In “Mandatory Evacuation Zone,” Felice Aull has gathered 63 beautifully crafted poems in which she examines the intricacies of language and loss, of grief and healing.  Each of the book’s five sections considers these themes in slightly different ways, always in language that is understated, vivid, and exact.  In Section I, we read poems that focus on the author’s complicated family history and her early loss of homeland.  In “Tracings” (page 15), an unknown relative (thanks to online genealogy searches) reaches the narrator and wants to meet her.  She, however, only wishes to learn “. . . how my parents / and my infant self / made our tortuous way out . . . . ” Brought in infancy from Germany to America, the author suffers the loss of both native homeland and native language (“Notes from an Alpine Vacation” page 16).  She searches photos of her mother and ponders museum note cards illustrated by Holocaust survivors (“Museum Notecards” page 18), imagining what she can’t quite know and yet can’t quite forget.  

Section II finds the narrator as a young woman in American, awakening to sexuality (“Gay Blades,” “Camp Counselors Make Out,”  “On the Staircase” pages 29-31), becoming a wife and mother, and then a grandmother.  A grandchild’s birth is both joyful and yet another “slipping toward / the edge of separation” (“Daughter in her Eighth Month” page 37). 

In Section III, the author turns her gaze to observations of the world around her, around us, aware of how many come to loss and death.  “Be prepare to mourn,” she tells us in “Disaster in October” (page 49), and in the moving poem, “I Saw the Smoke,” re-visions September 11th in words stripped of sentimentality and therefore made more powerful. 

Sections IV and V confront bodily loss through aging and illness, noting how, in so many ways, we try both to capture and to let go: “You snap photo upon photo / hoping to grasp and preserve / what cannot be grasped” (Capturing Alaska” page 66).  We learn of the most personal losses in poems of biopsies, surgeries, and chemotherapy.  When facing the unknown, every event might seem to hold a prediction.  In “Stunning Blows,” a doorman stuns a mouse, claims that it’s dead.  But the narrator, aware of the wages of time, writes, “But I still see it, like death, / moving toward me” (page 81).  At the book’s end, we return to language, how it too can leave us (“Forget That” page 90).  Yet in the collection’s final, gentle poems, the poet is “able, finally / to walk past the park’s redbud tree / without weeping” (“Immunity” page 96).

Although there are many poems that confront loss both recalled and experienced. grief for self and others, illness and the unknown in this collection, there are also poems of great acceptance and ultimate joy: “These gifts and losses, every year, mine” (“The Key to Gramercy Park” page 98).  The poems in “Mandatory Evacuation Zone,” show us how poetry can help us to “declutter” (see “Divesture” page 99) and release, and at the same time, hold on to and embrace.

Kelsay Books, California 2017: 100 pages

Felice’s website: https://www.feliceaull.com/

Web image created by Medhum.org
A previous version of this review was published in the NYU Literature, Arts, and Medicine Database

The Names opens with a woman, Cora, accompanied by her very talkative 9-year-old daughter Maia, on her way to register her newborn baby son and officially name him. She is married to an abusive husband who expects her to name him Gordon, the name that has been given by long-standing family tradition to every first-born son. Knapp immediately confounds expectation by then splitting the narrative into three distinct streams. She creates a novelistic triptych based on whether Cora, in fact, submits and names the baby Gordon, uses a charming alternative, Bear, offered by her chatty daughter, or substitutes a name of her own choosing, Julian, that she hopes will honor and be appreciated by her husband even if it represents a break in the line of Gordons.  The choice of each one  of these three names results in a distinctly different narrative arc that emerges over the 35-year span of the book. In the Gordon stream, Cora and her children  remain trapped in the tense and hostile domestic environment. In the second, Bear version, Cora accepts her daughter’s suggestion for a name. When her  husband returns from work that day, he goes berserk  and, in a rage, commits a savage murder. He is imprisoned and the mother and children achieve some degree of independence. Finally, in the third, Julian, narrative, where Cora gives the baby the name of her choosing, the husband grows increasingly violent and kills his wife a few years later. The children end up being raised by their maternal grandmother in Ireland and are forced to grapple with the untimely loss of both parents. 

