end, Ariel is sleeping in Alaa’s bed and near him the red notebook is left open. This implies that Alaa’s memories are kept open and relevant, yet they are in the hands of Ariel who has full control over the narrative. I believe that this novel is perhaps a warning that silence - or worse, if you do not keep fighting, and leave your history in the hands of the group that oppresses you - could lead to erasure of the self and your people.
I read this book for a class where so many interesting points were made. Today, Palestinians are not forgetting their history but are commonly challenged to forget it by the state of Israel. It was pointed out to me that in Alaa’s final chapter he goes over the painful relationship he has with his home and tries to free his memory from the discourse that he is presented with daily. However, I still find it curious that Ariel is always holding the power and access to Alaa’s narrative as he is literally holding on to Alaa’s thoughts. A part of me hoped that Alaa would come back and reclaim his notebook.
To summarize the novel, Alaa remembers all the stories his Tata (Grandma) told him about the past, especially how Palestine (Jaffa in particular) was before the Nakba. Alaa describes his Tata as someone who was strong and who always spoke out. Soon after Tata passes away, Alaa and all his fellow Palestinians in Israel suddenly disappear. Once Israelis start to notice the Arabs’ absence, Alaa’s Israeli friend Ariel enters his home looking for him. Ariel is a journalist writing an article about this troubling event and has no lead. He discovers Alaa’s red notebook and begins to read it to search for clues. In this notebook, Alaa writes about his late Tata and recounts his painful relationship with the place in which he lives. Ariel discovers that his friendship with Alaa is more complicated than he thought. Alaa had been feeling the weight of keeping memories of his people alive, while Ariel is part of a culture eager to make Alaa and his people forget.
As Ariel investigates the unanticipated event, the reader is faced with the theme of silence chapter after chapter. Tata seems to represent a generation that remembers the Nakba and who fights. She once told her grandson: “Rights are never lost as long as one demands them”. However, her descendants are not as willing to speak up and fight. Alaa’s mother was always spoken for by Tata and his father committed suicide so as not to be a burden to his family and so they would remember him as he is. The characters clearly feel a sense of hopelessness and exhaustion when it comes to fighting to keep memories of Palestine alive, especially when they are constantly faced with forgetting their history (example: street names from before the Nakba have been replaced with new ones). While reading I thought it was implied that Tata’s death represents the death of those who remember and experienced the Nakba while the following generation are now more exhausted. Alaa tries to hold on to the memories he has never experienced to keep the history of his people relevant, but it is very painful for him. He even admits that when you always talk about the past it grows bigger and devours you which happens literally in this book.
As I mentioned above, I wondered why the author removed any sort of agency from Palestinians. Even at the very end, Ariel is sleeping in Alaa’s bed and near him the red notebook is left open. This implies that Alaa’s memories are kept open and relevant, yet they are in the hands of Ariel who has full control over the narrative. I believe that this novel is perhaps a warning that silence - or worse, if you do not keep fighting, and leave your history in the hands of the group that oppresses you - could lead to erasure of the self and your people.
I read this book for a class where so many interesting points were made. Today, Palestinians are not forgetting their history but are commonly challenged to forget it by the state of Israel. It was pointed out to me that in Alaa’s final chapter he goes over the painful relationship he has with his home and tries to free his memory from the discourse that he is presented with daily. However, I still find it curious that Ariel is always holding the power and access to Alaa’s narrative as he is literally holding on to Alaa’s thoughts. A part of me hoped that Alaa would come back and reclaim his notebook.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
April 15, 2019
This novel, translated from Arabic and written by a Palestinian, imagines the scenario of all Palestinian Arabs suddenly vanishing from Israel. At first, people are angry—where are all of the Palestinian service workers they depend on to work in the shops and drive the buses? Bus driver Alaa and journalist Ariel are friends living in the same apartment building; when the Palestinians vanish, Ariel goes to Alaa’s flat to find out something about the disappearances. He winds up reading Alaa’s journal, written as notes to his deceased grandmother. Ariel moves into Alaa’s flat, and helps himself to everything, including the journals, which he plans to translate into Hebrew. His mother calls with the news that now that the Arabs have vanished, there are some very nice houses available. In the afterword, the author says, “The Israeli responses to the disappearance range from indignation and feelings of betrayal to relief and joy.” There is not only anger and unhappiness in this narrative, but also a sense of a people’s unbreakable spirit in this unique work of literary fiction.
