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Zusatztext “Remarkable. . . . A fierce! haunting book about exile and loss and family love.” — The New York Times "With a storyteller's magnetic force . . . [Danticat] gives voice to an attachment too deep for words.” — O! The Oprah Magazine “Powerful. . . . Danticat employs the charms of a storyteller and the authority of a witness to evoke the political forces and personal sacrifices behind her parents' journey to this country and her uncle's decision to stay behind.” — The Washington Post Book World “Heartwrenching! intimate. . . . Through the seemingly effortless grace of Danticat's words! a family's tragedy is transformed into a promise of collective hope.” — San Francisco Chronicle “Her power of language is so great! and at the same time! so subtle! that even those that cannot see her or understand her stories will be transformed by her impact on their world.” —Walter Mosley Informationen zum Autor Edwidge Danticat Klappentext Winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award for AutobiographyA National Book Award FinalistA New York Times Notable BookFrom the age of four! award-winning writer Edwidge Danticat came to think of her uncle Joseph as her "second father!" when she was placed in his care after her parents left Haiti for America. And so she was both elated and saddened when! at twelve! she joined her parents and youngest brothers in New York City. As Edwidge made a life in a new country! adjusting to being far away from so many who she loved! she and her family continued to fear for the safety of those still in Haiti as the political situation deteriorated. In 2004! they entered into a terrifying tale of good people caught up in events beyond their control. Brother I'm Dying is an astonishing true-life epic! told on an intimate scale by one of our finest writers. Beating the Darkness On Sunday, October 24, 2004, nearly two months after he left New York, Uncle Joseph woke up to the clatter of gunfire. There were blasts from pistols, handguns, automatic weapons, whose thundering rounds sounded like rockets. It was the third of such military operations in Bel Air in as many weeks, but never had the firing sounded so close or so loud. Looking over at the windup alarm clock on his bedside table, he was startled by the time, for it seemed somewhat lighter outside than it should have been at four thirty on a Sunday morning.During the odd minutes it took to reposition and reload weapons, you could hear rocks and bottles crashing on nearby roofs. Taking advantage of the brief reprieve, he slipped out of bed and tiptoed over to a peephole under the staircase outside his bedroom. Parked in front of the church gates was an armored personnel carrier, a tank with mounted submachine guns on top. The tank had the familiar circular blue and white insignia of the United Nations peacekeepers and the letters UN painted on its side. Looking over the trashstrewn alleys that framed the building, he thought for the first time since he’d lost Tante Denise that he was glad she was dead. She would have never survived the gun blasts that had rattled him out of his sleep. Like Marie Micheline, she too might have been frightened to death.He heard some muffled voices coming from the living room below, so he grabbed his voice box and tiptoed down the stairs. In the living room, he found Josiane and his grandchildren: Maxime, Nozial, Denise, Gabrielle and the youngest, who was also named Joseph, after him. Léone, who was visiting from Léogâne, was also there, along with her brothers, Bosi and George.“Ki jan nou ye?” my uncle asked. How’s everyone?“MINUSTAH plis ampil police,” a trembling Léone tried to explain.Like my uncle, Léone had spent her entire life watching the strong arm of authority in action, be it the American marines who’d been occupying the country when she was born or the brutal local army they’d tra...