Flashlight is the story of a Korean man, Serk, who leaves his native country as a child with his family for a better life in Japan and grows up there. He moves to the United States as a young man​,​  marries a beautiful but mysterious woman, Anne, from the Midwest, and is hired to join the science faculty of a small mid-level college. They have a precocious daughter, Louisa, who is an amalgam of her parents’ genetic input and more than match for both of them. The novel opens with Serk and the 10-year old Louisa walking along the beach in the early evening. The following morning, the girl is found unconscious and hypothermic at the water’s edge​,​ and the father has vanished. The presumption is that he slipped among the rocks jutting into the ocean, was swept away by the waves and drowned at sea. All is not, however, as it seems. There is international skullduggery involved, though it would be unfair to disclose more. Regardless of the cause of the father’s disappearance,  just as in ​The Names​, the lives of all the main characters in  ​Flashlight​ are ​ irrevocably ​changed by the sudden unexpected event at the beginning of the narrative. The mother-daughter relationship, which can be fraught in the best of circumstances, is profoundly disturbed. The mother, who suffered for many years from undiagnosed multiple sclerosis, is unable to overcome her own physical disability and achieve inner peace. The daughter, despite her obvious intellectual and physical gifts, is incapable of empathizing with others and develops a nearly feral persona. Serk’s story resurfaces in a surprising turn of events. Although there is constant switching of viewpoints and time frames, ​Flashlight​ has a more conventional structure than ​The Names​. 

​​​Why review these two books together? Doctors are taught and are obligated to treat patients one at a time. The guiding principle is that each person who seeks care should be evaluated and managed as an individual. The underlying cause of disease should be identified as precisely as possible​,​ and the therapy should be prescribed that has the highest likelihood of success and matches each patient’s expressed life goals and priorities. However, patients are almost never seen in isolation. Doctors are trained to compare and contrast the men, and women and children that they encounter, to find commonalities and differences among them in the hope that this wider, more nuanced  field of vision will sharpen their diagnostic acumen and improve their therapeutic recommendations for each patient that they treat. 

I suggest that reading these two novels together provides a literary example of how an analysis of two books that at first appear to be similar reveals different insights about the ramifications of sudden, life altering occurrences.  This is concretized by the contrasting authorial  ​​tone, warm and fuzzy in The Names versus cool and detached in Flashlight, and how we as readers engage with these two books. 

​​The Names​ details the consequences of Cora’s impulsive decision about what name she should give to her newborn son. ​Flashlight​ recounts the unspooling of the characters’ lives after one of them disappears while walking along the beach with his daughter. In ​The Names,​ the fateful event is a personal human choice, in ​Flashlight​ it is an inscrutable act by an unseen, hostile foreign government. This stark difference is manifest in the way readers experience the subsequent stories. As one moves through the 35-year span of ​The Names​, each 7-year interval in which Knapp picks up the story of the “three” sons feels organically linked to preceding period. The actions of Cora, her children, and the supporting cast of characters follow a trajectory that feels smooth and organic. It is true that while unexpected events intrude into each named narrative – Bear, Julian, and Gordon – the global sweep feels grounded and recognizable. There is admittedly a temporary sense of disorientation and a need to regain one’s footing ​in the plot ​as Knapp switches gears and advances to the next 7-year interval in the story of the triply named son. The narrative scenery and settings are abruptly changed​,​ and it can take the reader a few pages to get oriented and mentally  ​​settled. But within each tale, there is pervading tenderness and a sense of human initiative.  

In contrast, ​Flashlight​ has a staccato disjointed feel. The novel changes location and time period without clear reason. The nature of the characters, why they do what they do, and the basis for the choices they make, seem inexplicable, as if they are acting randomly and have no control over their lives. ​​Unlike the protagonists in ​The Names,​ who one wants to see overcome their difficulties, ​ and ​for whom one subconsciously roots for their ​well-being​, there is a reluctance to embrace or even sympathize with the characters in ​Flashlight​. They feel remote and distant until nearly the end of the book. It is Choi’s brilliance as a writer that maintains the cohesiveness of the composition and ensures that the reader remains fully committed to the novel and motivated to ultimately understand and come to grips with the plight of the people who populate the literary world she has created. 

