Szerencsés irodalmi pillanat az ilyen, amikor egy fontos, aktuális téma találkozik egy magasan kvalifikált szépíróval – örüljünk neki. Wieringa könyve két párhuzamos szállal operál. Egyrészt néhány csontig lesoványodott nyomorultat látunk, amint jobbára állati ösztöneikre hallgatva vánszorognak a néptelen pusztán – akár McCarthy Az út-jából is szalajthatták volna őket. Ám közben éreznünk kell, hogy ez nem posztapokaliptikus utópia, hanem nagyon is létező valóság több ezer bevándorló számára, akik a maguk kilátástalanságából indultak a jobb életbe, ám valamiképpen a semmiben lyukadtak ki. A másik szál kiválasztásakor az író okosan ellenállt a csábításnak, hogy a totális ellenpontot, mondjuk a fejlett Hollandiát ábrázolja, megmaradt a középútnál: a helyszín Mihajlopol, a posztszovjet korrupció és rothadás hona. Amíg az első szálban legfeljebb ragadványnevükön ismerjük meg a szereplőket, addig itteni főhősünknek nagyon is van neve, ő Pontusz Beg, a rendőrkapitány, aki ugyan messze nem tökéletes, de etikus gondolkodás terén azért még a közösség krémjéhez tartozik. Eleinte ez a két szál nemigen érintkezik egymással, egyetlen párhuzamként azt tudtam kiötölni, hogy mindannyian egy jobb világot keresnek: a vándorok fizikai, Pontusz Beg pedig morális értelemben – utóbbi így jut el egy rabbin keresztül a zsidó vallási szövegekig. Ami egy rendőrtől meglehetősen abszurd választás, de ennyi sci-fi még belefér.

Aztán a könyv utolsó harmadában Wieringa bátran megtöri a történet eddigi ívét, és egyetlen színpadra hajigálja az eddig megismert szereplőket. Azzal, hogy innentől kezdve más szemszögből láttam a menekülteket, paradox módon egyszerre távolodtam el tőlük, és kerültem közelebb hozzájuk – ez mindenképpen az írói koncepció erénye. Másrészt módot ad Wieringának arra is, hogy újabb értelmezési szintekkel gazdagítsa az amúgy is sokrétű szöveget: némi ál-bűnügyi szállal, és új értelmet ad Beg izraelita tanulmányainak is azzal, hogy analógiát teremt Mózes sivatagi útja és a bevándorlók kilátástalansága között. Okos, empatikus, erős könyv, és bár felettébb vigasztalan, mégis: nagyon szép végkifejletbe torkollik. ( )

Wieringa is zeker een van de betere schrijvers van het moment in het Nederlandse taalgebied. Dat bewijst hij ook met dit boek. Na zijn ‘Joe Speedboot’, een feelgood-jongensverhaal in een dorp onder een Nederlandse dijk, gooit hij het hier over een heel andere boeg. Dit keer is het een heel donker verhaal, gezet in een vage Oost-Europese setting, ergens in het steppegebied van de vroegere Sovjet-Unie. Twee verhaallijnen komen samen: die van de wat oudere politieman Beg Pontus, uitgeblust zijn job doend in een troosteloze, door verval en corruptie geteisterde stad, en die van een groepje haveloze vluchtelingen die door het steppegebied rondwaren en na enkele bijzonder wrede passages in de stad van Pontus terechtkomen. De evolutie die Beg doormaakt, is best interessant (hij ontdekt zijn joodse roots en put daar kracht uit), maar de verhaallijn van de vluchtelingen ontspoort volledig, Wieringa geeft hun groep een absurd sectair karakter. Volgens sommigen gaat dit boek over de oorsprong en kracht van religie, maar de link die Wieringa legt tussen de perceptie van het ‘uitverkoren’ zijn van de joden en die van de vluchtelingensekte komt merkwaardig, om niet te zeggen erg schamper over. Het geheel doet stilistisch heel erg Cormac McCarthy-achtig aan, enkele passages lijken zo weggeplukt uit ‘The Road’ of ‘Blood Meridian’, en dat is wellicht de reden waarom dit boek mij minder aansprak. En daar komt nog bij dat het slot van het verhaal uitermate flauw is, met uitzicht op het ‘beloofde land’. Het boek overtuigt me dus niet, maar dat Wieringa kan schrijven, dat staat buiten kijf. ( )

Erg mooi geschreven, gebeitelde taal, weerbarstig ook. Het is een lange reeks van mooie, rauwe plaatjes. Maar het verhaal zelf is vrij statisch. Aan het eind wordt duidelijk waar het over gaat, maar de schrijver vindt het nodig om dat ook nog eens letterlijk te gaan uitleggen. Het slot is een beetje te simpel. ( )

Wieringa adopts the opening line of the Book of Exodus for the title of his novel. This is indeed appropriate since he is exploring the issue of migration in THESE ARE THE NAMES. Migration is a timeless theme that still resonates today. It arises from the universal human desire to start over, to survive and experience forms of redemption. It manifests in both physical and spiritual forms. People seeking a better life, escaping harsh conditions like war, repression, hunger and poverty, represent the former. While in the latter, people seek respite from religious intolerance, new identities and meaningful lives.

There are two distinct plots in the novel—one is more physical while the other is spiritual. Seven desperate refugees wander a desolate landscape reminiscent of the Eurasian steppe. They were seduced by human traffickers with the promise of a better life in a promised land only to be betrayed and abandoned. Crossing harsh terrain on foot without food or water, they fall prey to a form of magical thinking that is reminiscent of a religious experience. With this story, Wieringa definitely intends to evoke the image of the migration of the Israelites out of Egypt.

