The Book Collectors of Daraya by Delphine Minoui

Author:Delphine Minoui
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

Saturday, March 19, 2016. I’ve just returned from a reporting assignment in Izmir, the coastal Turkish town that is the departure point for boats of Syrian refugees, so many of which capsize on their way to Europe. Hundreds of dead buried beneath the waves. Another consequence, terrible and invisible, of the war. My daughter, who’s four, is waiting for me in Istanbul, her little arms stretched toward my heart. But that heart is heavy. So many children her age lie at the bottom of the sea. As usual, she wants to know everything about my reporting trip. For a four-year-old, life is a litany of questions. Scrolling through my phone, I show her life vests adorned with cute Hello Kitty faces. These are sold for children heading on the dangerous clandestine crossing toward Greece. I refrain from saying anything about shipwrecks or death. I just show Samarra her favorite little cat and she reminds me that it’s Saturday, and that at 11:00 a.m., it’s story time at the French Institute. A precious, never-to-be-missed ritual shared by mother and daughter. We put on our boots and jackets—the forecast says rain—before going down the stairs. Her hand in mine, we stride down the streets leading to Taksim. As we cross the packed square, we walk by the simit seller, near the old red tramway. French tourists are taking selfies. A lost Iranian visitor is trying to find his way. Some Saudis are hailing a taxi. On the other side, where Istiklal Avenue begins, a Syrian beggar sings to earn a few coins. Pigeons peck the bread crumbs at his feet.

It’s 10:57. In three minutes, the story will begin. At the start of Istiklal Avenue, I walk up the steps to the French Institute. Behind me, Samarra’s little voice chirps, “What a great day!” At the top of the stairs, I hand my bag to the security guard. He doesn’t have time to open it. The air splits. A howling of metal. Violent. Intrusive. I turn around, stunned. Istiklal Avenue is a wave of panic. People rush headlong toward Taksim. A crazed flock. The explosion was so close. Unexpected. Thirty feet away—maybe less? I don’t move, Samarra huddled against me. The guard pushes us inside. The doors close behind us. Outside, a torrent of noise. An uproar of worry and incomprehension. Chaos on the cobblestones.

Samarra pulls on my sleeve. “What was that?” Reassure her, at all costs. Skirt the question. Think of life, of those who were saved. Cling to the word “hope,” like the one tagged on Daraya’s faraway wall. Say something about fireworks. Remind her that it’s 11:00 a.m., story time. Take her little hand. Cross the garden that leads to the library. Walk down the stairs. Push open the glass door. Down here, no one heard the explosion. The books formed a barricade. A paper shield. It’s 11:05 and I whisper what just happened to Julie, the storyteller, slipping in the word “bomb.” She frowns. Stands up straight. Claps her hands.

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