Occasionally, as readers, we may encounter two novels that complement one another. ​The Names​ and ​Flashlight​ fell into that circumstance for me. As a pediatrician, I was taught to try to understand the impact of primordial events on the life trajectory of my patients, how singular experiences can have long lasting repercussions for health and disease. But these events are not all the same. Some are internal, reflecting private human decisions, and others are external, reflecting trials and challenges imposed unpredictably by the outside world. The warmer narrative of ​The Names​ reflects the former circumstance while the opaque tone of ​Flashlight​ mirrors the arbitrary and cruel act that launches the story. ​For physicians, ​appreciating the disparate impact of vastly different life events on people will improve our understanding of patients’ experiences and help us provide more compassionate care. These two books, taken together, illustrate the underlying objectives of MedHum, namely, to explore how humanities can meaningfully shed light on ​the ​human experience and the practice of medicine​.

The Names  
Florence Knapp  
Pamela Dorman Books/Viking, New York  
2023, 328pp  

Flashlight 
Susan Choi 
Farrar, Straus, Giroux
2025,  450pp 

Web image created by Medhum.org

From the closest bus stop, the shift in focus is immediately apparent. A walk along the Avenue de la Paix (Peace) takes one past sculptor Daniel Berset’s monumental broken chair statue, conceived to encourage a multi-national ban on anti-personnel mines and cluster munitions. In the background, stands the European headquarters of the United Nations in the beautiful Palais des Nations (originally built in 1929 to house the League of Nations). A bit farther on, a statue of Gandhi greets passers-by, adorned one recent day with tributes to the late Russian political activist and prisoner, Alexei Navalny.  

The Red Cross/Red Crescent museum itself sits at the foot of the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) headquarters, a large white building atop a hill. A modern glass and steel structure houses the collection where visitors are invited to learn more about the organization’s origins, as well as the long-standing alliance between individual Red Cross and Red Crescent national societies that provide humanitarian relief around the world. 

While the organization of exhibits in the museum’s permanent collection is not strictly chronological, a sculptor’s dramatic all-white rendering of Henri Dunant seated at a desk—and accompanying text—explains the Geneva resident’s role in the founding in 1863 of what is now the International Red Cross. Dunant, who was first inspired to create a relief effort to alleviate the suffering of soldiers after witnessing the 1859 battle of Solferino, Italy, also participated in the framing of the original Geneva Convention of 1864. On display in a nearby case, copies of that document contain language that reflects the authors’ optimism, “Ambulances and military hospitals shall be recognized as neutral…Wounded or sick combatants, to whatever nation they may belong, shall be collected and cared for.” Subsequent versions that expanded on the protections outlined—thereafter referred to as the Geneva Conventions—were drafted respectively in 1906, 1929, and 1949, with the lattermost document still remaining in effect.  

To safeguard both those providing care and wounded soldiers, the Convention “established a universally protective symbol: a red cross on a white background.” (There has been some debate about whether the white cross on the emblem was intended to carry religious significance or was simply chosen as a readily recognizable symbol, i.e., the inverse of the Swiss flag.) A little more than a decade later, use of the red crescent—a symbol more readily recognizable to Muslim soldiers—was initiated, with formal adoption of this symbol in 1929. Today, the red crystal emblem is used by allied societies in regions where the population does not identify with the cross or the crescent.  

Throughout the museum, the response of the Red Cross and the Red Crescent to humanitarian crises around the world is documented through a variety of materials including photographs, artifacts, and facsimiles of official records. The experiences of survivors in more recent conflicts and natural disasters are brought to life through additional media, including music, graphic representation, and recorded testimony. A striking example is found in the Hall of Witnesses where visitors can sit face-to-face with greater-than-life-size videos of survivors describing their experiences—among them, a former child soldier, a civilian who lost his legs but now works with other amputees, and a woman who experienced multiple displacements from her home country. 

