Review 'The Beekeeper of Aleppo' by Christy Lefteri

The mid-2010s were dominated by stories and images of immigrants coming to Europe, with immigrants often being portrayed in the media as an endless wave of people. The Beekeeper of Aleppo’s success lies mainly in that the novel restores their individualism as well as a sense of humanity lost in the discussion around the European immigrant crisis. It does so by telling the story of beekeeper Nuri and his wife Afra: Syrian refugees who are forced to leave the rubbles of Aleppo and embark on a treacherous journey that lands them into the welcoming arms of British bureaucracy.

Lefteri’s novel beautifully manages to weave together past and present, and makes readers witnesses of the traumatic events that were at the centre of Nuri and Afra’s final years in Aleppo and their escape to Britain. The novel stands as an up-close, personal testimony of all those scarred and damaged (physically and mentally) in recent wars in, among others, Syria and Afghanistan.

In one of the many heart-wrenching scenes, Nuri’s precious beehives have been destroyed. Their death is not only a personal loss for Nuri but also symbolises the brutality and futility of war, which leaves nothing undestroyed. The bees, associated with life, were innocent, treated with the utmost care, love and compassion; but this didn’t prevent them from being brutally wiped out. With both his son and his bees dead, there’s nothing left anymore in Aleppo for Nuri to hold on to.

Despite this and other moments of at the core heartbreak, it was at times difficult for me to truly connect to Nuri as his grief and suffering were often described from a distance. This can be forgiven, though, when we consider that people without a similar experience might struggle to comprehend the extent of the trauma of war; that is, we can get a glimpse of it, but we’ll never fully understand it. To have been there is to be able to understand. At the same time, Nuri’s remoteness makes sense assuming he put up walls in order to avoid having to deal with his traumatic memories and hide them not only from himself and the people around him but for the readers, too.

During her time as a volunteer in a Greek refugee centre, Lefteri gained insight into the lives of unseen and unheard individuals. By telling the personal story of a family in The Beekeeper of Aleppo, Lefteri disrupts and tears apart the collective image of immigrants as a multitude. The novel is a timely tale of two people who lose everything in war, but it’s also a story of endurance. Somehow, Nuri and Afra are able to muster all their strength, willpower and courage to leave the ruins of their home behind. Their sacrifice grew out of necessity. Yet, despite everything there is hope: hope for a future, hope for new life and, in due time, hope for the ability to give their tremendous loss a place.

The Beekeeper of Aleppo describes with great sensitivity the beehives and its inhabitants, evokes a memory of Aleppo that’s not yet been marked by the recent civil war and bloodshed, and appeals to readers’ human decency and compassion. No matter your views on immigration and the refugee crisis, it’s hard not to be moved by Nuri and Afra’s story.

Review 'The Man in Black: Peter Moore – Wales Worst Serial Killer' by Dylan Rhys Jones

In a grey past, I took it upon myself to study law. Fresh out of school and with little sense of direction, I had only a vague notion of what such studies would entail. After two years of battling my way through the courses, with criminal law being my stumbling block, I realised I lacked the passion I knew was vital for becoming a successful lawyer.

In The Man in Black: Peter Moore – Wales’ Worst Serial Killer, Dylan Rhys Jones in many ways has confirmed and enforced the image of lawyer life that deterred me from wanting such a life for myself. The extra hours, digging through piles of files and case law, the tedious waiting for interviews with clients—it’s all part of the job and Jones’ account is not too glamourous. If you’re searching for a story of a big city lawyer flashing dollars living life in the fast lane this is not your book. However, if you’re looking for an honest, unique view into the inner life of a criminal lawyer, you should give The Man in Black a try.

TV shows on law and justice might have caused you to believe that only those with the coldest hearts are capable of defending people who allegedly raped, assaulted or murdered someone. As Jones is well-aware of such views, he counters them early on. He also shows that behind that seemingly impenetrable wall, the hardened face that beams with authority as it vehemently spits out the seeds meant to sow doubt, rests a fragile figure haunted by faces, stories and memories of the most heinous crimes and those who committed them.

Jones comes across as a lawyer with great passion, integrity and unpretentiousness, but also as a human battling with fears and self-doubt. While the former makes him likeable, the latter makes him interesting and relatable. Gradually, his enthusiasm and devotion turn against him, and rather than him consuming the case, the case starts to consume him:

One of my weaknesses as a lawyer was that when I became involved in a case I found interesting and intellectually stimulating, it would then take over my working hours and regularly also all of my free time…I suppose that this was my strength as a lawyer, but also eventually my downfall.

Jones leaves no doubt about the impact such cases have one all people involved, including the defence lawyer:

The truth is that those cases stay with you, become part of your DNA, penetrate into your very being as a lawyer and as a person and challenge you with questions and dilemmas which you may be unprepared to face.

People have always had a deep fascination for horror and death, even if we denounce any form of violence. We willingly devour those terrifying tales of serial killers, the ‘macabre legends told to others so as to chill the blood and unsettle the mind of the listeners’. The evidence against Peter Moore contained countless of documents as well as photographic material, including photos of the victims, which Jones had to study for the purpose of the case. The effects of being continuously exposed to such horror shouldn’t be underestimated. It’s the reality people like Jones, but also police officers and court clerks, have to deal with.

