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The line between right and wrong quickly blurs in Thomas Mullen’s new novel, Lightning Men. The follow-up to his intensely powerful story of Atlanta’s first black cops, Darktown, his latest picks up two years later, in 1950, but is well-crafted enough to stand on its own.

This time, black police officers Lucius Boggs and Tommy Smith stumble upon a shipment of moonshine and marijuana destined for their traditionally black neighborhood. When they attempt to apprehend the white suspects—despite black officers not being allowed to arrest whites—a deadly shootout ensues, leaving one man dead and dozens of questions unanswered.

While the central case is engrossing in itself, Mullen doesn’t stop there. The author begins another sweeping arc as black families begin moving into previously all-white neighborhoods. Danny Rakestraw, one of the few white officers to sympathize with and support the department’s fledgling black police force, is further conflicted when his brother-in-law, Dale, rallies the Ku Klux Klan to “save” their neighborhood from further encroachment by black families. Citing the potential for falling property values and increased crime, events quickly spiral out of control as black homes are vandalized and the homeowners are savagely beaten. Rake, in turn, is left to choose between loyalty to his family and his duty to uphold the law. Both of these storylines eventually coalesce toward a shocking, suspense-filled finale.                                              

Brash and unflinching, Lightning Men transcends typical genre stories by highlighting the real-life racial divide of 1950s Atlanta that is rarely discussed, but should never be forgotten. As in Darktown, Mullen examines the issues without losing sense of the personalities involved, creating a deeply affecting portrait of pre-civil rights America while echoing the ongoing racial injustices that persist today.

The line between right and wrong quickly blurs in Thomas Mullen’s new novel, Lightning Men. The follow-up to his intensely powerful story of Atlanta’s first black cops, Darktown, his latest picks up two years later, in 1950, but is well-crafted enough to stand on its own.

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There are two Henning Mankells: One is doyen of the Swedish suspense genre and creator of the popular Kurt Wallander mystery series; the other contemplates the painful racial relationships between Europeans and Africans, as in The Eye of the Leopard. While lacking the page-turning propulsion of his Wallander books—and nearly devoid of all suspense, period—A Treacherous Paradise is nevertheless an engrossing read, driven by a woman’s evolution and the question she must ultimately face: What future will she choose when the choice is finally hers to make?

At the age of 18, Hanna Renström is defined by her powerlessness, as changes both permanent and frightening toss her one way or the other. Her early life is a series of passive events: Hanna is banished from her home in provincial Sweden; she is given a job as a cook on a ship bound for Australia; she is widowed after being married to a young sailor for mere weeks.

In her first deliberate act, Hanna escapes the impenetrable sorrow of the ship by disembarking in Portuguese East Africa and taking up residence in a brothel barely disguised as a hotel. Hanna marries the brothel owner and almost immediately finds herself widowed again, and so she becomes the proprietress of the bordello and its black prostitutes.

In turn-of-the-century Mozambique, where whites assert a perilous dominance over a simmering black population, Hanna’s status is determined by the color of her skin, a classification that chafes but is initially impossible to subvert. Her defining moment comes when a black woman kills a white man, and in an act of courage that edges on the unbelievable, Hanna aligns herself with the guilty woman, choosing gender over race.

Mankell, who divides his time between Sweden and Mozambique with “one foot in the snow and one foot in the sand,” comes at the postcolonial African narrative like so many European writers before him. A Treacherous Paradise is reactionary literature; like Conrad, and like Hanna herself, Mankell restages the players again and again to better understand the roles of racial imbalance, the unifying quality of fear and possibly his own place in the fold. Readers looking for some Wallander-style twists should keep looking, but fans of evenly paced tales of awakening will recognize the reward.

Suspense author Mankell changes gears with a racially charged story set in colonial Africa.
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Sons may be destined to disappoint their fathers, no matter how much they crave recognition and attention from them or how much they strive to please them. Such stories are the stuff of many iconic works of Western literature, from Virgil and Homer to David Foster Wallace and Jonathan Franzen.

Novelist William Giraldi's muscular, sometimes meandering and poignant memoir, The Hero's Body, joins a growing list of recent father-son memoirs, revealing his insights about this pivotal relationship through the experience of growing up and carving out his manhood in a small New Jersey town.