August 19, 2021
An interesting premise - one night all Palestinian Israelis disappear. The book focuses on the various reactions that occur from the initial wonder and shock, to those who celebrate and eventually the confiscation of the property. The book also tells of the true events of 1948 when the Palestinians were evicted from their lands. A true disappearance and an imaginary one. Quite haunting.
Read
August 2, 2020Review to come (I think it will be long), but I thought this was a very good book and I wanted to state that in the meanwhile.
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Source of the book: Lawrence Public Library (who purchased it on my request, thank you!)
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Source of the book: Lawrence Public Library (who purchased it on my request, thank you!)
August 31, 2025
“But I carved my stories, yours, and those of others who are like us, inside me. We inherit memory the way we inherit the color of our eyes and skin. We inherit the sound of laughter just as we inherit the sound of tears.
Your memory pains me.”
Your memory pains me.”
May 6, 2019
‘We inherit memory the way we inherit the colour of our eyes and skin. We inherit the sound of laughter just as we inherit the sound of tears. Your memory pains me.’
This is an interesting, thought-provoking novel from Palestinian writer Ibtisam Azem, getting a timely English language publication as tensions rise again in the region. In almost magic realism style the book posits the idea: what if every single Palestinian in Israel simply vanished overnight? What the book examines is at the very heart of the ongoing political situation in the region. Mainly switching between two narratives the book, at first, seems to give a balanced view of the situation: Ariel, a Jewish journalist, lives in the same block of flats as his Palestinian neighbour Alaa, a freelance cameraman. Alaa has recently lost his grandmother, who pretty much raised him, and has been writing his thoughts and ideas in a red notebook, which Ariel finds when he goes to search Alaa’s flat for signs of evidence for his disappearance. What we get is a fairly rounded portrait of Jaffa and Tel Aviv and the juxtaposing of two very different religions and ideologies behind the disputed territory.
Ariel is a liberal, who questions the occupation but is a committed believer of the Jewish state, while Alaa and his family’s history lays bare the trauma of becoming a refugee in your own country. Gradually, as it becomes evident that no-one will be returning, Ariel moves into Alaa’s apartment and starts to choose passages of the notebook which he will then use as a basis to write his own book on the disappearance. The symbolism is not lost: here, in miniature, is an act of occupation and re-writing – the very claims made by Palestinians against the Jewish state. There is much made of memory, of belonging and history. At one point Ariel asks Alaa why he stays: ‘Because this is my Palestine, and I want to live wherever I please.’
There is a fable-like, magical feel to the book; the disappearance is never explained, and we are left with no suggestion of whether they will return. In part it causes a crisis of identity for the Israeli state, and this is one of the interesting undertones of the book. Here is a story of identity, but identity forged in opposition to, or contrast with, another. Jewish versus Palestinian – take one away and how do we then define the other? A fascinating take on the Middle East situation which, while it is clearly sympathetic to the Palestinians, attempts to dig under the skin of the state of Israel to understand it better. A brave and worthy read, it will stay with me for a while, I suspect. Definitely recommended.
This is an interesting, thought-provoking novel from Palestinian writer Ibtisam Azem, getting a timely English language publication as tensions rise again in the region. In almost magic realism style the book posits the idea: what if every single Palestinian in Israel simply vanished overnight? What the book examines is at the very heart of the ongoing political situation in the region. Mainly switching between two narratives the book, at first, seems to give a balanced view of the situation: Ariel, a Jewish journalist, lives in the same block of flats as his Palestinian neighbour Alaa, a freelance cameraman. Alaa has recently lost his grandmother, who pretty much raised him, and has been writing his thoughts and ideas in a red notebook, which Ariel finds when he goes to search Alaa’s flat for signs of evidence for his disappearance. What we get is a fairly rounded portrait of Jaffa and Tel Aviv and the juxtaposing of two very different religions and ideologies behind the disputed territory.