The youngest victims of conflict come into focus in a haunting display of photographs posted along the wall of a nearby room; the accompanying text explains that the children portrayed are survivors of the 1994 Rwanda Genocide. Separated from their relatives at such an early age many did not know their family identities, or even their own names, making reunification difficult and sometimes impossible.  

Fortunately, there is hope to be found as well. In the Restoring Family Links section of the museum, more testimony may be viewed and heard, describing instances in which families separated by conflict have been reunited by the Red Cross and Red Crescent. Stories of recovery and resilience, even among individuals who might have given in to despair, amaze and inspire. 

In another gallery, a display of artwork crafted by prisoners and made primarily from found materials serves as testament to the desire for creative expression among those who have yet to attain their freedom. Among these works: a locomotive made by a French prisoner in Germany in 1941; a set of playing cards drawn by a Moroccan prisoner held by the Polisario Front (a group seeking independence in the Western Sahara) in 1998; and a miniature palace put together by Lebanese prisoners in Israel in 1999. (A book of this artwork is available in the museum shop.) 

With not all threats to human dignity stemming from civil wars, nationalist movements, repressive governments and militia, the Red Cross and Red Crescent also work to prepare vulnerable populations for natural disasters. A small area of the museum is devoted to this work, while a newer threat, cybersecurity is addressed at the Data Detox bar, where a pick-and-choose your own cocktail metaphor is used to provide “…steps you can take to control your digital privacy, security, and wellbeing”; cards that summarize this information are available to take home. 

Leaving the exhibits behind, in the lobby of the museum, the departing visitor is reminded of the power of literature and art to communicate our moral obligation to alleviate human suffering, as well as our capacity to do so. A quote from Dostoevsky that runs along one wall recalls our universal responsibility to one another, while nearby, observers are invited to add their own bit of weaving to artist Zahrasadit Hakim’s tapestry-in-progress, an example of how the cumulative efforts of many changes, supports and enhances the whole. 

The Museum of the International Red Cross and Red Crescent
https://redcrossmuseum.ch/
Av. de la Paix 17, 1202 Genève, Switzerland.  

Photo of the Red Cross/Red Crescent museum from wikicommons

Paul Harding uses this disquieting episode as the basis for his latest novel, The Other Eden. Harding is the author of Tinkers, his debut novel which was published in 2009 by Bellevue Literary Press. That book was awarded the Pulitzer Prize, a unique achievement for a book that had been published well outside of the mainstream. His setting is called Apple Island, and the founders are Benjamin Honey, a freed slave, and his Irish wife Patience Raferty who arrive on the island in 1792. They survive a monstrous storm and flood in 1815 and together with a handful of families build a community that over the next 100 years is able to endure and thrive in the face of the harsh elements that confront them.

The descendants of the Honeys are the most prominent characters in Harding’s narrative. The current matriarch, Esther, spends most of her time brooding in a rocking chair, keeping watch over her family, and vigilantly guarding a secret about her son, Eha. Eha is a carpenter, who partners with another resident on the island to build all of the homes for the residents; this partner is an older man who lives alone sheltered inside a hollowed-out tree and who has carved an intricate circular mural that coils upward along the trunk of his home.  Ethan, Eha’s 15-year old son, is a precociously talented artist who is alert to nature and his surroundings and constantly putting images to paper. His two younger sisters are always on the go and playing with the children of three other families.

The outside world intervenes in this quiet secluded world when a team of officials from the neighboring town of Foxden on the coast comes to Apple Island with a mission — to investigate the health and well-being of the inhabitants. They are primed by an entrenched belief that there are certain people in society who are innately better and the consequent dangers of mixing races and inbreeding over several generations. With this in mind, the town representatives conclude that it is in the best interest of all concerned to condemn the Apple Island village and disperse its inhabitants. This is the only solution that they believe will prevent future generations from being adversely affected by the downward spiral of human intellectual and moral capacity and that will avoid the spread of this social contagion beyond the confines of the island. Interwoven with this depressing storyline, there is an effort by a local minister to rescue Ethan from Apple Island because he is very fair-skinned. He may be able to pass as White and his artistic talent may enable him to overcome his “flawed” racial beginnings. Needless to say, the path to a tragic ending is patiently laid out by the author. But Harding’s genius is to make us appreciate the deep humanity and abiding love that the inhabitants of Apple Island sustain even though they cannot escape the colony’s ultimate demise.

