It had been in 2002, while an undergraduate at James Madison University, among the many universities nestled on the list of villes and burgs of southern Virginia, that I first discovered the Sudanese author Tayeb Salih. We nevertheless have actually the exact same copy of their novel, Season of Migration to your North, We bought through the college bookstore for some sort of literary works program: a burnt-orange Heinemann paperback version, translated through the Arabic by Denys Johnson-Davies. in the front cover: the visage of a female, carved as though from rock, a sun beating such as a heart below her neck. In the straight back, a huge bookstore barcode, above that are the language SALIH APPLIED.
What hit me personally many then, but still does, ended up being the writer photograph. It’s face that reminds me personally of my dad. Both guys have a similar tight curls of black colored hair, exactly the same broad noses, the exact same drooping earlobes. They both wear the exact same ill-fitting top collars, they both wince if they smile, just as if reluctant to show pleasure. The first-time we saw that face, i recall feeling rent by coincidence, by history. There’s me: the first-generation Sudanese immigrant, my genes muddled with those of an American-born mom, hardly cognizant regarding the information on their social history. Then there’s my dad: now 74, a journalist created in A nile that is small village hours outside of Khartoum. And, us was that same five-letter surname, with the same vowel sandwiched like a tiny person between the “l” and the “h. between us, there was now Tayeb Salih: the Sudanese novelist whose only relation to”
I’ve picked up Season of Migration to your North four times within the fifteen years since i ran across it; or, instead, because it had been thrust upon me personally by way of a teacher.