avec une version vidéo et une version texte.

On Wired, diving into influencer dynamics and why they don’t really work as reporters at all.

Résumé

Dans un monde où la civilisation s’est effondrée suite à une pandémie foudroyante, une troupe d’acteurs et de musiciens nomadise entre de petites communautés de survivants pour leur jouer du Shakespeare. Un répertoire qui en est venu à représenter l’espoir et l’humanité au milieu de la désolation.

Avis

Une pandémie (non, pas celle-là) détruit presque l’humanité. Un homme meurt sur scène. Le reste du monde meurt deux semaines plus tard.

Des petits groupes de survivants tiennent bon, du mieux possible. Cet homme qui est mort un soir lors d’une représentation de Shakespeare a laissé d’autres personnes dans son sillage. Des ex-femmes, un enfant, une petite fille qui jouait un rôle mineur dans sa pièce, un paparazzi. Certains sont encore vivants, d’autres non.

Ils ne se connaissent pas, et pourtant, ils se retrouvent : dans une troupe de théâtre itinérante, une secte meurtrière, un aéroport devenu musée.

Un ouvrage frappant, aux personnages tiraillés entre le monde que nous connaissons et celui qui les attend. Brillant.

publication croisée depuis : https://jlai.lu/post/5591141

In this very long essay (or very short nonfiction book, depending on what framing you prefer), Casey Plett says she’s going to try to define community, then immediately makes it clear that it can’t be defined.

Take the phrase “the [X] community.” When I read that phrase, I think: How does this person know this about the [X] community? What are the borders of the [X] community? How is the writer deciding who counts within them and who does not? Is the writer a member of the [X] community? Would others dispute their membership? Whatever claim is made about the community, how many sections within it must the claim apply to in order to justify the term? Perhaps most importantly, How can that writer possibly decide who gets to speak for the community? And who are those not speaking in their place?

And then, she tells us what it means to feel like you have a community, or none, or to be included or rejected of one community. She talks about « cancel culture », she talks about awkward trans picnics and of justice in the Mennonite community and of when you feel that you’re « from here » − a topic that I definitely relate to.

Communities welcome certain people and cast a suspicious eye on others. Communities lift up their valued members and ignore those they value a bit less. Sometimes those values are, shall we say, suspect. Communities can expel members when they choose, regardless of what that means for the member, and they stay communities no matter how heartless that expulsion might be.

tldr: communities are a vague concept with good and bad things in them.

…but I feel like it’s best to read the book, because that’s a pretty short tldr, huh?

Présentation officielle

De sa fenêtre, Salim regarde la mer, le mouvement des vagues, et enfin il se sent vivre. Ici, à Alger, le soleil brille mais le quotidien est gris. Pas de boulot. Pas de perspective ni d’espoir. Il n’y a que des mauvaises cigarettes, des mauvaises bières et des mauvaises nuits. C’est la désillusion, et Salim ne veut pas être un désillusionnaire de plus. Il va partir, prendre la mer et rejoindre l’Europe, pour y libérer son énergie et réaliser son envie d’avenir. Mais comment faire ?

Mon avis

Dans ce roman court, si court, trouvé au détour d’une critique sur le Bondy Blog, j’ai trouvé toute la douleur et toute la frustration de Salim, notre narrateur qui a vu venir et partir les espoirs du Hirak et décide de traverser la Méditerranée clandestinement.

S’ensuivent de plus en plus d’espoirs brisés, d’argent perdu, de passeurs véreux, de compagnons de route qui lui briseront le cœur ou la mâchoire, tout ça pour aller en Espagne puis en France, parce qu’il paraît qu’on y sera mieux, même sans papiers, même sans histoire.

Une boule d’angoisse naît dans ma gorge au début de ce livre et ne me lâche que quelques secondes de temps en temps, au détour d’une chanson, avant de me reprendre de toutes ses forces et de me ballotter dans ses creux et ses douleurs.

Excellent.

Sur mon blog: https://alexsirac.com/bruleurs/

About the book (official blurb)

Lea Ypi grew up in one of the most isolated countries on earth, a place where communist ideals had officially replaced religion. Albania, the last Stalinist outpost in Europe, was almost impossible to visit, almost impossible to leave. It was a place of queuing and scarcity, of political executions and secret police. To Lea, it was home. People were equal, neighbours helped each other, and children were expected to build a better world. There was community and hope.

Then, in December 1990, everything changed. The statues of Stalin and Hoxha were toppled. Almost overnight, people could vote freely, wear what they liked and worship as they wished. There was no longer anything to fear from prying ears. But factories shut, jobs disappeared and thousands fled to Italy on crowded ships, only to be sent back. Predatory pyramid schemes eventually bankrupted the country, leading to violent conflict. As one generation’s aspirations became another’s disillusionment, and as her own family’s secrets were revealed, Lea found herself questioning what freedom really meant.

My review

This is the best book about Albania I’ve ever read, which doesn’t tell you much because it’s also the only book about Albania I’ve ever read (for now).

It did make me want to read more, though.

In this book, we follow young Lea as she goes to school in Albania, the Only True Communist Country™, in the 1990s, and as her family goes through the journey of becoming a truly independent country, followed by the joys and pains of embracing capitalism, which includes unbanning religion, trying to figure out what religion even means, watching ads on Yugoslav television, collecting Coca-Cola cans, and needing to choose between several political parties.

There is so much going on, and following this one girl allows us to grasp how incredibly big this is while still keeping it to a manageable, understandable level. It’s extremely well-written, very engaging, reads very naturally and was a perfect first foray into Albanian culture and history for me.

Oh, also? I love memoirs that have plot twists. You’ll have to read the book to understand that one.

Read on my website: https://alexsirac.com/free-coming-of-age-at-the-end-of-history/

publication croisée depuis : https://jlai.lu/post/4804182

The original title of this book was Maryam Was a Dyke, as Lamya H said in their interview on the podcast Gender Reveal (if you speak English, grab the episode or transcript, if you prefer French, the translated transcript will be on this blog soon). They then changed it because some friends said that would alienate more traditional Muslim readers, who would be feeling defensive before even starting to read.

Makes sense!

I, however, am not a Muslim reader, regardless of tradition. My main relationship to Islam is that every year for about a month, I feast on pastries and dried dates thanks to my local supermarket’s Ramadan aisle. (Okay, I do have a bit more knowledge and personal relationship to this religion, but it’s not relevant to what I’m about to say and I was reminded yesterday by Auchan that Ramadan aisle time has come again).

For reasons that have nothing to do with my faith, I still don’t think I would have picked up this book if it had been called Maryam was a Dyke. And I would have missed out on something incredible.

Hijab Butch Blues only has the butch in common with Stone Butch Blues, from which it gets its name. Everything is else is new and shiny − especially to me, a person interested in religion and faith, interested in queerness, interested in anti-racism, but with wildly different experiences and characteristics as Lamya H.

This read was both engaging and instructive − I related to so much, and learnt so much about what I did not − cannot − relate to. It’s respectful of everyone and tells a story that needs to be heard again and again by people like me. I think Hijab Butch Blues is a memoir that works for absolutely everybody, always holds you by the hand without ever being condescending, and beautifully mixes the concrete, easy to grasp anecdotes and the more philosophical thinking that goes behind how these little stories were perceived and how they affected Lamya H to this day.

Honestly one of the best memoirs I’ve read, and one of my best reads of 2024 so far.