Anyone writing a memoir wonders just what they’re up to, pulling together the scattered materials of experience and library work, but few express that struggle with the poetry of Sofia Samatar.
This landscape still proves fascinating, if less of a threat than a century and half ago. Capitals like Tashkent andoffer histories both horrifying and rich, in which the Mennonite presence is one of the latest and strangest elements; just the sort of glittery mix irresistible to a magpie. The nest Samatar weaves includes some personal artifacts: “My mother’s family are Swiss-German Mennonites, my father’s Somali Muslims.
As it happens, a mission provides the final stop on her tour. In a dusty corner of Uzbekistan, deep in Muslim territory, the bus pulls up at the old Mennonite church, a Christian sanctuary until the 1930s. The 19th century pilgrims expected to welcome the Messiah and, accordingly, comported themselves with diligence and integrity. Nonetheless, locals know the place now asTo Samatar the name offers no easy irony; rather, she considers it a “radiant mistake.