Hope And Other Dangerous Pursuits PdfBy Viollette D. In and pdf 21.05.2021 at 04:43 6 min read
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- Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits Summary & Study Guide
- Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits
- Hope & Other Dangerous Pursuits
- Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits – Laila Lalami interview
These notes were contributed by members of the GradeSaver community. The boat was so over-crowded that there was not enough room for everyone to sit comfortably.
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Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits Summary & Study Guide
By Laila Lalami. Murad has pondered that number hundreds of times in the last year, trying to decide whether the risk was worth it. Some days he told himself that the distance was nothing, a brief inconvenience, that the crossing would take as little as thirty minutes if the weather was good.
He spent hours thinking about what he would do once he was on the other side, imagining the job, the car, the house. Tonight the sea appears calm, with only a slight wind now and then. The captain has ordered all the lights turned off, but with the moon up and the sky clear, Murad can still see around him.
The six-meter Zodiac inflatable is meant to accommodate eight people. Thirty huddle in it now, men, women, and children, all with the anxious look of those whose destinies are in the hands of others—the captain, the coast guards, God.
Murad has three layers on: undershirt, turtleneck, and jacket; below, a pair of thermal underwear, jeans, and sneakers. He touches a button on his watch, a Rolex knockoff he bought from a street vendor in Tangier, and the display lights up: A. He scratches at the residue the metal bracelet leaves on his wrist, then pulls his sleeve down to cover the timepiece. If the other passengers paid as much as Murad did, the take is almost , dirhams, enough for an apartment or a small house in a Moroccan beach town like Asilah or Cabo Negro.
He looks at the Spanish coastline, closer with every breath. The waves are inky black, except for hints of foam here and there, glistening white under the moon, like tombstones in a dark cemetery. The mainland point of the Moorish invasion in Murad used to regale tourists with anecdotes about how Tariq Ibn Ziyad had led a powerful Moor army across the Straits and, upon landing in Gibraltar, ordered all the boats burned.
The men had followed their general, toppled the Visigoths, and established an empire that ruled over Spain for more than seven hundred years.
Only instead of a fleet, here we are in an inflatable boat—not just Moors, but a motley mix of people from the ex-colonies, without guns or armor, without a charismatic leader. Some time on this flimsy boat and then a job. It will be hard at first.
He has a degree in English and, in addition, he speaks Spanish fluently, unlike some of the harraga. His leg goes numb. He moves his ankle around. To his left, the girl he thinks her name is Faten shifts slightly, so that her thigh no longer presses against his. She looks eighteen, nineteen maybe. My leg was asleep, he whispers. She pulls her black cardigan tight around her chest and stares down at her shoes. Does she imagine she can walk down the street in Tarifa in a headscarf without attracting attention?
Back on the beach, while they all were waiting for Rahal to get ready, Faten sat alone, away from everyone else, as though she were sulking. She was the last one to climb into the boat, and Murad had to move to make room for her. Across from Murad is Aziz. This is his second attempt at crossing the Strait of Gibraltar. Murad tried to bargain, too, but in the end he still had to borrow almost 20, dirhams from one of his uncles, and the loan is on his mind again.
Aziz asks for a sip of water. Murad hands over his bottle of Sidi Harazem and watches him take a swig. When he gets the bottle back, he offers the last bit to Faten, but she shakes her head.
He feels a sudden urge to urinate and leans forward to contain it. Next to Aziz is a middle-aged man with greasy hair and a large scar across his cheek, like Al Pacino in Scarface. He wears jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. Murad heard him tell someone that he was a tennis instructor. His arms are muscular, his biceps bulging, but the energy he exudes is rough, like that of a man used to trouble with the law.
Murad notices that Scarface has been staring at the little girl sitting next to him. She seems to be about ten years old, but the expression on her face is that of an older child. Her eyes, shiny under the moonlight, take up most of her face. Scarface asks her name. Mouna, she says. He reaches into his pocket and offers her chewing gum, but the girl quickly shakes her head. Her mother, Halima, asked Murad the time before they got on the boat, as though she had a schedule to keep.
She gives Scarface a dark, forbidding look, wraps one arm around her daughter and the other around her two boys, seated to her right. While they were waiting on the beach to depart, she peeled an orange and offered Murad half. She said she was Guinean. She cradles her body with her arms and rocks gently back and forth. Rahal barks at her to stop. Faten cries out at the sight of her sullied shoes. The Guinean woman whispers an apology in French.
Soon the little boat reeks of vomit. Murad tucks his nose inside his turtleneck. It smells of soap and mint and it keeps out the stench, but within minutes the putrid smell penetrates the shield anyway.
Now Halima sits up and exhales loudly, her children still huddling next to her. Rahal glares at her, tells her to hunch down to keep the boat balanced. Halima turns to him and smiles for the first time.
