The next meeting will be held on Mon 8th June 2026 at 7:30pm in the Ferryhill Community Centre.
The book under discussion is ‘Fundamentally’ by Nussaibah Younis.
One thought on “June 2026 – Fundamentally”
The author writes the novel but the reader makes the story. This was starkly in evidence when we shared views on Nussaibah Younis’ book “Fundamentally” on Monday evening. A third of us enjoyed a “comedy” with satirical “swipes at NGOs, academics and the like”. Two thirds were “annoyed” with a “ridiculous”, “unbelievable”, “trivial” and “confused” tale of a “serious matter”- ISIS brides in Iraq 2019. One remarked they “hadn’t appreciated that the book was comedy,” so was “disappointed when it turned into a farce”. After finishing the book they read a review that described the novel as “Bridget Jones in Iraq” and wondered if they’d seen the comment before, whether they “might have read the story differently”. This lead me to ponder on how we prepare to read a fiction: to enter whole-heartedly into the author’s imaginative world and not to miss or resist their intention by holding firm our own ambitions for the story.
Of course, the author has a role in this “preparing” and close reading of Younis’ brief “Prologue” (p. 1-2) gives a good indication of what you might expect of her novel.
The Prologue starts on a freezing night on a mountain path, a liminal space between Iraq and Turkey, where we are presented with a situation that is “not ideal” and, we infer, not real. “Ballet flats” and the “cracked corpse of a river” act as symbols of absurdity in tragedy. “Designer bag”, “credit card”, “fighters turned profiteers” indicate the materialistic, venal values of the characters. Drama, jeopardy and vacuity are anticipated in the “arm outstretched, grasping balance out of a hazy mist”. Morality contained only as “the spectre of an omniscient God” addressed by the narrator in profane manner to “do me a favour and take it down a notch”. Halfway through this Prologue a shouted exchange between protagonist Nadia and her “burden” Sara bursts out, crude, informal, rude, comic.
At this point we know what the novel holds. Are we willing to continue with Nadia along this uneven ground that will disintegrate beneath us, that is spiced with shocking, coarse narration of “Bruv” “Man’s got us on fucking Everest”? We are invited to commit to the struggling, burdened Nadia and to Sara whose “laughter filled the night air” as Nadia threatens “If you stay a fucking fundy after all this, I’ll sell you into sex-slavery myself”. “That’s the kind of thing she finds funny” explains Nadia. If we find this funny too we continue reading, prepared for the story, the jokes, the one-liners, the satire, irreverence, offence and the absurdity. If not to our taste we move on to the next month and the next book.
The author writes the novel but the reader makes the story. This was starkly in evidence when we shared views on Nussaibah Younis’ book “Fundamentally” on Monday evening. A third of us enjoyed a “comedy” with satirical “swipes at NGOs, academics and the like”. Two thirds were “annoyed” with a “ridiculous”, “unbelievable”, “trivial” and “confused” tale of a “serious matter”- ISIS brides in Iraq 2019. One remarked they “hadn’t appreciated that the book was comedy,” so was “disappointed when it turned into a farce”. After finishing the book they read a review that described the novel as “Bridget Jones in Iraq” and wondered if they’d seen the comment before, whether they “might have read the story differently”. This lead me to ponder on how we prepare to read a fiction: to enter whole-heartedly into the author’s imaginative world and not to miss or resist their intention by holding firm our own ambitions for the story.
Of course, the author has a role in this “preparing” and close reading of Younis’ brief “Prologue” (p. 1-2) gives a good indication of what you might expect of her novel.
The Prologue starts on a freezing night on a mountain path, a liminal space between Iraq and Turkey, where we are presented with a situation that is “not ideal” and, we infer, not real. “Ballet flats” and the “cracked corpse of a river” act as symbols of absurdity in tragedy. “Designer bag”, “credit card”, “fighters turned profiteers” indicate the materialistic, venal values of the characters. Drama, jeopardy and vacuity are anticipated in the “arm outstretched, grasping balance out of a hazy mist”. Morality contained only as “the spectre of an omniscient God” addressed by the narrator in profane manner to “do me a favour and take it down a notch”. Halfway through this Prologue a shouted exchange between protagonist Nadia and her “burden” Sara bursts out, crude, informal, rude, comic.
At this point we know what the novel holds. Are we willing to continue with Nadia along this uneven ground that will disintegrate beneath us, that is spiced with shocking, coarse narration of “Bruv” “Man’s got us on fucking Everest”? We are invited to commit to the struggling, burdened Nadia and to Sara whose “laughter filled the night air” as Nadia threatens “If you stay a fucking fundy after all this, I’ll sell you into sex-slavery myself”. “That’s the kind of thing she finds funny” explains Nadia. If we find this funny too we continue reading, prepared for the story, the jokes, the one-liners, the satire, irreverence, offence and the absurdity. If not to our taste we move on to the next month and the next book.
Colette