convey what the adults are going through, but falls short. Both Mama and Baba remain mystifying figures -- as perhaps they really were for the child. But it's frustrating for the reader, because Matar does not leave the confusing things about them at the child's level but rather can't help but offer something of an adult perspective -- and there he offers far too little. Similarly, the relationships between the children of the neighbourhood are too obviously (and occasionally) used for literary purposes; less or more again would seem to be preferable. The overall impression is of events that are too much for a child to digest: fair enough (and even that could be compelling) but what Matar regurgitates (and occasionally chews on) isn't entirely satisfying. There's nothing new, nothing different, and, most importantly, very little that is profound here. It's a sad and occasionally poignant tale, but tragedy alone doesn't make a novel. (This is also a book not helped by the whiff of autobiography, feeling neither really true to life nor like adequately creative invention.) There are some well-written and effective scenes, and some good material here, but the novel as a whole isn't convincing. The fact that Mama and Baba are neither fully realised nor sympathetic characters is probably the biggest problem, but far from the only one. It is a book that feels carefully yet ineffectively constructed. A worthy failure, but disappointing nonetheless.