After an early bout with meningitis in Manville, New Jersey—"a town straight from the blue notes of a Springsteen song"—Giraldi turns to weightlifting in his uncle's basement, not only to regain his physical strength but also to find his way into masculinity. "[I]t's one thing to grow up in this blue collar zip code . . . and another to be raised by men for whom masculinity was not just a way of life but a sacral creed."

In the first part of the book, Giraldi chronicles his sweaty and glorious days in the Edge, a gym where he moves beyond mere weightlifting and enters the cultish world of bodybuilding, which operates with its own creed. Giraldi eventually takes second place in a bodybuilding contest, after which his father seals a bond simply by saying, "you did good."

Shortly after the Edge closes unexpectedly, Giraldi shuts himself off from the world and immerses himself in literature, but then the unexpected happens when his father is killed in a motorcycle crash at the age of 47. Giraldi slides through his grief by searching for answers he knows he won't find: "I want to say that his death was unavoidable . . . nobody or nothing could have saved my father . . . but in my most rational, regretful moments I consider that I or others might have saved him had we only tried; it's just that the trying would have seemed such a transgression against the familial code and such a betrayal of his joy."

Giraldi's robust and elegant writing delves in a vigorously poetic fashion into the heroic efforts men make to sculpt their bodies—either through bodybuilding or riding motorcycles—and discovers that the truly heroic is being fully and convincingly yourself.

Novelist William Giraldi's muscular, sometimes meandering and poignant memoir, The Hero's Body, joins a growing list of recent father-son memoirs, revealing his insights about this pivotal relationship through the experience of growing up and carving out his manhood in a small New Jersey town.
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The Kid, Sapphire’s sequel to Push, the novel on which the movie Precious was based, is a grueling book. The difficulty comes largely because its protagonist, Precious’ son Abdul, is a young man who’s hard to relate to. Frankly, Abdul is psychotic.

The problem isn’t his fault. The book opens with the death of Abdul’s mother when he’s only nine years old and still an innocent. Still, the trauma of Precious’ death and the sugary callousness of the women who take him in are the beginnings of his break with the world. He not only loses his mother and his home, but somewhere along the line he even loses his name—everyone starts calling him “Jamal” or “J.J.” He believes he hears his mother’s voice, he zones out, he talks to himself. His removal to a boy’s orphanage, the oddly named St. Ailanthus, furthers his deterioration; he is by turns sexually and psychologically abused and coddled by the religious brothers who run the place. After a while, Abdul comes to treat his one friend at the orphanage, a smaller boy named Jaime, with the same abuse mingled with perverse tenderness. Still Abdul insists that he’s not a bad boy, and he isn’t. He was with his loving but beset mother—she was desperately poor and deteriorating from AIDS—long enough to have a core of goodness in him. In this, Abdul is a bit more fortunate than Richard Wright’s sociopathic and homicidal Bigger Thomas in Native Son.

Abdul’s escape from the craziness both inside and outside him is dance. He first takes lessons at a studio not far from St. Ailanthus and develops into a brilliant semi-professional dancer. But his vocation doesn’t deliver him from pain. A series of bizarre twists and turns lands him with a group of passionate fellow dancers, but even his connection with them, like his connection with the rest of the world, is ragged and fragile. Sapphire keeps the reader on edge—sometimes, like Abdul, you don’t know whether a situation is “real” or is taking place entirely, or somewhat, in the young man’s mixed-up head. As with Push the author doesn’t gift us with even a semblance of a happy ending, but she does give us hope; the ending of The Kid feels like a cliffhanger, and there’s more to come. We simply don’t know if what’s coming will be better.

The Kid, Sapphire’s sequel to Push, the novel on which the movie Precious was based, is a grueling book. The difficulty comes largely because its protagonist, Precious’ son Abdul, is a young man who’s hard to relate to. Frankly, Abdul is psychotic. The problem isn’t…
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In John Irving’s 14th novel, aging Mexican-American novelist Juan Diego Guerrero travels from his home in Iowa to the Philippines. He plans to fulfill a decades-old promise he made to a Vietnam draft dodger to honor a father killed during World War II, and takes a former writing student as his tour guide. En route to Manila, he is overtaken and seduced by a ghostly mother-daughter duo: fans of Juan Diego’s novels, who will reappear in unexpected, sexually-charged moments throughout his journey. Going on and off his blood pressure medications, he travels in an almost hallucinatory state. He dreams.

