Book review: To the End of the Land

What does war mean, really? Renowned Israeli author David Grossman cuts to the core of what conflict really means for people; and delivers a universal, searing and powerful anti-war novel like no other.


Despite it being set in Israel, Grossman’s story could apply to any individual, family or nation that experiences the daily reality of conflict, war or terrorism. And at the same time, it is a searing study of his own society - of a country and its peoples who carry the traumas, dreams and fears of their nations, and who have to deal with the conflict reaching into the core of their lives. Portraying both a universal story and yet one that is so particular to Israel is just the first of one of Grossman’s many achievements in this novel.

To the End of the Land tells the story of Ora, whose son Ofer decides to return to the army instead of hiking with her in the north of the country, which was supposed to be their celebration to mark the end of his military service. Ora has a deep and instinctive fear that Ofer will die in this new operation, and spontaneously decides to go on the hike and avoid all forms of communication. She feels that if she runs away, the 'informers' will not be able to tell her if Ofer dies, and that he therefore cannot die.

Ora invites her old friend Avram to join her on the hike. If anything, Avram epitomises the story – a genius and true lover of life; he was captured as a POW, tortured and left for dead by the Egyptians in the 1973 Yom Kippur War, and is now a shadow of a human being. He symbolises the true horror of war – how it destroys love, family and the body and soul of a human being.

As they hike, Ora delves into the past, her history with Avram and her husband Ilan, and her sons, Ofer and Adam. The love triangle between Avram, Ilan and Ora, and the sons that were conceived by each man, create a powerful narrative. But it is Ora’s description of the minutiae of family life (as if saying it all will render her sons alive and safe) that is the true genius of this story. Grossman portrays family life in the most fascinating, painstaking and realistic narrative, following his theory of how the world doesn’t change in government halls and offices, but rather in the homes and interactions of families. And as Grossman builds and creates the intricate portrait of this family, he demonstrates how war and conflict can destroy it all – how it can invade and break down our most intimate spaces and what is most precious to us. This is the true tragedy of war, and it is what makes this novel a poignant, powerful and painful portrayal of war – and a classic anti-war novel that will stand the test of time.

The importance of land in the book is also a theme of incredible importance, as the land almost takes on a personable role as a character in the story. Indeed, as land is the central facet of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and of so many other wars, its central role in the story highlights what a powerful place it holds in these narratives - but also how it is something separate, that should not govern human behaviour or choices.

Finally, the fact that Grossman’s son, Uri, was killed in the second Lebanon war at the time of writing this book gives the story an even more searing reality – as if that pain is woven between the words on the page. It is this tragedy that delivers the heart of Grossman’s message – that war destroys people, family, individuals and the very inner light of human beings. It is this message that will make To the End of the Land a classic piece of literature that could (hopefully) change the way we see war in the future.

Read more about the book and Grossman here: http://nyr.kr/aWEWqR

The elements of awakening

From Macbeth to Lord of the Flies, writers over the ages have examined the power of nature to awaken the animal aspect in mankind. Sleeper’s Wake by Alistair Morgan places itself within this conversation, yet takes the discussion further, looking at the power of nature to help humanity heal

Sleeper’s Wake tells the story of a man who has lost everything, beginning at the point where he wakes from a coma to be told that his wife and daughter have been killed in a car accident, and he was the driver.

Retreating to Nature’s Valley near Plettenberg Bay to recover, we begin a journey with him that unwraps layers of memories; echoed by an almost undetectable shedding of human norms, boundaries and ethical codes.

This process speeds up when John encounters a family who is also in the valley to recover after a violent trauma, which emerges from a profoundly South African context.

As John and the family’s lives collide, their moral restrictions begin to unravel until the novel hurtles towards a shocking and shattering denouement.

Morgan’s novel almost enters into a conversation with Lord of the Flies, with strong references to the classic. A walk to a mountain called Pig’s Head (which really does exist in Nature’s Valley), heralds a vital moment of moral rebellion that hints strongly at Golding’s narrative. Later, an encounter with baboons brings the question to its climax, as the boundary between man and beast blurs completely.

Morgan also engages with historical moments that question where man ends and nature begins. The title of his novel refers to when John is thinking about the trauma that has happened to the family he meets; and says how men are ‘sleepers’ that all have an animal instinct that can be awakened.

The theory comes from historian Christopher Browning’s study Battalion 101, which looks at the behaviour of men in the Holocaust; and where he ultimately concludes that it is ordinary men who can commit terrible deeds.

However, Morgan’s novel takes the discussion one step further, demonstrating that nature can bring out the worst in man, but that it is also where he will be able to heal. For it is only when man acknowledges that tragedy and joy is the rhythm of the natural life cycle that he can make peace with his past. Just as we sleep and awake, and day follows night, so is our time in this world. Thus, Sleeper’s Wake is a profound study of man at his essence; and his relationship to the earth that we live on.

South Africa is a society that encounters excessive trauma and violence; and yet has an abundance of nature and beauty. As these forces pull South Africans in two directions (“Should I stay or should I go?”), Sleeper’s Wake is vital reading for those looking for a brave and deep discussion on the nature of man, alive and awake in this environment.

