We need more books by Palestinian and Arab authors. I intend to read more by Etaf Rum. But it pains me to say… I think this could have been a (powerful) short story. The structure and even dialogue is very repetitive, in a way that I’m sure is meant to illustrate the cyclical and generational cycle of abuse, but instead means you could skim chapters and not miss anything. The dialogue is simultaneously wooden and histrionic, and the mystery of Deya’s parents is clear from the start. More complexity, a tighter edit, and this would shine.