ROMAN YEAR: A Memoir of Displacement and Identity

ROMAN YEAR: A Memoir

Roman Year, penned by André Aciman, is a poignant memoir that captures the essence of displacement and the quest for identity. The narrative unfolds as Aciman reflects on a pivotal moment in his life when, at the age of 16, he and his family found themselves exiled from Egypt due to their Jewish heritage. As they settled in Rome, the complexities of their new existence began to surface.

About a third of the way through this compelling account, Aciman recounts a visit from his uncle, who had traveled from New York. Upon surveying the former brothel that the Aciman family now called home, the uncle immediately suggests that they should move to America. Aciman writes, “I wonder why it had never occurred to me, or for that matter to either of my parents, that ours was not a life.” This profound realization underscores the memoir’s central theme: a search for a life that transcends the liminal space of exile.

Set against the backdrop of the 1950s and ’60s, Aciman’s story reveals the harsh realities of a time when President Gamal Abdel Nasser aggressively expelled the Jewish population from Egypt, seizing their properties and livelihoods, including Aciman’s father’s fabric-dyeing factory. In 1966, Aciman, along with his mother and brother, arrived in Naples by ship. They were fortunate to escape the clutches of a refugee camp, thanks to the miserly and irritable Uncle Claude, who reluctantly offered them a space in the building he had once operated as a “home for prostitutes.” Meanwhile, Aciman’s father remained behind in Alexandria, and the strain on the family dynamic soon led to the dissolution of their already tenuous marriage.

The geographical shift was not just a change of scenery; it marked a dramatic plunge in socio-economic status for the Aciman family, transitioning from the comforts of the wealthy elite to the stark realities faced by impoverished refugees. Roman Year serves as a continuation of Aciman’s earlier memoir, Out of Egypt, which detailed the family’s life in Alexandria before they were forced to flee. While that volume intertwined personal history with the postwar political landscape, this memoir delves into the emotional toll of adapting to a foreign land and the daunting challenge of envisioning a future that seemed unfathomable: “I knew huge changes had occurred but I couldn’t quantify them, much less fathom their reach.”

Language emerges as a central motif in Aciman’s adaptation and evolving identity. His family, having endured numerous wars and displacements, communicates in a rich tapestry of tongues—French, Arabic, Greek, Turkish, German, Italian, and Ladino (the language of Sephardic Jews). His Aunt Flora, who had herself experienced displacement from Germany and then Egypt, imparted a crucial lesson: “We didn’t have one lifetime, or only one identity; and not only two, but three, four, five simultaneous ones.” This wisdom illustrates the multifaceted nature of identity that Aciman grapples with throughout his memoir.

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