Ariel is a liberal, who questions the occupation but is a committed believer of the Jewish state, while Alaa and his family’s history lays bare the trauma of becoming a refugee in your own country. Gradually, as it becomes evident that no-one will be returning, Ariel moves into Alaa’s apartment and starts to choose passages of the notebook which he will then use as a basis to write his own book on the disappearance. The symbolism is not lost: here, in miniature, is an act of occupation and re-writing – the very claims made by Palestinians against the Jewish state. There is much made of memory, of belonging and history. At one point Ariel asks Alaa why he stays: ‘Because this is my Palestine, and I want to live wherever I please.’
There is a fable-like, magical feel to the book; the disappearance is never explained, and we are left with no suggestion of whether they will return. In part it causes a crisis of identity for the Israeli state, and this is one of the interesting undertones of the book. Here is a story of identity, but identity forged in opposition to, or contrast with, another. Jewish versus Palestinian – take one away and how do we then define the other? A fascinating take on the Middle East situation which, while it is clearly sympathetic to the Palestinians, attempts to dig under the skin of the state of Israel to understand it better. A brave and worthy read, it will stay with me for a while, I suspect. Definitely recommended.
August 15, 2024
Le vite degli altri
Tutto è Nakba, per chi l’ha vissuta e per chi non c’era, per chi è rimasto e per chi se n’è andato; per chi è nato dopo e ne ha respirato, assimilato per osmosi l’assenza di quello che era prima, il dolore del durante, la resezione delle proprie radici, la privazione della propria terra, l’appropriazione della propria esistenza, la scomparsa del proprio futuro.
Cosa succederebbe se un giorno i palestinesi scomparissero da Israele, dalla Cisgiordania, dalla Striscia di Gaza? Cosa accadrebbe se senza fare rumore, all’improvviso, sparissero tutti?
Non è un romanzo in cui trovare risposte questo, che inizia in un momento dolente, la morte della nonna di Alaa a Jaffa, terra di frutteti e di aranceti da cui, dal quartiere ghetto dove i palestinesi che non scapparono furono spinti nel 1948 e relegati, si guarda in lontananza quella menzogna storica e urbanistica che si chiama Tel Aviv - la città bianca, che sorge sulle vestigia dell’antica cittadina palestinese - si illumina di mistero e improvviso silenzio nel momento in cui Ariel, giornalista ebreo suo amico, si accorge e inizia allarmato a testimoniare la scomparsa di autisti, operai, cuochi, commesse, carcerati, assimilati e non, donne, uomini e bambini provenienti dai checkpoint o inseriti nel tessuto sociale israeliano, tutti assenti e irreperibili nello stesso momento e nello spazio di una notte - e finisce per riscoprirsi a sua volta rapace in una città che rapace lo era già stata alle sue origini inglobando, appropriandosi, sostituendosi a chi in quei luoghi e in quelle abitazioni era nato, aveva costruito, aveva vissuto prima di loro, prima di lui.
L’evoluzione di cui ci racconta di Ibtisam Azem è talmente lieve e incruenta da essere quasi impercettibile, ma quando se ne percepisce l’accusa l’esplosione è deflagrante, il dolore diffuso, il risultato annichilente.
Tutto è Nakba, per chi l’ha vissuta e per chi non c’era, per chi è rimasto e per chi se n’è andato; per chi è nato dopo e ne ha respirato, assimilato per osmosi l’assenza di quello che era prima, il dolore del durante, la resezione delle proprie radici, la privazione della propria terra, l’appropriazione della propria esistenza, la scomparsa del proprio futuro.
Cosa succederebbe se un giorno i palestinesi scomparissero da Israele, dalla Cisgiordania, dalla Striscia di Gaza? Cosa accadrebbe se senza fare rumore, all’improvviso, sparissero tutti?
Non è un romanzo in cui trovare risposte questo, che inizia in un momento dolente, la morte della nonna di Alaa a Jaffa, terra di frutteti e di aranceti da cui, dal quartiere ghetto dove i palestinesi che non scapparono furono spinti nel 1948 e relegati, si guarda in lontananza quella menzogna storica e urbanistica che si chiama Tel Aviv - la città bianca, che sorge sulle vestigia dell’antica cittadina palestinese - si illumina di mistero e improvviso silenzio nel momento in cui Ariel, giornalista ebreo suo amico, si accorge e inizia allarmato a testimoniare la scomparsa di autisti, operai, cuochi, commesse, carcerati, assimilati e non, donne, uomini e bambini provenienti dai checkpoint o inseriti nel tessuto sociale israeliano, tutti assenti e irreperibili nello stesso momento e nello spazio di una notte - e finisce per riscoprirsi a sua volta rapace in una città che rapace lo era già stata alle sue origini inglobando, appropriandosi, sostituendosi a chi in quei luoghi e in quelle abitazioni era nato, aveva costruito, aveva vissuto prima di loro, prima di lui.
