The Return: Fathers, Sons and the Land in Between

by Hisham Matar

Surely such journeys were reckless. This one could rob me of a skill that I have worked hard to cultivate: how to live away from places and people I love.

And I remember this man who never ran out of poems telling me once that “knowing a book by heart is like carrying a house inside your chest.”

Guilt is exile’s eternal companion. It stains every departure.

Revolutions have their momentum, and once you join the current it is very difficult to escape the rapids. Revolutions are not solid gates through which nations pass but a force comparable to a storm that sweeps all before it.

Or is this what being home is like: home as a place from which the entire world is suddenly possible?

Back in 2002, I had sent a letter to Nelson Mandela via a friend who had played a prominent role in the anti-apartheid movement and who knew the South African president personally. In the letter I asked Mr. Mandela whether, given his close ties with Qaddafi, he could inquire about my father’s whereabouts and well-being. The answer, which was given to my friend, was unambiguous: “Mandela says to never ask him such a thing again.” As it was secondhand, it is impossible to be certain of the wording, but what was clear is that even a man as great as Nelson Mandela felt too indebted to Qaddafi to risk upsetting him.

Perhaps it is the anxiety of losing someone that keeps us attached.