Reviews

Not nearly as powerful as Cockroaches. Mukasonga chooses her mother as this memoir's focal point, and, in some moments, that works wonderfully and evocatively, but, in many others, it becomes less about her mother and more so the everyday practices and rituals of Tutsi life in exile. This causes this book to feel more like a supplemental epilogue to Cockroaches for those readers who seek more anthropological information about Tutsi life rather than the narrative memoir style of Mukasonga's debut. While I recognize that this way of life has been eradicated, and, as such, it's recording is a necessary means of memorializing a lost culture, it had tendency to bore instead of excite.

Still some beautiful prose though (from the prologue):
"Mama, I wasn’t there to cover your body, and all I have left is words – words in a language you didn’t understand – to do as you asked. And I’m all alone with my feeble words, and on the pages of my notebook, over and over, my sentences weave a shroud for your missing body."