Saša Stanišić's Where You Come From: A Heartfelt Review

Saša Stanišić, a Bosnian-German writer born in Višegrad, Yugoslavia, in 1978, delivers a gem with Where You Come From, first published in German in 2019 and translated into English by Damion Searls in 2021. This novel, which bagged the German Book Prize, mixes real-life stories, fairy-tale bits, and even a choose-your-own-adventure style to dig into what it means to be a refugee family caught between worlds after the Yugoslav Wars. The narrator, Saša, feels like the author himself, wrestling with his past in Bosnia, life in Germany, and his grandmother’s fading memory. The book’s big idea is that who you are is not fixed; it is a story you

weave from memories, moves, and family ties. It is like a wake-up call to face the ground reality of what it means to lose your home and build a new one. Everyone should read this because it speaks to anyone who’s ever felt out of place, trying to hold onto their roots while finding their way. For Indian readers, it hits home with our own stories of shifting cities or countries, making it a must-read for understanding the messy beauty of belonging.

Where You Come From is a bit like a jigsaw puzzle, piecing together memories, family tales, and quirky detours to tell the story of a Bosnian family starting over in Germany. The narrator, Saša, shares the author’s name and life, making it feel like a mix of truth and storytelling. The book follows his family’s escape from the Yugoslav Wars in 1992, their new life in Heidelberg, and Saša’s trip back to Bosnia years later, all while dealing with his grandmother Kristina’s dementia.

It kicks off with Saša thinking about Kristina, who is losing her grip on memories: “Grandmother saw a girl on the street. Kristina! My grandmother shouts, and I say: That is not me, Grandmother” (Stanišić, 2021, p. 3). This sets up the book’s focus on how memory slips away: “A veil of The Past has covered her Now” (p. 5). The family hails from Oskoruša, a tiny Bosnian village down to just thirteen people: “Oskoruša is where my family comes from, where only thirteen people remain” (p. 47). The war tears them apart: “Our family shattered along with Yugoslavia” (p. 29).

In Heidelberg, they struggle to fit in. Saša’s mother, a Bosnian-Muslim, and father, a Serb, juggle their mixed roots: “The country where I was born no longer exists” (p. 28). Saša remembers dodging serious talks as a teen: “I was the Puberty World Champion in Avoiding-Talking-to-Parents” (p. 64). He tries going vegetarian to impress a girl, to his mother’s annoyance: “Mother probably wanted to strangle me with a scallion” (p. 65). But their grit stands out: “We were pollen scattered by war, taking root where we landed” (p. 25).

Years later, in 2009, Saša takes Kristina back to Oskoruša to hold onto her stories: “I wanted to hold on to her stories before they vanished” (p. 150). There, he meets Gavrilo, an elder who shares village history: “This is where you come from, Saša. Do not forget it” (p. 155). Saša wrestles with what home means: “Your place of origin is just a construct! A kind of costume you have to wear forever” (p. 28). The book gets playful with lists, fables, and a choose-your-own-adventure part, showing identity is many layers: “You find yourself in the strange, dimly lit cave of time” (p. 237).

Kristina’s dementia ties the story together, with Saša seeing her as its heart: “She was the river that united the book’s disparate fragments” (p. 280). He uncovers family secrets, like his parents’ sacrifices: “They gave up everything to give us a future” (p. 200). The war’s shadow lingers: “The war looms, staining the story with future violence” (p. 145). Saša pushes back against rigid labels: “My resistance was directed against the fetishization of where a person came from” (p. 245). The book ends with multiple endings, letting readers pick their path: “All the threads spread in front of you, waiting to grasp whichever strikes your fancy” (p. 310).

The book’s biggest win is its creative style, mixing real life, fairy tales, and a pick-your-own-path section to reflect how messy a refugee’s identity can be. The choose-your-own-adventure bit feels like a friend saying, “You decide what happens next”: “You find yourself in the strange, dimly lit cave of time” (Stanišić, 2021, p. 237). It is a smart way to show how we shape our own stories.

The heart of the book lies in its emotions, especially around Kristina’s dementia. Her fading memories hit hard, like losing a piece of your family history: “A veil of The Past has covered her Now” (p. 5). Stanišić’s writing captures the pain of being uprooted beautifully: “We were pollen scattered by war, taking root where we landed” (p. 25). Indian readers, who know the scars of partition or moving for jobs, will feel this deeply.