The Power of Nothingness

Thorn bushes. Rocks. Sand. Mountains. Silence...

Last weekend I went on a field trip with my Cape History class, to the Tankwa Karoo. Somehow I didn't catch the memo that we were really going to the desert, but this quickly became clear when we slipped out of Ceres and the landscape seemed to empty of its features, greenery and energy. It was somehow unnerving to be swallowed up into this desolation, which was so remote that it was almost exploding with nothingness. I didn't even notice that my cellphone signal had disappeared, not to return until we crossed over those mountains home. Like with most travelling, if you knew what you were about to experience, you may have had doubts about going (at least for me, the homebody). So maybe its better that your knowing leaves you, to be replaced by more urgent yet alive instincts, and that you are rooted and present in each moment, each hour that pulls you along with it, steady yet fragile in its continuum.

Therefore perhaps it was easier to have a quick and painless transition into the desert world. Suddenly we were on a dusty road, surrounded by shades of earth and ochre; and the emptiness. Leila, sleeping in the back, oblivious to the changing landscape and the lessening signals of civilization (later, complaining to each other but both knowing that we were actually loving getting away from it all). Brenda the department administrator next to me, checking on Leila, talking about her children, asking Nigel questions like "why are the rocks black? Did they get struck by lightening?" Abi the budding archeologist from our class, quiet and rooted and fitting into this so much more easily than Leila or I. Stuart in the front- older, quiet, strange. And Nigel the lecturer driving, making inane and hilarious comments in between sharing his expertise on this region of the world and its lost people.

The emptiness therefore weighed heavily, the silence lying on the landscape, all the more loud because of what had been forgotten here. We came to this place to look for a grave that had been found in the Roggeveld mountains, a range which stood imposingly on the edges of the flat desert plains. The grave possibly held the bones of a San person, maybe one of many who died in the trekboer commandos that decimated the indigenous peoples in these areas.

This landscape is intimidating, alien. Coetzee's Heart of the Country emerged urgently in my mind- Magda's senseless narrative as she slowly goes mad in the colonial outback made sense against this emptiness. Nothing to look at, nothing to admire, nothing to absorb the self... it is only you, there, now. You have to turn inwards and face yourself; and the imagination is forced to populate the landscape.

So we went on a hike to try find the San grave. We had photographs from when the grave was found two years ago, but beyond that there was no map, no trail, and no real idea of where we were going. We started hiking straight up amongst the thorn bushes and rocks. I felt great on the way up, strong and fit. I never run or walk with other people so it was good to see how I had built up my fitness. But I knew the way down would be a different story...

When we got to the top of the mountain part we hit a section of boulders, and I started getting a little tired and very nervous. I'm terrified of heights, and I just can't climb or walk on extreme downhills. I have memories of my dad helping me totter down Lion's Head. Since a hike in a canyon in the desert in Israel (2005), I've never hiked again. In that hike I was the last person of about 120 people to come down the side of the ravine, and since then I haven't hiked because I hate downhills and holding people back as they help me down a mountain. Anyway, on a boulder in the Tankwa Karoo, I realized I was in that situation again. I had to stick with the group, which meant I'll eventually have to climb down here. I had no idea this hike was going to be so extreme- no one did.

And the next part was extreme. We found ourselves in a ravine "kloof" area, which was rockier and greener. It felt like a sanctury in a way, and Nigel's theory about San coming here to escape, then being massacred, became more real. After all, no one would carry a body up here to be buried.

We eventually found the grave- a skull and some bones clasped by the earth wall. It was definitely worth it to witness something so historical and real. We left him/her there because of bureaucratic reasons, and there s/he would stay in the silence. Ultimately, the timeless, organic sense of nature's breath existed out there. I sit here now, picturing that skull in the quiet, as it continues within the elements.

To get out of the ravine we climbed down steep boulders, which looked like they must have once been the path of a raging riverbed. We then reached the mountain, where we walked straight down (no trail), through thorn bushes and rocks that scraped my legs with every kind of sharp, pointed plant you can think of! My legs were so red they practically radiated. I only got down that mountain because of Leila and Sandy, who helped me step by step, and talked to me about varsity and men to distract me.

So we got down from that place, and went back to our house for the night. Leila and I could hardly speak we were so exhausted! But we also felt strong and alive and proud and part of something.

Driving out of the desert, we met a guy who is cycling from Grahamstown to Cape Town through this area. Bleached hair, British accent, brown dust- he epitomized someone embedded in this landscape, embracing it. So open to the extreme elements, he demonstrated balance and peaceful acceptance of his circumstances. A living, breathing example the desert's voice if there ever was one.

The relief of leaving the Karoo could be seen and heard. As our cellphones began to beep, as buildings and people began to dot the landscape, it was like being given back reality. Yet beneath the easy welcoming of comfort, I felt grateful for the cleansing, powerful nature of that nothingness, to contrast with my own everything.