A review of 'You Must Believe In Spring' by Mohamed Tonsy (2022) - plus an interview with the author

By: Simran Kaur Johal

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Author Bio:

Simran Kaur Johal is a third year Philosophy student interested in works that linger in spaces between memory, language and the weight of being seen. She writes with the intention of an intuitive grasp of the personal as political, outlining reflections on resistance, identity and the quiet forces that shape our lives. She writes reviews on literature, music and film with a recent interest in the life and work of Labi Siffre. 

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THE REVIEW:

You Must Believe In Spring reacts to the aftermath of the 2011 Arab Spring revolution. Tonsy does so by imagining a very near future of Egypt in the 2030s. We are taken through the narrative by Shahed, a character who spares no sense of complexity. On the one hand, he swims for the national team, even works as an assistant at the Sufi institute. On the other hand, he is son to Hanan, a revolutionary. In the cracks between these conflicting roles he is possessed by, we find characters and moments that not only continue but directly drive conversations around the need to react against oppression. Otherwise we are warned of being buried by the damning consequence of silence.  

The experience of this novel was like reading a constellation. In conversation with the author himself, I told him how I could feel many of his characters and descriptions as their own individual points, given distance and space. Yet everything is held in one and the same sky, bound by the same spine. Mohamed Tonsy was happy to know this, as he had intended an effect of this nature. 

In the spirit of a constellation, I give my review as snapshots of the conversation I had with Tonsy. We cover the ethos of the novel's publisher Hajar Press, being seen in literature, collaborative storytelling and the language behind beautiful observation. I hope to provide a short taste of the wisdom you will find in reading You Must Believe In Spring, while also maintaining the integrity of the writer's words about his work. 

You are invited to read about a writer whose voice is incredibly aware of a ticking noise in the background of space and time. One that tells us anything could happen at any given moment. 

Away From Toxic Positivity: Storytelling In Hajar Press

When you read You Must Believe In Spring its key to note its Publisher Hajar Press and the distinct work it does for writers of minority backgrounds. There is immediately a quality to all titles published by them, which offers BIPOC readers such as myself relief. Shoulders relax and you can exhale. This isn’t an uncanny, forced smile in the real, raging world. It's just great literature.

Simran: You can often see toxic positivity forced into narratives told by BIPOC writers, but your story is much more complicated than complete hope or even deep tragedy. Can you tell me a little about toxic positivity in relation to your story?

Mohamed: There can be a sense that there is a very specific way of telling a story. This was definitely an attempt to push back against that kind of forced narrative. Really I’m just trying to write my own thing. I think that’s where the first person protagonist idea also came from. I wanted the reader to see this as it's happening— the reader can have a bodily awareness of the story. So for instance, there’s a complexity with Shahed, as much as his entanglement with the Federation [as a swimmer for the country] is suffocating, he also really loves swimming. He is able to feel physically light in this space, even if that space in a very real way can reject him. 

Simran: That brings up another question I had in mind actually…about the great responsibility that it takes to see another person. When you have a complicated character like Shahed, with all of these grey areas, it can take a certain eye to appreciate all of that. Sometimes there is a burden to being seen. I mean you’re so powerfully present in your narrative, it takes the reader also showing up somehow. Did you feel this pressure of being seen (or being seen correctly) after writing something like this?

Being Seen

Mohamed: With the idea of seeing and being seen, you have this sense where to be made visible is to be made powerful. But actually for those in resistance and underground movements, there is also the want to hide in order to survive. So you have to balance knowing when to be seen and how to be seen. I mean for instance, you’ll notice that I have parts of the novel written in Arabic without translation, because that’s also a point for me to be hidden as the writer. Speaking for Shahed specifically there’s moments where actually in hiding so much of himself, he becomes invisible to even himself. 

Simran: With Shahed there’s moments where we feel we really see him, and then the complete opposite, he really hides himself. Maybe it has to do with almost sacrifice for a greater cause? I mean the name Shahed of course reminded me of the word for marty in Punjabi, is that the same in —

Mohamed: Yeah, yeah means the same thing here [in Arabic].

Simran: And so I could already sense martyrdom being a huge part of who Shahed is, but also the relationship between Shahed and his mother Hanan really foreshadows that.

Writing Hanan 

When you read about Hanan (Shahed’s mother, an exile, a revolutionary) she is easily one of the most compelling characters. It then came as no surprise to me that a lot of writing about her came through a sense of collaborative storytelling. Tonsy spoke about how initially Hanan did have a smaller role but was developed a lot more. He let me know about the rise of sensitivity readers and the need for them in writing today. Farhaana and Brekhna from Hajar Press helped a lot with this, as he was able to discuss who Hanan was with them.

Simran: I kept wondering if in some way, Shahed almost becomes Hanan in order to understand what she went through? You know in being a revolutionary?

