Those Who Burn Books
To burn a book is an unforgivable act—it is an act of such malice, such cruelty, that once done, there is no return. Those who burn books seal their hearts forever, from love, joy, and all that is truly good in this world. While in their hands they may hold matches, lighters, and torches, in their souls they hold nothing. They may think they’ve found a friend in fire, but fire never wanted to destroy—it takes to ink and paper with sorrow, and regret, for it knows the pain it exacts. And once upon a while, there’s an unfortunate soul who too knows that pain; someone who hears the faint screams hidden between the crackling of the fire; someone who sees flickering faces in the flames, as pages disappear into ash; someone who through plumes of smoke, smells something rancid. Sa’id min al-Haq was one such person.
He was a 41-year-old insurance adjuster, born and raised in Stockholm, Sweden. He spoke Svenska, devoured gravlax, and was an avid supporter of the Blågult. But none of that mattered, because he was a Muslim—and so, in the eyes of his fellow countrymen, that meant he wasn’t a real Swede. While he knew this from a young age and was reminded on nearly a daily basis since, he never felt it as strongly as he did as he stood in Stortorget, watching the Qur’an burn in broad daylight. He had stumbled upon this scene moments earlier, on his walk home from work. It wasn’t the large crowd that first caught his attention, nor the line of police cars lined up across the street... it was the silence—something about it felt unnatural. His curiosity took a hold of him, and he found himself being pulled through the crowd—though he didn’t know what he’d find once he reached its end, dread filled his heart with every step.
With no one left to pass, Sa’id abruptly came to a stop. Standing in front of him, flanked by five burly police officers, was a man, middle-aged, with curly dirt-brown hair, and piercing sapphire-blue eyes. His dress was casual, but fashionable, with distressed Wrangler jeans and a violet polo shirt which hung from his wiry frame. Everything about his appearance suggested a man carefree, perhaps out running errands on his day off; that is until you saw what was in his hand. He was holding a book high above his head, in what seemed to be a gesture of triumph. Sa’id squinted, trying to decipher the writing on the cover. Then, as if to answer Sa’id’s question, the man, with a shocking brutality, threw the book to the ground, casting its cover in sunlight; it was the Holy Qur’an, a Swedish translation. There was barely time for this to register, as the man swiftly stomped on the Qur’an with his scuffed up and muddy sneaker. The crowd was no longer silent: roars of outrage and approval clashed in the evening air; it was an unbearable sound. Tearing his gaze away from the ground and out into the crowd, Sa’id saw one thing the people had in common: anger.
One by one, phones were raised into the air, their owners eager to capture what came next. Seeing this, Sa’id turned back around, his heart racing. The man, with a stomach churning showmanship, dragged his dirty sneaker over the Qur’an and back onto the ground next to it. He reached into his pocket and took out a lighter—it was jet black, but for the white skull design emblazoned on its side. Sa’id, halfway between rage and sorrow, was frozen to the spot. He watched as the man bent over, ripped open the cover, and lit the book on fire. The man let go, and the cover slammed shut over the burning pages. For a moment Sa’id thought the fire had been put out, before smoke started to emit from its sides—like a house on fire. The man was shouting something now, but Sa’id didn’t hear him. All of his attention was focused on the burning Qur’an. And then in an instant, he was no longer there.
Sa’id was in his childhood home—his living room, to be precise. Sitting comfortably on the ground was his father, whose tired and worn hands were dancing across the pages of his ornate, leather bound Qur’an. Across from his father, was his mother, prayer beads in hand, looking on peacefully. Sa’id, eager to join them, took a step forward; the floor creaked loudly beneath his feet, and, for the first time, his parents noticed his presence.
“Salaam aleikum,” they said together.
“Waleikum asalaam,” Sa’id replied, the words catching in his throat.
His mother looked him over, her eyes missing nothing.
“Why are you crying?” she said.
Sa’id said nothing, staring up at the ceiling, trying to hide the tears he couldn’t stop from flowing.
“Don’t you remember?” said his father, tapping on a page of the Qur’an.
For one long minute, the only sound was that of the birds chirping outside the window—Sa’id remembered their song well.
“There will be no fear for them, nor will they grieve,” added his mother, in almost a whisper.
Sa’id turned his face down and looked at his parents once more; they were smiling, full of life.
Then as quickly as he left, he was back, and there was only one thought in his head: he had to stop the burning. Hands shaking, he set down his work bag and unbuttoned his forest-green dress shirt, revealing a white short-sleeved shirt underneath. One sleeve at a time, he slid out of his dress shirt, and bundled it up in his hand. With a sharp breath, and before he could second-guess himself, he lunged past the shouting man and surrounding police officers and towards the burning Qur’an.
Sa’id threw his shirt onto the fire and was about to press down onto the flames when he found himself being wrestled away by the book burner. Sa’id pushed back, with all his might, throwing the man several feet backwards. Fiery shouts of abuse rang out, as the chaos now spread through the crowd of onlookers—some of whom hurled pieces of garbage towards the center of the scene. Every part of his body trembling, Sa'id determinedly approached the Qur’an once more, but before he could reach it one of the police officers tackled him. The back of Sa’id’s head slammed onto the pavement as he came crashing down. The last thing he saw was the book burner, grinning venomously as he threw Sa’id’s smoking dress shirt onto the ground next to him. Then there was darkness.
When Sa’id regained consciousness, it was over. The crowd had left. All that remained was the smell of smoke in the air. Or at least that’s what he thought. When he opened his eyes, he saw that there was someone seated next to him—a kind-looking man, with wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. He was wearing prayer beads wrapped around his wrist, and was speaking softly, so softly that Sa’id had to strain his ears. And then he heard it—the man was reciting the Qur’an, beginning with the Fatiha; it was a beautiful sound, imbued with love, longing, and sorrow—all together. As he gingerly sat up, Sa’id saw the man’s wife and young son picking up half-burnt pages and carefully wrapping them in a large piece of white cloth.
Sa’id sat there, listening to the words he had heard so many times in his family home. And when his strength returned, he got up and helped.
Kubra Solmaz