“Dreams are ruthless with details,” Irving writes. And the brilliant details of Juan Diego’s dreams are the vivid memories of growing up with his younger sister, Lupe, in a squalid dump on the outskirts of Oaxaca. These memories are both comic and tragic, as one would expect from a John Irving novel. The children’s mother is a prostitute who also works as a housekeeper for the local priests. Juan Diego, an autodidact, teaches himself to read in Spanish and English. Lupe looks into minds instead of books, although her speech impediment means that only Juan Diego can understand her. Much of the book’s comedy—and in its early pages especially, Avenue of Mysteries is laugh-out-loud funny—arises from what is said or unsaid or lost in translation.

Like all Irving novels, Avenue of Mysteries moves with an antic profusion of plots and subplots that defy summary. Here, too, are many of Irving’s familiar motifs: orphans, physical injury and a circus, to name just a few. Yet as funny as the new novel often is, Irving’s reconsideration of earlier themes seems more somber here. The novel explores questions of belief and disillusionment, chance and choice, the mundane and the miraculous. Avenue of Mysteries is a provocative and perplexing novel.

 

This article was originally published in the November 2015 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

In John Irving’s 14th novel, aging Mexican-American novelist Juan Diego Guerrero travels from his home in Iowa to the Philippines. He plans to fulfill a decades-old promise he made to a Vietnam draft dodger to honor a father killed during World War II, and takes…
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What can our beloved old dogs or cats, the wolf on the prairie or the birds in our backyards teach us about ourselves? Do they think about their lives in ways similar to the ways we think about ours? What can we ever know about how they feel or think about their lives in their worlds?

As it turns out, according to Carl Safina in his elegant new book, Beyond Words: What Animals Think and Feel, these are not exactly the right questions to ask if we want to understand more fully the ways in which other animals around us experience and know the world. In his journey to Kenya to observe and live with elephants, Safina quickly realizes that other animals aren’t as good at being like us as they are at being who they are. So, in addition to the elephants of Amboseli in Kenya, Safina also sets out to observe wolves in Yellowstone and killer whales in the Pacific Northwest, watching carefully to determine how human pressures affect what these animals do, where they go and how they live.

In Kenya, for example, he sees elephants pulling spears and veterinarian’s darts out of another wounded elephant’s side as a show of empathy for their fellow creature’s suffering; he observes elephants grieving for up to two years, and he sees one elephant feeding another elephant who cannot use her trunk. These animals display caring, loyalty, bonding and cooperation, and these function as social values among the herd into which they are born, live and die. He observes similar patterns of behavior in wolves and killer whales and dogs.

Safina, who holds a doctorate in ecology, has written six previous books about the natural world and humanity’s impact on it. In Beyond Words, his focus is on the ways animals experience their lives so that we can understand why it’s important that these animals survive. We’re all one, but, according to Safina, the elephants and the killer whales are among the few animals who recognize that the world will be saved by compassion, not calculation.

What can our beloved old dogs or cats, the wolf on the prairie or the birds in our backyards teach us about ourselves? Do they think about their lives in ways similar to the ways we think about ours? What can we ever know about how they feel or think about their lives in their worlds?
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Steven Johnson writes about intricate subjects; his previous books have addressed communications technology, medical epidemics, the impact of popular culture—even the life of English theologian, clergyman, philosopher and inventor Joseph Priestly. Now, with Where Good Ideas Come From, Johnson examines the critical factors that are almost always present when human innovation occurs.

The investigation begins with Charles Darwin and his observation of coral reefs, which he understood to be living ecosystems. From there, Johnson’s coverage ranges widely, with discussion of corporate, governmental and private innovation, including Gutenberg’s use of a wine press to develop the printing press; the development of the GPS based on early observations of the satellite Sputnik by Johns Hopkins physicists; the sonic explorations of British musician Brian Eno; the brilliantly improvised steps that led to the invention of the incubator; Watson and Crick’s discovery of the DNA double helix; and the latest in video and social networking, such as HDTV, YouTube and Twitter.

