Confetti and Ashes by Shahd Alshammari - REVIEW
A review by Victoria Walsh
Poetry plays a big part in this book, but I have never understood its appeal. Maybe that’s just me. It has always felt elusive, too abstract, as though it demands something from me that I was never willing or able to give. But by the end of Confetti and Ashes, I understood its power. Alshammari’s writing is littered with poetry. The beginning of every chapter starts as it means to go on, not used as decoration or a distraction, but as distilled reflections of memory or views. These are not ornate verses crafted for literary admiration; they are the echoes of life and real life experiences, raw and haunting in their simplicity and elevated by their power.
Shahd Alshammari’s writing is deeply layered, a masterful blend of personal history and larger, collective trauma. “My grandmother, whenever I visited her. She was a powerful storyteller, a woman who knew the world was nothing but stories within stories within stories (my literary self now knows that this is the definition of a frame narrative).” This passage alone tells the author's story by encapsulating the essence of Confetti and Ashes in a single phrase. The writing weaves in and out, narratives within narratives, blurring the lines between personal stories, pain and historical displacement.
Throughout the book, Alshammari confronts intergenerational trauma with striking honesty. She speaks of her loss of home, of identity, of loved ones “She had survived losing her home twice - the first time with Palestine’s occupation and the second after the Iraqi Invasion of Kuwait.” Her reflections are not confined to broad geopolitical events; they are deeply personal, illustrating the ways war settles into the bones of those who endure its consequences.
But how does one heal when the wounds are intangible? “How do we heal when we don’t know the depth of the pain? They say war causes intergenerational trauma. I am not sure how I can understand that enough to trace the lineage and diagnose dead people with traumas.” Her words resist easy answers, lingering in a space of uncertainty, forcing the reader to sit with the discomfort of unresolved grief.
Alshammari’s prose is enriched with symbolism, where everything means more than what’s on the surface. The small moments like her dog, Lucky, refusing to go outside after witnessing fireworks carry the weight of unspoken histories and day to day life. Trauma embeds itself in the simplest of things, in the way a body moves through the world, in hesitation, in fear. Her reflections on disability are striking in their refusal to conform to convenient storytelling. “Sometimes, disability is not a metaphor. Sometimes, disability is not inspirational.” These thoughts serve as a counterpoint to sometimes romanticised portrayals of chronic illness, not self-absorbed, just stripping away the expectation that suffering must be transformative or symbolic. Instead, it simply exists, relentless and sometimes isolating.
Yet, in between the pain, there is joy. There are small victories. “Nobody I knew celebrated the simple things. Nobody I knew celebrated being able to walk unassisted. When I was finally able to walk again and felt the ground beneath my feet, my mother and I both clapped and squealed with delight. Adult baby steps.” This celebration of mobility - of reclaiming the body’s ability to function is a reminder that the smallest triumphs deserve acknowledgement.
Alshammari is an academic, well-read and insightful without ever being supercilious. She does not wield her intellect to intimidate but rather to invite. Her reflections on literature, disability, and survival resonate because she writes with a rare authenticity that is both deeply personal and universally relevant.
Alshammari reminds me of Warsan Shire and her poem Home, a fitting complement to Confetti and Ashes. It carries the same emotional weight, exploring themes of displacement, trauma, and survival with stark honesty. The headline - "No one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark" - immediately sets the tone, reflecting the painful necessity of exile rather than a choice. Much like Alshammari, Shire’s writing is deeply personal yet universally resonant and terrifyingly real in the world right now.
Most books ask you not to read between the lines or look too deeply, but Alshammari’s Confetti and Ashes is the opposite - navel gazing is an underrated pastime. The bigger picture tells us that adversity, as much as it shapes us, is also a gift. Without trials and tribulations, there would be no light and shade - too much cake makes us crave salt. Without contrast, we cannot fully appreciate joy. This book is not about finding redemption in suffering, nor is it about romanticising pain. It is about recognising the complex spectrum of human experience, where grief, celebration, despair, and resilience exist, side by side. And, it is poetry that ties it all together. The fact that it’s present at the beginning of every chapter reinforces the theme, so maybe I understand the appeal after all.
Her biography tells us that she is an Associate Professor of Literature, the author of Head Above Water and Notes on the Flesh, and a long-listed contender for The Barbellion Prize. But more than credentials, what stands out in Confetti and Ashes is her ability to frame personal narratives within the larger structures of oppression, illness, and survival. This book does not exist in isolation - it is mindful of the world we live in today, of the ongoing struggles of displacement, of war, of bodies fighting against themselves.
You can purchase this book on Amazon - https://www.amazon.co.uk/Confetti-Ashes-Shahd-Alshammari-ebook/dp/B0DX1KDV8N
Or at Waterstones - https://www.waterstones.com/book/confetti-and-ashes/shahd-alshammari//9789696492573
