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Ishmael Beah draws on the oral tradition of his native Sierra Leone, the West African nation he fled after being drafted as a child soldier.
He chronicles his arduous journey in “A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier.”
“One of the things we did at night, since we didn't have television … We sat around a fire and the older people told stories to the young,” Beah told the crowd on Monday at the Aspen Writers Foundation's Summer Words.
“As young boys, stories were told about moral and ethical standards of communities, how you behaved, but also about history.”
We don't gather around the fire anymore, not unless we're camping, but we still tell those stories.
Writers from around the world are gathered in Aspen this week for the literary festival, this year dubbed “World of Words.” It's a reminder that these stories we tell each other are universal. They resonate with readers around the world, no matter our experiences, because even if we haven't fled civil war in Sierra Leone or grinding poverty in Mexico, we have experienced desperation and suffering and loss.
“I firmly believe there is no ‘them.' There is only ‘we,'” said author Luis Alberto Urrea. Urrea's books cross borders time and time again. He is best known for “The Devil's Highway,” a nonfiction account of the deaths of 14 Mexican immigrants who baked to death in the Arizona desert. His newest book, “Into the Beautiful North,” follows the northward journey with a more humorous slant.
“I also believe that place is not out there. It's right here,” said Urrea, whose mother is American and his father is Mexican.
I don't think those are just platitudes. If we think of ourselves as humans first and quibble over nationalities later, the borders melt. We are citizens – and readers – of the world.
Alongside the elders gathered around the fire, Beah said, he grew up with Shakespeare and “Treasure Island.” He wasn't worried about the fact that they weren't written by West Africans.
Chimamanda Adichie said she grew up reading the pulp adventure stories of hero Allan Quartermaine and proper English children, and they resonated with her growing up in Nigeria.
“I read books in which children played with snow and made snowmen,” she said, “so of course I wrote about children making snowmen.”
Even though she had never seen snow.
Even though I've never seen India or Ireland, I can appreciate the words of these writers. And even though we're not gathered around a fire, there is still something spellbinding about sitting among these writers and hearing their own stories, uttered in their own voices.
These are the stories they tell.
“We had walked six miles and were now in Kabati, Grandmother's village. It was deserted. All that was left were footprints in the sand leading toward the dense forest that spread out beyond the village.
“As evening approached, people started arriving from the mining area. Their whispers, the cries of little children seeking lost parents and tired of walking, and the wails of hungry babies replaced the evening song of crickets and birds. We sat on Grandmother's verandah, waiting and listening.” – Ishmael Beah, “A Long Way Gone”
* * *
“They kissed, a brief press of their lips before she left. He knew that seeing that pathetic young soldier had upset her, and he knew, too, that she was thinking that the young soldier was not the reason the crops failed. They failed because the land was poor and the harmattan was harsh and there was no manure and there was nothing to plant, and when she managed to get some seed yams, the people ate half before they planted them.” –Chimamanda Adichie, “Half of a Yellow Sun”
* * *
“Everything seemed woven of purest sunlight. The coconut palms bobbed with their bright green harvest nestled among the silky-looking fronds. Beyond the coconuts, hibiscus trees stood twenty feet tall, burning with crimson blossoms. … The faint whiffs of rotting porpoise occasionally spoiled the Edenic effect, but otherwise they had reached the most perfect spot in the world.
“Irma said to María, her niece: ‘Your husband should have come here before he left. He would have stayed home. In México lindo!'
“Nayeli's mother replied, “You cannot eat beauty.” –Luis Alberto Urrea, “Into the Beautiful North”
* * *
On this shrinking globe, these are stories that bring us together around the same fire. The words remind us that, while we have different countries and cultures, we share the same hearts.
He chronicles his arduous journey in “A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier.”
“One of the things we did at night, since we didn't have television … We sat around a fire and the older people told stories to the young,” Beah told the crowd on Monday at the Aspen Writers Foundation's Summer Words.
“As young boys, stories were told about moral and ethical standards of communities, how you behaved, but also about history.”
We don't gather around the fire anymore, not unless we're camping, but we still tell those stories.
Writers from around the world are gathered in Aspen this week for the literary festival, this year dubbed “World of Words.” It's a reminder that these stories we tell each other are universal. They resonate with readers around the world, no matter our experiences, because even if we haven't fled civil war in Sierra Leone or grinding poverty in Mexico, we have experienced desperation and suffering and loss.
“I firmly believe there is no ‘them.' There is only ‘we,'” said author Luis Alberto Urrea. Urrea's books cross borders time and time again. He is best known for “The Devil's Highway,” a nonfiction account of the deaths of 14 Mexican immigrants who baked to death in the Arizona desert. His newest book, “Into the Beautiful North,” follows the northward journey with a more humorous slant.
“I also believe that place is not out there. It's right here,” said Urrea, whose mother is American and his father is Mexican.
I don't think those are just platitudes. If we think of ourselves as humans first and quibble over nationalities later, the borders melt. We are citizens – and readers – of the world.
Alongside the elders gathered around the fire, Beah said, he grew up with Shakespeare and “Treasure Island.” He wasn't worried about the fact that they weren't written by West Africans.
Chimamanda Adichie said she grew up reading the pulp adventure stories of hero Allan Quartermaine and proper English children, and they resonated with her growing up in Nigeria.
“I read books in which children played with snow and made snowmen,” she said, “so of course I wrote about children making snowmen.”
Even though she had never seen snow.
Even though I've never seen India or Ireland, I can appreciate the words of these writers. And even though we're not gathered around a fire, there is still something spellbinding about sitting among these writers and hearing their own stories, uttered in their own voices.
These are the stories they tell.
“We had walked six miles and were now in Kabati, Grandmother's village. It was deserted. All that was left were footprints in the sand leading toward the dense forest that spread out beyond the village.
“As evening approached, people started arriving from the mining area. Their whispers, the cries of little children seeking lost parents and tired of walking, and the wails of hungry babies replaced the evening song of crickets and birds. We sat on Grandmother's verandah, waiting and listening.” – Ishmael Beah, “A Long Way Gone”
* * *
“They kissed, a brief press of their lips before she left. He knew that seeing that pathetic young soldier had upset her, and he knew, too, that she was thinking that the young soldier was not the reason the crops failed. They failed because the land was poor and the harmattan was harsh and there was no manure and there was nothing to plant, and when she managed to get some seed yams, the people ate half before they planted them.” –Chimamanda Adichie, “Half of a Yellow Sun”
* * *
“Everything seemed woven of purest sunlight. The coconut palms bobbed with their bright green harvest nestled among the silky-looking fronds. Beyond the coconuts, hibiscus trees stood twenty feet tall, burning with crimson blossoms. … The faint whiffs of rotting porpoise occasionally spoiled the Edenic effect, but otherwise they had reached the most perfect spot in the world.
“Irma said to María, her niece: ‘Your husband should have come here before he left. He would have stayed home. In México lindo!'
“Nayeli's mother replied, “You cannot eat beauty.” –Luis Alberto Urrea, “Into the Beautiful North”
* * *
On this shrinking globe, these are stories that bring us together around the same fire. The words remind us that, while we have different countries and cultures, we share the same hearts.