The second plot line focuses on Pontus Beg, who struggles with ageing and making sense of his position in the world. He views himself as “still too young to really be considered old, but he could see the writing on the wall.” His life is “not a failure, but perhaps not the path of wisdom he might have imagined as a child.” Memories of a song his mother used to sing and a menorah she kept hidden prompt him to seek the advice of the last remaining Jew in his community, Rabbi Zalman Eder. He finds the realization that he may be a Jew to be strangely rejuvenating. “That he belonged somewhere, that was the poignant thing.”

Beg is a well-drawn, nuanced character. On the one hand, he is kind and humorous taking his job as a policeman seriously. He can’t forget the murdered female backpacker whose body remains unidentified in the town’s morgue. On the other, Pontus is capable of making a few bucks through corrupt policing, sleeping with his housekeeper, and beating a young man almost to death during a routine traffic stop because he just didn’t like his attitude.

Conversely, the migrant characters are stereotypes, consisting of a tall man, a young boy, an addict, a poacher, an Ethiopian, and a woman. None are well fleshed out in the narrative. In fact this story reads like a fairytale with abundant biblical symbolism but lacking in subtlety. The black man is at first stigmatized, but latter endowed with magical properties that can lead them out of the wilderness.

Wieringa deftly explores themes of justification by faith and the significance of borders. He recognizes the transformative nature of religious belief in Beg’s search for a Jewish identity and the magical thinking of the refugees. The novel also exploits the image of all sorts of borders that can confront migrants—between village and steppe, culture and savagery, past and present. Historically, “borders were soft and permeable, but now they were cast in concrete and hung with barbed wire.” Evoking today’s migratory dilemmas, he writes: “A wave of people crashed against those walls; it was impossible to keep them all back.”

Wieringa’s prose is clear. The mood is unrelentingly dark evoking the post-Soviet collapse of infrastructure and morals with the remote village of Michailopol. Likewise, the steppe is seen as almost Martian in its desolation. The pacing of the two narratives is steady—if a bit slow—moving inevitably toward a collision. Ironically, while musing about the wandering of the Jewish people, Beg is confronted by the reality of another people, who also have wandered in the wilderness and acquired a religion of sorts along the way. ( )

I’ve an interest in Dutch culture because of my husband’s Dutch heritage so when I came across this title by a Dutch writer in some Best Books of 2016 lists, I decided to read it. I’m glad I did.

Alternating chapters tell two stories which eventually merge. In a fictional Eastern European town bordering on the Western Steppe, 53-year-old Pontus Beg, the police commissioner, searches for meaning for his lonely life. Walking west on the steppes is a small group of refugees fleeing poverty and repression. Eventually, Beg meets the migrants when they arrive in his town carrying evidence of a crime.

The novel’s title taken from the opening lines of the Book of Exodus clearly indicates one of its major themes: migration. The frail and starving refugees spend months on the featureless and desolate steppes, like the Israelites who wandered for 40 years in the wilderness. They are not identified by name; they are known as the tall man, the poacher, the young boy, the woman, the Ethiopian, etc. Over time, they lose their possessions and their pasts; some even lose their lives. Even “Their footsteps were wiped out quickly behind them.” Considering events in Europe, this is a very relevant theme.

The human desire to begin again, to be reborn to a new life, is emphasized. Obviously, the refugees left their homes so they could find new lives for themselves and their families. Beg, when he sees a synagogue’s ritual bath, imagines being immersed in it and becoming a new person: “What a pleasant, comforting thought . . . to shed his old soul, that tattered, worn thing, and receive a new one in its stead. Who wouldn’t want that? Who would turn down something like that?”

Our common humanity is also emphasized. Beg is told by a rabbi that Jews are “’a braided rope, individual threads woven to from a single cord. That’s how we are linked’” but that connection obviously applies to all humanity. A refugee looks at the body of one of his fellow travelers and makes a realization: “What were the differences between them again? He couldn’t remember. It had to be there, that bottomless difference, but his hands clutched at air. Now that the delusions had lifted, he saw only how alike they had been in their suffering and despair.”

Part of that humanity is an instinct for self-preservation. What people will do to survive is amazing. The woman in the group resorts to eating sand. The young boy is horrified and understands the feral nature of her actions when he says, “’You can’t eat sand! People don’t eat sand!’” The need to survive means stripping bodies of their clothing and precludes kindness towards others. When one of the refugees gives some food to another who is so weak from lack of food that he is struggling to continue, his compassion is perceived as strange. Even the one who is saved by the man’s self-sacrifice questions his benefactor: “The black man helped him move along and supported him when he could go no farther, but that also meant he was to blame for the way his earthly suffering dragged on. Gratitude and hateful contempt chased each other like minnows at the bottom of a pool.” The young boy best summarizes the disturbing behaviour he witnesses: “And along his way he has seen almost every sin you could imagine – there are so many more of them than he’d ever realized!”

As I read this book, I was reminded of Voltaire’s statement that, “If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent Him.” Voltaire was arguing that belief in God is beneficial and necessary for society to function. The migrants, trying to find meaning in their circumstances, form beliefs resembling a religion: “a shared conviction took hold.” One of the travelers justifies their plundering an old woman’s food supplies by stating, “’She was there for us, so that we could go on.’” They believe they were lead to her by their bodiless god because “they had been chosen”; Beg questions one of the survivors: “’He was on your side; he was only there for you people. Not for some feeble-minded woman; only for you. He allowed you to rob her of everything she had because you people were his favourites, am I right?’” Of course this idea of chosenness is to remind the reader of the belief of the Jews that they are God’s chosen people.

This novel could be called a parable for contemporary times. It seems a simple story but has several messages. A re-reading would undoubtedly reveal more depths.

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