This is a novel whose chapters we witness every day—a story in whose details we play a part, whether we realize it or not. It is the story of those whom their homelands have cast out, compelling them to master the art of dwelling in perpetual transit.
Saleh Dima’s journey begins in Somalia, unfolding within a narrative that transcends all conventional metaphors of migration and asylum—the metaphors of the suitcase, the fence, and the passport. For what migrates here is not merely a displaced individual, but an entire homeland—an identity that ceaselessly re-embodies itself amidst the wandering. It is the novel of the "Homeland-as-Body," torn limb from limb. From Kismayo to Nairobi, and on to Jeddah, Saleh Dima paints a portrait of the eternal refugee—a figure whose times and settings may shift, yet who remains, fundamentally, the refugee: roots suspended in mid-air. Wherever his feet may land, he carries his ghosts with him and offers up his sacrifices; for it is not enough for the refugee simply to settle in a new place to escape the scents, tastes, sensations, and sounds that have indelibly clung to his very flesh.
It is a symphony of sorrow and an eternal quest for the unattainable; yet, it is also a carnival of delight—for refugees, too, possess the right to love, friendship, play, dance, and celebration.