Johnson’s historical overviews are arranged within seven essential chapters, whose titles—“The Adjacent Possible,” “Liquid Networks,” “The Slow Hunch,” “Serendipity,” “Error,” “Exaptation,” “Platforms”—signal the key elements whose presence gives rise to new discovery. He believes that “the more we embrace these patterns—in our private work habits and hobbies, in our office environments, in the design of new software tools—the better we will be at tapping our extraordinary capacity for innovative thinking.”

Johnson keeps the discussions of hard science to a minimum, though his sidebar about carbon as an essential component of life is certainly intriguing. Otherwise, his chief focus is on the various social and structural working models that create a fertile environment for creative thinking, collaboration and a culture in which information not only flows but is recycled. In his view, those “Eureka” moments are way overrated, and “environments that build walls around good ideas tend to be less innovative in the long run than more open-ended environments. . . . Good ideas may not want to be free, but they do want to connect, fuse, recombine.” Johnson proves to be an excellent guide to that process.

 

Steven Johnson writes about intricate subjects; his previous books have addressed communications technology, medical epidemics, the impact of popular culture—even the life of English theologian, clergyman, philosopher and inventor Joseph Priestly. Now, with Where Good Ideas Come From, Johnson examines the critical factors that are…

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Even if you think you’re above such distinctions, we all have a rough idea of what someone means when they say “red state” or “blue state.” A red-stater stops at Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee on the way to Wal-Mart and listens to Rush Limbaugh for entertainment; her blue counterpart is downing a $3 Starbucks macchiato, cranking NPR and, of course, heading to Whole Foods on an arugula run. There may be kernels of truth to these caricatures, but they don’t tell the whole story. Who are we, really?

Journalist Dante Chinni and political geographer James Gimpel spent two years crossing and re-crossing the country to answer that question, and the result is Our Patchwork Nation. Their collaboration focused on the 3,141 counties in the U.S. and found 12 community types with enough demographic common ground to categorize. Military Bastions, for example, are located near military bases, generate mid-range pay and are full of soldiers, vets and their families. Their financial stability is threatened by our current cycle of long deployments; no soldiers means fewer patrons at local businesses, from the gas pump to the strip club, and the families left behind tend to spend conservatively. Evangelical Epicenters are full of young families who are very active in church life; their income tends to be less than the national average, but they’re not as concerned about keeping up with the Joneses as with home and family. Service Worker centers rely on tourist dollars to stay afloat; employees live paycheck to paycheck and tend to be uninsured. A slow season or personal emergency can quickly throw residents into chaos.

The surprises revealed by this analysis are numerous: Evangelical Epicenters have some of the best schools around, but the schools have very little religious influence because the range of different sects jockeying for social position tend to cancel each other out. Military Bastions, which lean to the right politically, nevertheless prefer NPR to conservative talk radio, because NPR features international news relevant to followers of the wars. Perhaps the best news of all comes despite the many differences these 12 types have: When surveyed, all of them overwhelmingly believe that America is still a place where you will get ahead if you work hard. As Chinni puts it, “The United States is, measurably, a nation of optimists,” adding, “There are worse things to have as a foundation.” For a new, and nuanced, look at how we’re living today, Our Patchwork Nation is vital reading.

 

Even if you think you’re above such distinctions, we all have a rough idea of what someone means when they say “red state” or “blue state.” A red-stater stops at Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee on the way to Wal-Mart and listens to Rush Limbaugh for…

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In one of the world’s most famous television commercials, hundreds of teenagers of diverse backgrounds dance and sway on a sunny hillside as they belt out a ballad about teaching the world to sing in peace and harmony. Each young person is holding a bottle of Coke, the “real thing,” promising in his or her earnest way that if only everyone in the world would drink Coke, violence would cease and peace would prevail. Ever since 1886, when John Pemberton stumbled upon the secret formula for the soft drink that would become known as Coca-Cola, the company that eventually grew out of his success has obscured the shady medicinal origins of the drink and zealously designed ads that focus not on its ingredients but on what the customer thinks it represents. Coke has spent billions of dollars to present an image of wholesomeness and harmony cherished by millions of people around the world.