He thinks about some of the illegals who, instead of going on a boat, try to sneak in on vegetable trucks headed from Morocco to Spain.
Last year the Guardia Civil intercepted a tomato truck in Algeciras and found the bodies of three illegals, dead from asphyxiation, lying on the crates. At least on a boat there is no chance of that happening. He tries to think of something else, something to chase away the memory of the picture he saw in the paper.
The outboard motor idles. In the sudden silence, everyone turns to look at Rahal, collectively holding their breath. Shit, he says between his teeth. He pulls the starter cable a few times, but nothing happens. Rahal bangs the motor with his hand. Quiet, Scarface yells. We need some quiet to think. Looking at the captain, he asks, Is it the spark plug? Faten continues to pray, this time more quietly, her lips moving fast.
Aziz calls out, Wait, let me see. He gets on all fours, over the vomit, and moves slowly to keep the boat stable. Faten starts crying, a long and drawn-out whine. All eyes are on her. Her hysteria is contagious, and Murad can hear someone sniffling at the other end of the boat. Murad pulls his shirt down from his face. Who the hell do you think you are? He is tense and ready for an argument.
Aziz examines the motor, pulls at the hose that connects it to the tank. Do you have some tape? Rahal opens his supplies box and takes out a roll of duct tape.
Aziz quickly wraps some around the hose. The captain pulls the cable once, twice. Finally the motor wheezes painfully and the boat starts moving. The Guinean woman throws a piece of paper overboard. He shakes his head. No such luck for him. The water is still calm, but Murad knows better than to trust the Mediterranean. Once, when he was ten years old, he went mussel picking with his father at the beach in Al Hoceima. As they were working away, Murad saw a dark, beautiful bed of mussels hanging from their beards inside a hollow rock.
He lowered himself in and was busy pulling at them when a wave filled the grotto and flushed him out. Open navigation menu. Close suggestions Search Search. User Settings. Skip carousel.
Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits
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Hope & Other Dangerous Pursuits
Hopes and dreams are the stuff of calculations, and conditional clauses; if I do x, then hopefully y will come my way. All the calculations and aspirations of the characters rest on one condition first, achieving distance from their native Morocco even the wealthy Larbi Amrani thinks in terms of his daughter studying in New York. Born and raised in Rabat in Morocco, Lalami began the novel whilst working as a linguist in Los Angeles. The impetus came from reading a report relegated to the back pages of Le Monde about fifteen Moroccan immigrants who had drowned while trying to navigate the ten mile stretch that separates Morocco from Spain, or Europe from Africa.
By Laila Lalami. Murad has pondered that number hundreds of times in the last year, trying to decide whether the risk was worth it. Some days he told himself that the distance was nothing, a brief inconvenience, that the crossing would take as little as thirty minutes if the weather was good. He spent hours thinking about what he would do once he was on the other side, imagining the job, the car, the house. Tonight the sea appears calm, with only a slight wind now and then.
Immigration is a fundamental component of the Great American Story. How we got here, how our parents got here, how the founders got here; these are the celebrated tales of American becoming, the first step in the coveted process of grasping the American Dream. But leaving one's homeland in pursuit of a better life -- especially in today's "global," and economically divided, world -- is not a uniquely American phenomenon. In the first novel of literary blogger Laila Lalami moorishgirl.
Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits – Laila Lalami interview
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Сьюзан попробовала что-то сказать, но Джабба ее перебил: - Чего вы ждете, директор. Позвоните Танкадо. Скажите, что вы согласны на его условия. Нам нужен этот шифр-убийца, или все здесь провалится сквозь землю. Все стояли не шелохнувшись. - Да вы просто с ума все сошли, что ли? - закричал Джабба. - Звоните Танкадо.
Стратмор продолжал спуск. Сделка отменяется. Нуматек корпорейшн никогда не получит невзламываемый алгоритм… а агентство - черный ход в Цифровую крепость. Он очень долго планировал, как осуществит свою мечту, и выбрал Нуматаку со всей тщательностью. Нуматек - богатая фирма, наиболее вероятный победитель аукциона.
Да я вообще слова ему не сказал о деньгах. Я попросил оказать мне личную услугу. И он согласился поехать. - Конечно, согласился. Вы же мой шеф. Вы заместитель директора АНБ.
Да ну тебя, Чед, - засмеялась. - Я гожусь тебе в матери. Могла бы не напоминать, - подумал. Мидж подошла к его столу. - Я ухожу, но директору эти цифры нужны к его возвращению из Южной Америки. То есть к понедельнику, с самого утра. - Она бросила пачку компьютерных распечаток ему на стол.
Он все протягивал к нам руку - чтобы мы взяли кольцо. Я не хотела брать, но мой спутник в конце концов его. А потом этот парень умер. - А вы пробовали сделать ему искусственное дыхание? - предположил Беккер. - Нет.