1990
At the beginning of every school year, I read our new history book from cover to cover, with special interest to the faded images that accompanied the text. And that was the last time in the year that I would look at it. No matter where you’re from, history is a depressing subject. People from all over the world were involved in one war or another and on top of that, I had to memorize the dates of those dreadful events. Even in the eyes of an eight-year-old, all those wars and atrocities seemed to happen in vain.
To counter history I found an antidote in fiction. But unlike my peers, I was always fascinated by “difficult” books with as many pages as possible. I was a fast reader too and had been looking forward to finding a big book for a long time. Unfortunately, a pleasant, children’s book like ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’ didn’t fall into my hands. It would have been a welcome distraction from my gloomy history book.
Instead, I got Victor Hugo’s ‘Les Misérables’ from my mother’s childless uncle. For some mysterious reason the man bought us a lot of presents but without ever thinking of details such as the appropriate age group. The book was big and heavy and had a black leather cover that intrigued me.
I read it frantically. I used a flashlight and read all through the night under my blankets for three horrid days in a row. I went to school sleep deprived, hiding the book in my bag and trying to read. I concealed the book under my desk and sometimes tried to disguise it as my history book. Unsuccessfully, I might add. My teacher confiscated ‘Les Miserables,’ for the day and after he made sure I was not reading a “dirty book”, he promptly returned it. The next day I played sick so I could stay in bed all day and finish reading it.
After four nights of almost no sleep, I really did look bad so convincing my parents to let me stay in bed was easy. Finally, tucked under the blankets and occasionally sipping black tea, I read every word. And what good had come of it? Nothing. I was depressed. It couldn’t be so. I did not want to believe that all the bad stuff happened in vain and so many good people died and all the awful people were still alive. I cried bitterly for all the tormented protagonists but to no avail!
I needed hope, something to reconstruct my childish world and my belief in the happily ever after. So after sobbing for a good fifteen minutes, I rushed to the kitchen. My mum would make it right. Without a moment’s hesitation, I stared into her eyes and asked: “Mum, are we living in an awful, unjust society?” After a long pause, she replied, “Yes but I was hoping you wouldn’t find out this soon.”
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So long as there shall exist, by reason of law and custom, a social condemnation, which, in the face of civilization, artificially creates hells on earth, and complicates a destiny that is divine with human fatality; so long as the three problems of the age — the degradation of man by poverty, the ruin of women by starvation, and the dwarfing of childhood by physical and spiritual night — are not solved; so long as, in certain regions, social asphyxia shall be possible; in other words, and from a yet more extended point of view, so long as ignorance and misery remain on earth, books like this cannot be useless.
VICTOR HUGO (on the preface of “Les Misérables”)
