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57 of 59 people found the following review helpful:
4.0 out of 5 stars
(4.5) A family torn by conscience and duty, June 22, 2004
In Purple Hibiscus, we listen to the plaintive voice of Kambili, whose skill at language does not extend to the spoken word, as those necessary words remain trapped in her throat, a girl who knows her place and keeps her silence. In Kambili's family, there are too many things "we never talk about". Growing up in the political upheaval of Nigeria, Kambili and her older brother, Jaja, are poster children for domestic violence, quiet, well-mannered, high achievers that their father points to with pride, "his" children: extensions of himself in the world. A generous man, beloved in their village, only Eugene Achike's nuclear family suffers his rages behind closed doors.Jaja's emotions are closer to the surface, more accessible to his spirit of rebellion. But Kambili is her mother's daughter, cautious, constrained and eager to please. Her slow awakening is all the more significant because of the tremendous act of will necessary to break free of her conditioning. This experience is agonizing for Kambili, like the prickling of a limb that has fallen asleep. Her adolescent physical and emotional flowering enhanced by newly found self-expression and self-awareness, Kambili is a product of a world that leaves children unprotected, at the mercy of a merciless man. She is the observer, the reporter, emotionless as she describes the constant abuse. Like a sieve, Kambili filters every action, sorting, learning. Eugene passes on the lessons he has learned in his own childhood, taught by brutal Catholic missionaries who used temporal punishment; the abused is the abuser. Rigid religious instruction, intolerant and unforgiving, is the tool with which this man terrorizes his wife and children. His wife is trapped by her husband's frequent beatings, but the children glean a different way of life in the home of their Aunty Ifeoma. A widow with three children, Aunty Ifeoma exists in borderline poverty, but teaches her children without dehumanizing them. Exposure to this loving family opens Kambili's heart, planting the seed of hope and the promise of a future that offers more than pain and self-discipline. This powerful, yet subtle novel is striking on two levels: one is the subjection of society to the tyranny of the chaos that results from a political coup; the second is the role of family in the formation of children's lives, contrasting a monstrous discipline with the guidance of loving relatives. The political unrest and subsequent difficulties of daily survival are the canvas against which the author defines her young characters, especially significant because of the helplessness of a population ruled by intimidation. In this exotic African setting, the author shares cultural differences, rituals and beliefs. She does so with great skill, describing luxury and poverty alike, the discrepancies of an unequal society. Adichie knows the language of the abused child and speaks simply, directly to her audience. Her native land is Nigeria, but this dialect is universal. She understands that to be heard, one must speak softly. Adichie garners an audience of survivors who respond to personal empowerment, wrapped in hope. Luan Gaines/2004.
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