Persepolis

A humbling experience

Last week I went to the Bournemouth Writing Festival (fabulous, one to look out for next year!) and in a break between talks I was sitting enjoying the early evening sunshine on the pier reading Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi. This book was completely new to me, suggested by a colleague at work for our lunch-time book group. (Such a luxury, how many work places have a lunch-time book group?). It is a memoir of growing up in Iran during the Islamic revolution, told in graphic novel format. I had never read a graphic novel before, and I don’t fully understand the concept, but the story comes across simply, powerfully and with humour, the absurd political narrative told with great originality from a child’s point of view.

Absorbed in this fascinating story, I became aware of two young men sitting at the other end of the bench speaking a language I didn’t recognise. I stopped reading, and listened to them, enjoying the unfamiliar sounds. They were quite animated, though not arguing with one another, perhaps confirming something. After a little while, I asked them what language they were speaking. ‘Persian,’ came the answer.

I put my book away. It didn’t seem appropriate to carry on reading. I would have liked to talk to them, but they were very defensive. Completely understandable coming from a country of war and political oppression. I continued to listen to them as I watched the rolling waves of the incoming tide crashing around the pier, saw the undulating swell further out to sea, and imagined they might have arrived in the UK on a boat, like so many others making a perilous crossing. I felt very humbled by the realisation that I know so little about so much of this vast world.