Yet, as award-winning magazine writer Michael Blanding points out in his provocative and far-reaching investigative book, The Coke Machine, all is not well in the House of Coke. The pristine images of peace and harmony promoted by the company have been shattered by accusations that the company has depleted water supplies in India, made schoolchildren fat in the U.S., supported murder as it sought to destroy unions in Guatemala and deceived consumers around the world by marketing tap water as purified water under its Dasani brand. For example, in the Kerala region in India, Coke not only used up fresh water supplies in its production process, it also produced solid waste that it distributed to local farmers as fertilizer. When the fields treated by this fertilizer began to lie fallow, and when farm animals that drank water polluted by this waste began to die, Indian scientists discovered that Coke’s solid waste contained four times the tolerable limit of cadmium, which can cause prostate and kidney cancer.

In shocking detail, Blanding uncovers Coke’s numerous transgressions against humanity and nature. Although many groups have protested Coke’s presence in their countries and various legal actions have been brought against Coke, the company has managed to slither out of the grip of any legal injunctions. It’s very unlikely that Coke will ever change its practices until its bottom line is threatened by binding legal consequences and there is a sustained public campaign that threatens its brand images. Blanding’s thoroughly detailed, stimulating and challenging study will have many readers saying, “Give me a Pepsi.”
 

In one of the world’s most famous television commercials, hundreds of teenagers of diverse backgrounds dance and sway on a sunny hillside as they belt out a ballad about teaching the world to sing in peace and harmony. Each young person is holding a bottle…

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In 2001, Philip Kearney took a leave of absence from his job as a district attorney in San Francisco to serve as a war crimes prosecutor for the United Nations in Kosovo. Although he knew next to nothing about international laws of war or the way they manifested themselves within the diverse legal systems of other countries, his sense of adventure led him to accept the assignment—albeit with some trepidation for his own safety. He arrived in Pristina, a bleak and dangerous city where the animosities between Kosovo’s Albanians and Serbians were still explosive and such justice as there was tended to be frontier justice. The UN was there to bring order, openness and fairness to judicial proceedings. It was, as Kearney recounts in Under the Blue Flag, the most rigorous kind of on-the-job training.

Complicated cases were dropped in his lap at the last minute. He had to work through translators and under the protection of armed bodyguards. Moreover, he was left to conduct his own investigations with only a minimum of support personnel. The courtroom practices gave him much less latitude than American courts to aggressively prosecute cases.

Despite these setbacks, Kearney soon became obsessed with seeing justice done. His passion grew in no small part from face-to-face contacts with tragic victims—women sold into sex slavery, broken men who had survived brutal prison camps, survivors of villages virtually eradicated by ethnic cleansing. After his six-month term ended, Kearney was so impassioned by his cause that he enlisted for another term, a decision that both imperiled his regular job and further strained his marriage.
Without being didactic, Kearney inserts enough history into his narrative to clarify the fiendishly complex Kosovo situation to a degree that news stories seldom do. The chief value of this book, however, is not its specificity, but its demonstration that without a transparent, balanced and politically impervious legal system there can be no hope for justice.

Edward Morris writes from Nashville.

In 2001, Philip Kearney took a leave of absence from his job as a district attorney in San Francisco to serve as a war crimes prosecutor for the United Nations in Kosovo. Although he knew next to nothing about international laws of war or the…

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The residents of Clarkston, Georgia (population: 7,100; 13 miles east of Atlanta), are the involuntary participants in a tricky sociological experiment. Take a small, conservative suburb, resettle refugees from more than 50 trouble-plagued countries in its low-rent apartment complexes, and see what happens. Initial misunderstanding and tension are inevitable. But then what? Regardless of locale, teenage boys want to make friends and play games. If they’re from outside the United States, they’re likely to gravitate to soccer, that most international of sports. So it is in Clarkston, where an energetic young Jordanian woman, Luma Mufleh, has created and coached a somewhat rackety youth team called the Fugees (“re-fugees”).

