Exit West

In a city swollen by refugees but still mostly at peace, or at least not yet openly at war, a young man met a young woman in a classroom and did not speak to her. For many days. His name was Saeed and her name was Nadia and he had a beard, not a full beard, more a studiously maintained stubble, and she was always clad from the tip of her toes to the bottom of her jugular notch in a flowing black robe. Back then people continued to enjoy the luxury of wearing more or less what they wanted to wear, clothing and hair wise, within certain bounds of course, and so these choices meant something.

As I began Exit West, I was smirking and smiling, delighted by the ironic humour to be found in the opening scenes, and I thought that author Moshin Hamid was setting up something biting and satirical like he did with How to Get Filthy Rich in Rising Asia. But before the first chapter was even over, there was a chilling scene and my smirk was gone: Here was a deftly played turnaround, and I was enthralled by the skill with which Hamid continued to manipulate me throughout the rest of the book. Timely in its subject matter and impressive in its execution, I loved this book. Spoilery from here.

Saeed was certain he was in love. Nadia was not certain what exactly she was feeling, but she was certain it had force. Dramatic circumstances, such as those in which they and other new lovers in the city now found themselves, have a habit of creating dramatic emotions, and furthermore the curfew seemed to conjure up an effect similar to that of a long-distance relationship, and long-distance relationships are well known for their potential to heighten passion, at least for a while, just as fasting is well known to heighten one's appreciation for food.

On its surface, this book is a romance between two young people in an unnamed country (echoes of Syria) who begin seeing each other just as militants begin to take over. In the beginning, Saeed works in advertising and Nadia in insurance – they both have offices and cell phones and motorbikes, and while she has a small apartment of her own, he is happy to live with his parents – and they look and act like young people everywhere who are just starting to put down roots in their own communities. But as the fighting draws nearer and danger hits close to home – and their offices close and electricity and cell service is cut off – they begin to talk about escaping, and in a twist of magical-realism, escape presents itself.

Rumors had begun to circulate of doors that could take you elsewhere, often to places far away, well removed from this death trap of a country. Some people claimed to know people who knew people who had been through such doors. A normal door, they said, could become a special door, and it could happen without warning, to any door at all. Most people thought these rumors to be nonsense, the superstitions of the feeble-minded. But most people began to gaze at their own doors a little differently nonetheless.

Throughout the book, we see scenes of refugees from various countries stepping out from pitch-black doorways, always scared and drained, and arriving in places like Dubai, Sydney, or Tokyo. I liked the device of the magical doorways: it doesn't much matter if refugees are travelling by boat or hidden away in the false bottoms of cargo vans or risk frostbitten toes to walk in the snow from North Dakota across the border into Manitoba, they arrive the same; scared and drained. When Saeed and Nadia pay to access a door, they emerge on the island of Mykonos, having escaped the civil war and ending up in a demoralising refugee camp. They make friends with a local Greek girl who is able to bring them to another door, and this time they end up in a huge house in London. As more refugees emerge through a door into the London house and they become permanent squatters, “nativists” (with the tacit approval of the government) begin taking matters into their own beefy hands.

When we migrate, we murder from our lives those we leave behind.

As an analogy, this huge London house gave me pause: If someone (or some country) is so rich that they have a house that can shelter fifty people, a house that's sitting empty, then why shouldn't they be expected to share it with people who are reluctant immigrants? On the other hand, the right to private property is sacrosanct and what have these refugees done to earn their share of this house? It's easy to see all sides of the issue and important to be reminded that all refugees are people who are deserving of more dignity than a tent city can offer. (And as Hamid said in an interview with Lit Hub, with the pressures of climate change making more areas of the globe unlivable, we in the West better get used to the idea of imminent mass migration.)

Against the backdrop of these big issues, Saeed and Nadia are precisely drawn intimate characters who behave in ways that are true to themselves. For a small book, Exit West has a lot of heart and soul, and of the three of Hashim's books that I've read, it is written in the surest, most confident voice. A real gem.

The Man Booker 2017 Longlist: 

4 3 2 1 by Paul Auster 
Days Without End by Sebastian Barry 
History of Wolves by Emily Fridlund 
Exit West by Mohsin Hamid 
Solar Bones by Mike McCormack 
Reservoir 13 by Jon McGregor 
Elmet by Fiona Mozley 
The Ministry Of Utmost Happiness by Arundhati Roy 
Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders 
Home Fire by Kamila Shamsie 
Autumn by Ali Smith 
Swing Time by Zadie Smith 
The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead 

Eventually won by Lincoln in the Bardo, I would have given the Booker this year to Days Without End. My ranking, based solely on my own reading enjoyment, of the shortlist is:

Autumn

Exit West

Lincoln in the Bardo

Elmet

4321

History of Wolves