The novel is quite nakedly about empire and colonialism, and it is utterly unafraid to leap into the immensity of those words, their labyrinths, the dark and deathlike cold of their truth. The sheer thematic gravity of The Unbroken ambushed me. Coming face to face with The Unbroken, a story that is built out of the bones of the colonial history of North Africa-the history of my people, my history-a story which drags out those perennial hurts and exorcises those familiar demons on the page, I was completely and utterly defenseless. These are the stories that feel almost unbearably personal, the stories I can’t talk about without the words filling my throat to choking, without unlocking something I cannot begin to reconcile.
There are few books I can’t read without pain, without all my old wounds flaring open.
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