I was exposed to this book through the "One Book, One Philadelphia" program, and I devoured it over the course of a few days immediately after I read Imaculee Ilibagiza's book Left to Tell (part of my "death and destruction in East Africa" kick, I suppose). It turned out to be a very interesting juxtaposition, as Ilibagiza consistently credits her faith, even miracles, for bringing her through the Rwandan holocaust alive, while Dave Eggers's Deng consistently doubts the beneficence of his God.

The account of the Second Sudanese Civil War and the subsequent Diaspora are nothing short of amazing. I was constantly reminding myself that the events Eggers relates actually took place, and each time this sunk in, finding myself crushed by the magnitude of hardship. Valentino Achak Deng has endured enough suffering for hundreds at every turn of his life, yet continues to move forward, continues to relate his story to those who will listen. Overall, the book is a masterfully told depiction of one of the great tragedies of our time. Everyone should read this.

Yet I found myself unconsciously glancing at the title page every time I opened this book... What is the What: The Autobiography of Valentino Achak Deng, A Novel, by Dave Eggers. "Interesting choice of designations," I initially thought. But then, as I realized the magnitude of this tale, and further, I was reminded of the magnitude of the Sudanese Diaspora, my thoughts resolved themselves a bit. Isn't it a bit disturbing that the job of telling the story of an African man who has had one of the hardest lives I could imagine falls to a wealthy, white, American novelist? What happened to this African's voice? Now, I realize, as I have had this discussion with several already, that all of the proceeds go to charity, that Deng wrote the foreword praising Eggers as the perfect partner, and that Eggers's literary stylings are all but absent from the book. I realize that these two men had the best intentions in mind when composing this story. Yet I also notice the thousands, tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of Sudanese whose voices were appropriated, subsumed even, under the device of "The Autobiography, A Novel, by a Storyteller". Wasn't there a Sudanese (perhaps Deng himself) who could've related this same tale? Perhaps it may not have been quite as engaging in its prose, or quite as well organized, or moved as well in its narrative pace, but at least it wouldn't have reeked of colonialism. This was an African war, involving solely Africans, in fact, on which the United States and the rest of the developed world were distinctly absent from. While I do not pretend Eggers or his publishers intentions mirror those of the recent administrations of the United States, one would think the African nature of this story would demand an African voice.

Or perhaps I need to step off my soapbox and thank Deng and Eggers for a wonderfully personal account of one of the most awful sets of events I have ever read about. Five stars for the book. It was great, you should read it. Minus one star for an air of suspicion that may get more malicious as I think about the implications of this book more.