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Louise BernardThe beauty of the work lies in My Luck's haunting narration, an "inner-speech" that fittingly is one of pained detachment. His calm meditation on his role in the war, his acknowledgment of his guilt and shame—a fraught combination of choice and imposition as he fights, at first, under the rule of a brutal commander and in revenge for his parents' slaughter—is filtered through a voice that, strangely enough, is nonexistent. My Luck, like his fellow rebels, has been silenced. The platoon is mute, their vocal cords severed so that wounded screams do not interfere with the precise operation of diffusing and reclaiming the mines. Instead, the group communicates through a simple system of signs, a tender, indeed touching way of reaching out to one another… In a war where "territory shifts" between the rebels and their enemy "faster than sand tracking a desert, ground daily gained and lost," My Luck somehow holds tight to the need to feel compassion, to exercise some form of ethical stability in a world gone mad.
—The Washington Post