L’evoluzione di cui ci racconta di Ibtisam Azem è talmente lieve e incruenta da essere quasi impercettibile, ma quando se ne percepisce l’accusa l’esplosione è deflagrante, il dolore diffuso, il risultato annichilente.
August 28, 2023
Shame that the publishers apparently didn't respect this translation enough to get it proofread.
December 7, 2025
Aivan uskomatonta sanataituruutta. Tämä on yksi vaikuttavimpia kirjoja, joita olen vuosiin lukenut. Viiltävä, surullinen, sydämen särkevä, raivon valtaan saava.
March 5, 2025
3.5. An incredibly prescient novel in which Palestinians suddenly disappear overnight with no word or explanation. The reader is told the story through varying perspectives, though most prominently through the journal entries of Alaa, a Palestinian man writing to his grandmother who passes away in the opening pages of the novel, and of Ariel, an Israeli journalist described as a liberal Zionist in the book's summary. The two are described as being friends but I had a hard time understanding how. We aren't shown much of their interactions together and we know they have gotten into a few tiffs, but their viewpoints about their identities and countries seem fundamentally incompatible and based on what we read from Alaa's journal and Ariel's articles, I'm not sure I'm convinced that he would be friends with Ariel.
The strongest points of this novel, for me, were Alaa's writings to his grandmother and the tidbits he shared from their discussions and time spent together. The two both grew up in Jaffa, but in two very different Jaffas, and Alaa tries to reconcile the relationship he has with this homeland that no longer resembles the city his grandmother describes from her youth. The power of memory, both in humans and buildings, is a recurring theme, as the majority of those who remember the city as it was are dead or displaced.
While I enjoyed the ideas explored in this novel, I was reminded again and again that I was reading a translation. I have heard that the UK edition has received another edit before publication, but unfortunately, the US edition published six years ago is riddled with typos, missing words, and grammatical errors that disrupted the flow of my reading. I often put the book aside for a little because I could feel myself getting frustrated and losing sight of the story because of the continually accruing errors. Additionally, the dialogue was often stilted and unnatural. The ideas felt most effective when rendered through a characters actions rather than words.
Imperfect as it is, it's a novel that has only become more important since its initial publication and U.S. release.
The strongest points of this novel, for me, were Alaa's writings to his grandmother and the tidbits he shared from their discussions and time spent together. The two both grew up in Jaffa, but in two very different Jaffas, and Alaa tries to reconcile the relationship he has with this homeland that no longer resembles the city his grandmother describes from her youth. The power of memory, both in humans and buildings, is a recurring theme, as the majority of those who remember the city as it was are dead or displaced.
While I enjoyed the ideas explored in this novel, I was reminded again and again that I was reading a translation. I have heard that the UK edition has received another edit before publication, but unfortunately, the US edition published six years ago is riddled with typos, missing words, and grammatical errors that disrupted the flow of my reading. I often put the book aside for a little because I could feel myself getting frustrated and losing sight of the story because of the continually accruing errors. Additionally, the dialogue was often stilted and unnatural. The ideas felt most effective when rendered through a characters actions rather than words.
Imperfect as it is, it's a novel that has only become more important since its initial publication and U.S. release.
May 10, 2025
Semua orang 🍉 di 👿 menghilang tiba-tiba, kenapa warga 👿 jadi bingung?? Bukankah itu yang mereka harapkan supaya bisa mengokupasi 🍉 segera?
Ketika Alaa menghilang tiba-tiba, Ariel bingung. Mungkin Alaa hanya pergi sebentar. Tapi mantan kekasihnya bilang bahwa semua orang 🍉 menghilang. PM 👿 mengatakan kalau mereka akan menunggu hingga beberapa waktu untuk mengambil tindakan. Jangan-jangan ini semua hanya intrik baru warga 🍉 untuk protes.