In Outcasts United, New York Times reporter Warren St. John (Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer) follows Mufleh and her team of Africans, Arabs, Eastern Europeans, etc., through their 2006 season. He uses it as an effective framework for exploring the internal globalization of the United States, as the players learn to live with each other, more affluent teams, and the town’s sometimes-resentful American-born residents.

The Fugees are actually three teams, split by age into under-13s, under-15s and under-17s. The older boys are more self-sufficient, so St. John focuses on the first two groups. During the course of the season, one struggles mightily, while one becomes more cohesive. Mufleh, dedicated, tough, occasionally rigid, has her own stumbles, but overall provides a remarkable degree of support to traumatized boys who have known little but dislocation and discrimination.

St. John interweaves the games with the backstories of several players. Though they start in different countries, their stories seem tragically similar. We learn about the mothers who have brought their families out of ethnic massacres to refugee camps, then to the alleged promised land of the U.S. They find themselves working night shifts in hotels and poultry plants while worrying that their children are losing their traditional values in crime-ridden neighborhoods. One of the book’s strengths is its honesty. The outcome is not all positive. Progress is fitful. Apparent allies renege on promises. Even talented players lose games. Yet, somehow, they persevere. Clarkston adapts.
 

The residents of Clarkston, Georgia (population: 7,100; 13 miles east of Atlanta), are the involuntary participants in a tricky sociological experiment. Take a small, conservative suburb, resettle refugees from more than 50 trouble-plagued countries in its low-rent apartment complexes, and see what happens. Initial misunderstanding…

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Perhaps nothing says holidays in New York like the subject of The Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree: The History & Lore of the World’s Most Famous Evergreen. Nancy Armstrong tells everything there is to know about this 77 – year tradition, neatly summarized in an appendix listing tree species, height and donors. Her style is easy and breezy as she imparts all sorts of fascinating details – the trees are never watered during their holiday stint; two trees had been indoor Christmas trees decades earlier and then replanted by their respective owners – and a bit of cultural history as well. This is a great way to get into the holiday spirit.

Perhaps nothing says holidays in New York like the subject of The Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree: The History & Lore of the World's Most Famous Evergreen. Nancy Armstrong tells everything there is to know about this 77 - year tradition, neatly summarized in an appendix…

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Hooman Majd’s aim in The Ayatollah Begs to Differ: The Paradox of Modern Iran is to demonstrate that his native country is not the monolithic society depicted by the Bush administration and essentially regurgitated by the American press. While he describes a population molded and imprinted by incessant religious practices and understandably suspicious of the West, Majd also takes readers into fashionable parties where men and women converse easily on equal footing and where the officially forbidden liquor flows freely. Then there are the pious households of the common folk, in which men spend their days smoking an opium derivative called "shir’e" and watching the alluring secular images pumped in from Dubai via satellite television.

Majd is particularly well suited to reveal the inner workings of Iranian society. Born in Tehran, the son of a diplomat for the Shah who was deposed by the 1979 Islamic revolution, he is also the grandson of a revered ayatollah and a close relative of former Iranian President Seyyed Mohammad Khatami. Educated in England, America and other diplomatic outposts, Majd eventually settled in the U.S., where he still lives. His connections to Iran were such that he was chosen to accompany Khatami on his 2005 U.S. tour and to serve as President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s interpreter at the United Nations in 2006 and 2007. Most of Majd’s accounts and observations here stem from his extended visits to his home country in 2004, 2005 and 2007, during which time he sampled, without substantial restriction, the popular mood at all class levels.

Majd makes much of the fact that political criticism is open and generally tolerated and that the government is inclined to let its citizens conduct their lives as they wish – as long as they do so within their own homes and at private gatherings. But he doesn’t paint too pretty a picture of a system that’s still under the command of a few powerful men who are essentially accountable only to their peers. The public executions, usually hanging the unfortunates from a crane, are matter-of-fact, brutal and blithely accepted by the populace. Still, Majd makes the case that outsiders will be best served by knowing the people they aspire to cower, control or bargain with.

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Majd’s trailer for the book:

 

Hooman Majd's aim in The Ayatollah Begs to Differ: The Paradox of Modern Iran is to demonstrate that his native country is not the monolithic society depicted by the Bush administration and essentially regurgitated by the American press. While he describes a population molded and…

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