A plot summary cannot do justice to the beauty and power of Harding’s prose. His principal characters are simple people living  a subsistence existence. But they are embedded in a lushly evoked environment, and they are attuned to the rhythms of nature and the cycles of daily human life. The emotions are deeply felt, and the action rings true; the inhabitants of the island are not cardboard heroes or angels. There is a threat of violence lurking just below the surface that can emerge with shattering force when triggered by unexpected events.

Ethan’s story is presented as a complex mixture of personalities and motivations. The minister who comes to Apple Island to tutor the children and who devises the plan to rescue Ethan from life on the island recognizes the remarkable native intelligence of his school-age pupils, one who is literate in Latin, another who has mastered geometry. But he painfully admits in his private journal to deep feelings of revulsion when he is surrounded by the black and mixed race children in school. When Ethan is relocated to the home of a wealthy family on the mainland to continue his art education, he becomes more than friends  with one of the servant girls, Bridget. There is a familiar element to their story, but the last stage is surprising and moving in its depiction of devotion and steadfastness in the face of love and separation. Ethan’s fate is mysterious, but his drawings live on in museum exhibitions.

The underlying motivations of the mainlanders who come to survey the living conditions of the people on Apple Island are clothed in their seemingly noble aspiration of improving the lot of humanity.  They use the language of social Darwinism to defend their eugenics agenda, and this is no simple literary plotline. The eugenics movement in the United States was widespread and widely accepted; the nation became obsessed with the concept of “fitter families” and the dangers of reproduction of the unfit, and over 60,000 “feeble minded” individuals were involuntarily sterilized in early twentieth century America. The horrible consequences of flawed science and mistaken beliefs about biology and intrinsic human worth are made abundantly clear. But Harding’s writing rises above formulaic condemnation or pedantic instruction to the reader. He makes you live the experience and the suffering of the islanders whose humanity is so grossly ignored by the team of experts sent to learn about them and then deal with them.

Many reviewers of The Other Eden have commented on the mythic nature of the book. I think they sell Harding short. I think his accomplishment is far greater. His writing is almost Biblical in nature,  in the sense that Marilynne Robinson describes biblical writing in her recent book Understanding Genesis (Farrar, Strauss, and Giroux, 2024). In that work, Robinson marvels at how all of the events that unfold in Genesis occur under divine guidance and plans, yet  the men and women maintain their independence to act and influence their fate. God and  humankind are in a covenantal relationship. Each has the capacity to surprise, to rise above their circumstances, defy expectations and even act out of love and forbearance when circumstances might dictate revenge and retribution. Similarly, Harding’s literary world is infused with the powerful belief in human agency and decency, concepts in direct counterpoint to the biologic determinism to which the mainlanders subscribe

The Other Eden evokes many Biblical narratives and themes. Apple Island grows out of a flood and the inhabitants are dispersed after the decision is made to end the colony. There is demonic evil and the threat of servitude, with the image of an enslaving Pharaoh lurking over the heads of the investigators from Foxden. There is branding at birth, deception of elders, scheming to save a favored child, and banishment of a disgraced woman. Noah, Abraham, Jacob, Moses, Pharoah, and Ruth are hovering over the residents of Apple Island. Harding uses all of these archetypal tropes and personalities. But like all good Biblical narratives, the images serve to construct a human world that speaks to all of us. The Other Eden is more than a foundation myth. It is a chronicle of living.

THIS OTHER EDEN
Paul Harding
W.W. Norton and Co.
2023
221 pp (paperback)

Web Photo by Seth Dewey