This was a challenging read in all the ways the book itself warns it will be. As a formal diatribe saying, essentially, “silence is violence,” I felt uncomfortably complicit throughout the book. I am not educated enough about the war in the Middle East nor have I dedicated the time, which speaks precisely to the book’s thesis. It pulls zero punches about the global tragedy, and particularly the luxury and privilege of the Western world to be disconnected from the events. I had some nitpicks about the writing, where some of the parenthetical phrases felt forced and vindictive, but all of that is ultimately inconsequential. It is an impressive book. The family history connection makes the story personal while the journalist background keeps it professional. Sadly, I feel this same book could be written (and probably has) about any number of global issues, and come to the same realization: human nature tends to lean towards self-interest. A solution was not offered—that’s not this book’s responsibility—and that only made for a more devastatingly bleak conclusion.
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