Ariel masih kebingungan. Semalam, mereka berdua masih ngobrol, meski Alaa sempat kesal bagaimana Ariel menyepelekan penggunaan bahasa. Bagi Alaa, mengubah nama Jaffa dengan Tel Aviv sama dg menghapus kebenaran terhadap kota itu. Ariel bilang, Alaa berlebihan.
Begitu pula dg PM 👿 yg bilang kalau menghilangnya 🍉 bukan karena IDF. 👿 adl negara demokrasi, kata si PM (astaga munafik 🫠). IDF tidak akan melakukan hal semacam itu karena melanggar HAM (another munafik statement 🫠). Semakin lama tidak ada titik terang kenapa 🍉 menghilang dan apakah mereka akan kembali.
Di saat 👿 kebingungan, Ariel membaca buku catatan merah milik Alaa. Di situlah Alaa menumpah isi kepalanya tentang 🍉. Dari kerinduannya dengan neneknya, bagaimana hidup tidak normal karena constant bombing, dan perasaan marah karena berangsur-angsur nama-nama tempat yg mereka tahu dg bahasa Arab harus digantikan dg bahasa Ibrani sbg langkah penghapusan memori & sejarah.
The Book of Disappearance bagi sebagian orang memiliki akhir yg menggantung. Nanggung katanya. Tapi bagiku, itu adalah cara Ibtisam Azem, penulis perempuan asal 🍉, membiarkan pembacanya berpikir tentang penjajahan 👿 yg terus terjadi hingga kini.
"Bukankah 👿 malah menunjukkan kemunafikkan atas apa yang dikatakannya?", pikirku.
Ditambah, aku membaca buku ini setelah bukunya Raja Shehadeh. Jadi semakin masuk akal kenapa Shehadeh marah-marah, kenapa Alaa murka sekali dg ignorance yg ditampilkan oleh Ariel (dasar bocah 👿 penuh privilese!).
The Book of Disappearance adalah buku fiksi yang terasa sangat nyata dan menggelitik kuota moral kita.
Ketika Alaa menghilang tiba-tiba, Ariel bingung. Mungkin Alaa hanya pergi sebentar. Tapi mantan kekasihnya bilang bahwa semua orang 🍉 menghilang. PM 👿 mengatakan kalau mereka akan menunggu hingga beberapa waktu untuk mengambil tindakan. Jangan-jangan ini semua hanya intrik baru warga 🍉 untuk protes.
Ariel masih kebingungan. Semalam, mereka berdua masih ngobrol, meski Alaa sempat kesal bagaimana Ariel menyepelekan penggunaan bahasa. Bagi Alaa, mengubah nama Jaffa dengan Tel Aviv sama dg menghapus kebenaran terhadap kota itu. Ariel bilang, Alaa berlebihan.
Begitu pula dg PM 👿 yg bilang kalau menghilangnya 🍉 bukan karena IDF. 👿 adl negara demokrasi, kata si PM (astaga munafik 🫠). IDF tidak akan melakukan hal semacam itu karena melanggar HAM (another munafik statement 🫠). Semakin lama tidak ada titik terang kenapa 🍉 menghilang dan apakah mereka akan kembali.
Di saat 👿 kebingungan, Ariel membaca buku catatan merah milik Alaa. Di situlah Alaa menumpah isi kepalanya tentang 🍉. Dari kerinduannya dengan neneknya, bagaimana hidup tidak normal karena constant bombing, dan perasaan marah karena berangsur-angsur nama-nama tempat yg mereka tahu dg bahasa Arab harus digantikan dg bahasa Ibrani sbg langkah penghapusan memori & sejarah.
The Book of Disappearance bagi sebagian orang memiliki akhir yg menggantung. Nanggung katanya. Tapi bagiku, itu adalah cara Ibtisam Azem, penulis perempuan asal 🍉, membiarkan pembacanya berpikir tentang penjajahan 👿 yg terus terjadi hingga kini.
"Bukankah 👿 malah menunjukkan kemunafikkan atas apa yang dikatakannya?", pikirku.
Ditambah, aku membaca buku ini setelah bukunya Raja Shehadeh. Jadi semakin masuk akal kenapa Shehadeh marah-marah, kenapa Alaa murka sekali dg ignorance yg ditampilkan oleh Ariel (dasar bocah 👿 penuh privilese!).
The Book of Disappearance adalah buku fiksi yang terasa sangat nyata dan menggelitik kuota moral kita.
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