A review by Shawki Bazih, for Asharq Al-Awsat, April 13, 2025
“May!”
The sound fell upon me like a transparent veil, sending shivers down my spine and shaking my heart, as a hollow, thunderous drumbeat rang in my ears.
I froze in place, held my breath, and a merciful silence reigned. But as soon as I moved my foot with the intent to advance, the voice repeated my name in a reproachful tone. I closed my eyes, my body recoiled, and I pleaded: My God, let it be a dream — or even a nightmare, it doesn’t matter. I only beg of you: help me wake up.”
This short passage, with which Najwa Barakat opens her new novel May vanishes, strikes multiple targets in a single shot. It demonstrates her mastery of narrative technique, her effective use of first-person voice to craft a moving monologue that reflects the heroine’s trapped psychological state, and her stylistic finesse in constructing a tense, cinematic scene through a succession of active verbs that leave no room for the reader to rest — even after the final line.
While many book titles obscure rather than reveal their content, May vanishes is a “key title” around which the novel revolves. The absence attributed to the protagonist unfolds into multiple religious, cultural, and lexical meanings — ranging from physical disappearance, to spiritual alienation, to psychological disassociation. Like many Arab authors who use the mysterious vanishing of their characters to reflect the absurdity and disconnection of contemporary reality, Barakat’s novel joins a lineage of “absences” that mirror the collapse of the individual alongside the collapse of the homeland.
Technically, Barakat structures her novel into three chapters. The first is narrated by an eighty-year-old woman living alone in her Beirut apartment. The second is told by “the other May,” who recounts the vibrant past of the talented actress the old woman once was. The final chapter is delivered by Yousef, the Syrian building concierge, who chronicles her tragic decline. Across these sections, Barakat sheds light on the painful solitude of old age, filled with physical deterioration, emotional isolation, and a deep sense of futility.
May’s solitude is compounded by her physical frailty and a fear of death or dementia — a state where life becomes a blurry mix of reality and hallucination. She begins to imagine a woman who resembles her sitting in her chair or hears voices that do not exist. Her contact with the outside world becomes limited to her caretaker and Yousef, who brings her groceries, rescues her from insects, and responds to her imagined intrusions.
Although May has two grown sons living and working in the United States, her connection with them is reduced to sporadic phone calls, devoid of the warmth and emotional intensity usually associated with maternal bonds. Despite their being the product of a successful marriage that followed a traumatic love affair, May says bluntly:
“They say motherhood gives women strength enough to move mountains. Personally, I felt no such power when my twin sons arrived. It was as if another woman had borne and birthed them.”
One might expect a pet to fill the void left by absent human company. But May resists bonding with the cat that insists on staying with her, treating it as an unwelcome guest. Amid this growing aversion to all living beings, only plants gain her trust and become her loyal companions. Yet even the death of the sick cat — which the vet cannot save — foreshadows the looming tragedy in May’s life.
Unsurprisingly, May’s condition steadily worsens — physically, mentally, and emotionally. Barakat spares no detail in charting the humiliating breakdown of May’s body, its loss of control over basic functions, the erosion of dignity, and the fading remnants of femininity.
Yet the novel does not limit itself to personal tragedy. Barakat skillfully aligns the aging of the character with the decay of the city — Beirut — recalling its exhaustion from civil and external wars, political corruption, financial collapse, the theft of citizens’ savings, and the port explosion.
Through flashbacks, we learn that May graduated from the Faculty of Fine Arts and once played a major role in a Jean Cocteau play. During rehearsals, she fell for a charming, eloquent screenwriter who seduced her with flattery and love. She moved with him to a coastal town, against her family’s wishes and outside marriage. But the man’s soft exterior concealed an abusive personality — a reckless drunk, a gambler, and a thief who beat her and stole her money.
When she finally tried to escape, her father — her guardian angel — died of cancer. And yet, despite everything, May married the same man who had destroyed her, falling once again for the illusion that he was her one true love. It was a haunting reenactment of the old story of the victim enamored with her abuser.
Things only grew worse from there. Not only did he continue to humiliate and beat her, but when she became pregnant, he forced her to have an abortion — crushing her hope for redemption through motherhood. Salvation eventually came from her psychiatrist, who rescued her from the mental hospital, married her, and became the father of her twin sons.
The final chapter, told by Yousef, is a powerful culmination of the novel’s escalating structure. As May’s mind and memory disintegrate under the hammer of Alzheimer’s — a fate she always feared — we finally understand the full scope of her “absence.” She had been institutionalized after a failed attempt to kill her abusive husband. Some scenes are too complex for Yousef to fully grasp, and Barakat acknowledges this by having him repeat phrases that reflect his confusion — such as mixing up names like Farida al-Arabi and Frida Kahlo, the latter being what May named her cat in honor of the artist she saw as her emotional twin.
Finally, one must highlight Barakat’s language — elegant yet fluid, rich yet accessible. The novel closes with an unforgettable scene:
May, leaning on Yousef’s arm, walks beside him in a surreal carnival procession that is both comedic and tragic. As they move slowly forward, she hears the imagined applause of an invisible crowd and steps onto an unseen stage to play her final role.