Reading about real-life violence from the lawyer’s perspective, seeing it as Jones did, also painfully lays bare a process in which the general public and media become the perpetrators of another type of violence. In high-profile murder trials victims are often made into a spectacle: stripped of their dignity, they become stories and still images, silenced figures whose eyes scream fear and pain, used in court to make a point. It’s trespassing, horrendous, upsetting. Jones reminds us that

Behind every murder, somewhere on the ground, on a floor, a wall or ingrained into someone’s memory, is a silhouette of a person, lying there dead or dying.

Traumatic memory is at the heart of the story. Through The Man in Black, Jones analyses the effects Peter Moore and his case had on Jones’ own mental well-being. As a criminal defence lawyer, Jones had to deal with the most horrific cases, which for him (and likely many others) meant not dealing with it at all and telling himself ‘it will pass’. It doesn’t pass, though, and it might never will. Let’s hope, then, that for Jones writing The Man in Black was at least somewhat cathartic.

Review 'Guns Under the Bed: Memories of a Young Revolutionary' by Jody A. Forrester

There’s no denying that Jody A. Forrester is a product of capitalism, a system she tried to denounce tirelessly during her rebellious youth, as by writing and publishing a book, particularly a memoir, she committed a most anti-communist act. How bourgeois! How intellectual! Yet, memoirs are written by people with fascinating, turbulent, exhilarating pasts and Forrester’s Guns Under the Bed proves hers is a journey worth sharing.

In her memoir, Forrester returns to her past to answer the question of how she went from being a pacifist anti-Vietnam War activist to becoming a member of the communist Revolutionary Union (RU). She links her transformation mostly to toxic relationships and life-shattering moments. The in-depth analysis of some of the (traumatic) events that shaped her can’t help but make you care deeply about young Jody.

When memorising her formative years, Forrester draws the image of a child whose soul and spirit are continuously crushed by people who are supposed to love and support her unconditionally. She describes how her relationship with her parents was strained because ‘my dad was always angry, my mom always busy, always ready to push me away’. She also grew up fully aware that she lived in a world where ‘smart didn’t trump pretty’, that she was ‘too tall for a girl’, and that her ‘teeth were too big, my mouth too wide, my upper lip way too thin’, as confirmed by her mother, acquaintances and doctors alike.

It’s unsurprising that with such a youth, adolescent Forrester starts searching for an alternative family, a community united by a common goal. By joining the RU she initially ‘found a family with whom I fit, a family who didn’t care whether my hair was straight or curly, or teased me for laughing too loud’.

Against the background of the Vietnam War and the tumultuous Sixties, Guns Under the Bed makes for a unique story. In her attempt to find a sense of belonging by joining the RU, Forrester finds herself instead manoeuvring through a male-dominated landscape founded on the same patriarchal, capitalist ideals the RU so desperately wants to overthrow. Forrester’s initial dedication to and appraisal of the communist cause and RU are unconvincing as it’s obvious from the outset she’s nothing but a cog in a, frankly, harmful system: relationships with outsiders are discouraged, emotions are to be suppressed, individuality must be abandoned. Only rationality, the Party’s hierarchy, and obedience matter.

Forrester’s devotion to the RU never alienates the reader, though, as Guns Under the Bed is much more than one woman's political journey and coming-of-age story. The personal troubles the memoir deals with are topics that transcend time: problematic relationships, abuse, harassment, but also threats of a global scale that have the power to instil deep fear and anxiety in individuals (for instance, the nuclear threat). In addition, the memoir has a much broader historical and contemporary relevance in the way in which it addresses sometimes overt sometimes covert discrimination (Forrester is of Jewish descent and therefore it’s unavoidable she’s greeted with the occasional anti-Semitism), immigration and exploitation of immigrants, and racism.

In this light, it’s impossible to ignore the socio-political relevance Guns Under the Bed has today as the memoir grimly reminds contemporary readers of our own tumultuous times. The past doesn’t repeat itself but, rather, the present is a continuation of that past of unresolved social, political and economic conflict. As she witnesses footage of the horrors of the Vietnam War and race riots on American soil, Forrester notes that ‘the images assaulted me, and I sat there blown away by the brutal treatment done to the Vietnamese civilians by American soldiers, and to Black people on the streets by the police and National Guard’. Such descriptions can’t but summon visions of recent demonstrations and demands for equality and equity in the United States.

Despite dealing with these topics, though, Guns Under the Bed never becomes unbearably heavy. The memoir is fast-paced, reads with ease as each sentence flows neatly into the next. The memoir isn't short of beautiful language either. How can you not be awestruck with sentences such as ‘the deep wellspring of humiliation and self-loathing generated that day were the earliest seeds of a self-destructive sense of shame that would become my lifelong shadow companion’?

Guns Under the Bed is also a splendid feminist piece of writing that forces us to re-examine our definition of (female) beauty. In her search of finding a place of belonging and in her desperate need to be part of a community, Forrester ultimately finds some sense of inner peace and self-acceptance when she's, ironically, all by herself. As we live in a time where traditional beauty standards are increasingly challenged, the memoir’s lesson that one can grow to see the ways in which their ridiculed and scorned body can be an asset is invaluable.

Forrester might just be able to successfully move the masses with Guns Under the Bed. Though she may have disappointed her comrades, I'm grateful for her betrayal for without it we wouldn’t have gotten this impressive memoir.

Jody A. Forrester, Guns Under the Bed: Memoirs of a Young Revolutionary (2020), published by Odyssey Books.