The book’s grounded in factual knowledge of the Yugoslav Wars and Bosnian life, thanks to Stanišić’s own story and research. The village of Oskoruša feels alive: “Oskoruša is where my family comes from, where only thirteen people remain” (p. 47). Characters like Gavrilo add depth: “This is where you come from, Saša. Do not forget it” (p. 155). It is like hearing tales from your own elders, blending personal and historical truths.

Stanišić also nails the idea that identity is not one-size-fits-all. He challenges fixed labels, which is important in India where caste, religion, or region can box you in: “My resistance was directed against the fetishization of where a person came from” (p. 245). This pushes you to rethink who you are, no matter where you are from.

The book is not perfect. Its jumpy structure, hopping between memories and styles, can feel like a puzzle with missing pieces. The choose-your-own-adventure part, while fun, sometimes breaks the story’s flow: “All the threads spread in front of you” (p. 310). Indian readers, who often prefer a straight story, might find this a bit much, especially when the pace slows.

The focus on Bosnia and Germany does not always connect to places like India, where moving for work or caste issues shapes life differently. Saša’s thoughts on identity do not dig into class or gender much: “Your place of origin is just a construct” (p. 28). Indian readers might wish for more on how these overlap with migration, given our own complex social layers.

Women like Kristina and Saša’s mother could have more depth. Kristina’s story is moving, but her dementia limits her voice, and other women feel like side characters: “They gave up everything to give us a future” (p. 200). This misses a chance to explore how women face migration, especially in India’s male-dominated setup.

Lastly, the mix of real and made-up stories assumes you know a bit about Stanišić’s life, which might leave some readers scratching their heads: “It’s impossible to tell if she’s really remembering or making up stories” (p. 142). If you like clear endings, this vagueness could annoy.

Why Indian Youth Readers Must Read This Book

Indian youth, juggling fast-changing lives, tough exams, and family expectations, will see their own stories in Where You Come From. The way Saša’s family gets uprooted by war feels so close to the millions who move within India, from villages to cities like Mumbai, or abroad for studies and jobs: “The country where I was born no longer exists” (Stanišić, 2021, p. 28). That sense of not fully belonging, whether you are an NRI or a small-town kid in a metro, is like a familiar ache.

India’s schools, with their focus on rote learning for exams like CBSE or state boards, often bury personal stories under marks and ranks. Saša’s struggle to hold onto his past mirrors how Indian youth balance their roots with the need to fit in: “Your place of origin is just a construct! A kind of costume” (p. 28). The book pushes back against boxing people into labels like caste, religion, or region: “My resistance was directed against the fetishization of where a person came from” (p. 245). It is like a nudge to question why you are expected to chase engineering or a government job just because “that’s what we do.”

The family stories, especially Kristina’s fading memories, hit home for anyone who’s listened to grandparents talk about partition or tough times: “I wanted to hold on to her stories before they vanished” (p. 150). With jobs hard to come by even with degrees, the book’s take on resilience speaks to Indian youth pushing through a tough market. Saša’s family rebuilds after losing everything, just like families here adapt to new cities or careers: “We were pollen scattered by war, taking root where we landed” (p. 25).

Feeling like an outsider, whether studying abroad or in a big city, is the ground reality for many. Saša’s confusion about his roots captures that: “It’s impossible to tell if she’s really remembering or making up stories” (p. 142). The books choose-your-own-adventure ending, letting you pick your path, feels like a boost to shape your own future: “All the threads spread in front of you” (p. 310). In a country where family pressures, like arranged marriages or “settling down,” can feel heavy, this is a big lesson.

Where You Come From is like a friend sitting you down over chai, explaining how to hold onto who you are while chasing your dreams. It is a call to Indian youth to reflect on their place in a diverse, fast-moving world, making it a must-read for anyone trying to find home amidst change.

Where You Come From is a brilliant dive into identity, memory, and starting over, told with heart and a touch of playfulness. Its creative style and deep emotions, like “Our family shattered along with Yugoslavia” (Stanišić, 2021, p. 29), shine brighter than its flaws, like a tricky structure or limited cultural reach. The novel’s a must-read for anyone curious about migration, family, or finding home. Its extensive ideas and unique storytelling make you see the ground reality of belonging in a new light, perfect for anyone who has ever felt caught between worlds.