Mohamed: That’s an interesting perspective. I think that’s something I worked hard to figure out. I researched a lot, listening carefully to testimonies of women in Egypt. The way that I was thinking about their relationship [Shahed and Hanan] involved a silence that existed between them. They didn’t spend a lot of time in the same household. And she’s struggled quite a bit with her experiences in the revolution. And so, a lot of their relationship doesn’t involve communication with each other. 

Simran: Right we see him chasing her a little. In trying to know her he listens to her personal recordings about what she went through in the revolution.

Mohamed: Yeah so their relationship does show the dangers of what would happen if we don’t speak about the revolution. Kind of like the gaps created when we don’t talk about what it means to us on a personal level, besides just a political level. If we don’t have the space to talk about this, then we don’t have a space to really recover from — or no— to move forwards. I mean it was heartbreaking to write their relationship because there was so much potential for them to see each other, but they were both just not in the right spaces to see each other.

Beautiful Writing And Observation

The novel is constantly full of descriptions such as the one discussed below. You can’t tell if Tonsy takes the time to beautify moments, or if a beautiful person cannot help but show this in their writing. Tonsy’s way of seeing the world is such, and when you read his work you are inevitably looking through his eyes. For me, it was like looking through a set of eyes that have never been closed. Tears are running down his cheeks from a relentless wind, eyelashes carry seasons, and there’s rainbows growing out of his vision. Did I just learn how to see for the first time? Well that’s how I felt. If your vision feels blurry, he can certainly teach you how to see again in an astute language of observation. 

Simran: There’s a specific part of your novel that really struck me. I mean I was floored by how you write about men and ancestral connection. It’s really beautiful writing. I’m going to read this specific part to you: “Pious faces with hallowed expressions, meek faces with hollow expressions, mythical faces with unnameable expressions, roman faces with roman expressions, empty faces with no expressions. These were the faces I grew up seeing everyday, and when I find myself alone — on a mountain, in prayer, in the water — theirs are the faces I still see.” 

Mohamed: For me this is about being. Belonging. Place. That sense of recognising and being recognised when you share the same space. You know it's kind of like an otherworldly, monumental experience seeing those faces of the past. And that can provide comfort but it can also be dangerous. 

Simran: I feel like these are the details which really make the novel for me. I mean you equally talk about what is beyond yourself, but it clearly ends up residing in you.

Mohamed: That’s too kind. But yes… I did want this narrative to feel lived in.

Dust And Petrol 

Mohamed and I discussed extensively how anger resulting from oppression can manifest in his writing. We spoke about how blind rage is present and important, as well as how that becomes sightful rage in literature. We both agreed that anger doesn’t always have to be productive, it can be irrational. It can also take a while for it to manifest and become apparent. Shahed greatly represents multifaceted anger throughout but especially in the whirlwind ending, where we find the motifs of dust and petrol climax in a risky pursuit. 

Mohamed: With Hanan and Shahed you have different kinds of anger explored, and it's not always digested. Like for Hanan its okay that she doesn’t have all the answers. And for Shahed its similar, he can really try to be stoic and rationalise what is happening to him. It takes a while for him to feel angry because he can also understand the perspective of those on the other side. He’s also got a level of privilege being so close to the federation. But of course naturally he also has the potential to lose control. 

Simran: I really felt like there were no wasted words in reading your novel. For instance the use of dust and petrol are very prominent in expressing anger, they also take on different meanings throughout. Like petrol specifically is almost a passport for Shahed, it becomes a weapon, its scent exposes him but its scent is also a comfort for him. And then the dust is ever present in Egypt of course.

Mohamed: So yeah it is complicated because petrol [benzene] was used to clean the swimming pools and it is obviously toxic to you. So that’s an interesting thing for Shahed’s character to be around, and to ultimately use to show his unrest. And then the dust— so in Shahed’s conversation with Musa he asks Musa why he doesn’t leave Egypt. And Musa says it's because of the smell of the dust. There’s a bit of humour in it as well because when you're in Egypt everywhere is dusty, so it's such an obvious thing in a way. It's ever present in the atmosphere, and you can feel equally suspended but also suffocated. Like it's there in every breath. 

Simran: And in that image of breath, was the ending more of an inhale or an exhale?

Mohamed: Exhale. Because I was like thank god it's over.

Simran: Ha ha, that’s a good answer. 

It’s unfortunate that I cannot share the entirety of our conversation, but I hope the provided snippets show the vast ground that Tonsy covers in his novel. He brings conflict and chaos very close to you, you cannot be afraid to feel the heat and debris it brings. These remnants of conflict live strongly in many of our lives. Almost like the smell of candles on a cake after you blow them out. But bigger, much bigger. The scent hanging like a curtain in your grandmother's house— familiar, constant, persistent, it remains. Anyone knowing the lived impact of persecution and oppression will be given company by Mohamed Tonsy’s storytelling.