The Europe Challenge

The library has shown me desperation, anger, helplessness; through it, however, I have also seen empathy, compassion, and humanity.

When I joined this small public library in Central London as an assistant last year, I was not remotely ready for what was in store. My original idea of working at a library was quite romantic: neatly placing books onto shelves, enthusiastically recommending titles, answering enquiries about membership, and maybe dealing with a few odd disputes over fines…all in all, a quiet, purposeful existence punctuated by craft activities, community meet-ups, storytelling, and nursery rhyme time. Instead, I had an emotionally intense experience, woven by a tapestry of moments as mundane as they were poignant.

Born and raised in Hong Kong, I have loved libraries since I was a child – I still have fond memories of trips to our local branch, carefully deciding which books to borrow; I knew my mum was too busy to take us there all the time, so I had to make every trip count. Back in those days, when Hong Kong was just pulling itself out of poverty, and social mobility seemed genuinely within reach, reading was believed to be a key to a better future. My family also had such hopes. My grandfather was an orphan. My mum left school at 13 to work in a factory, where she met my dad. During the 1967 Hong Kong riots, when road-side bombs made regular news headlines (that year, the police defused as many as 8000 home-made bombs, of which 1100 were found to be real), many people would opt for public transport as a safer way to travel. Meanwhile, my mum, a 13-year-old child, walked to save a few precious cents. She had seen her parents worrying about feeding the family, and wanted better for us.

Our local library was well used; even the children’s section was quiet, filled with purposeful-looking little bookworms browsing the shelves (children needing to let off steam were expected to go to a playground). It was a haven of stories, fun facts, and imagination, joyful but orderly.

Fast forward four decades, having worked most of my career in arts marketing and communications, I found myself with an opportunity to forge an unusual new path. I decided that working at the library part-time would fit into this journey. In the summer of 2023, I walked into this small public library, thinking it would only be a minor excursion from my existing career – perhaps with a livelier atmosphere than my university’s interlibrary loan department, where I worked many years ago. Instead, all of my naive notions about libraries were shattered instantly.

Within the first hour of starting the job, my manager had to ask a visitor to put his shoes on (there were no socks). The man was lying down across an entire sofa. When asked to sit back up, he grumbled. He had two large fully-filled, worn-out nylon bags with him. Maybe there wasn’t a safe space to keep his possessions, maybe he was worried about things being stolen.

In the following days, I quickly realised I was well out of my depth. In other jobs over the years, I was used to classical musicians, art experts, educators, and lovers of culture. Here, many customers came to us with real-life frustrations – some needed an online service but did not understand the concept of emails or web browsers. Some struggled to read. Some had what seemed like motor tics, shouting out sharp, loud grunts or threatening words, even when no harm was intended. Some were convinced they were being followed, or that every time they logged onto a computer, the device would be hacked and their passwords stolen. They were lost, frustrated and, at times, angry.

Until then, I did not realise how out of touch I had been. How would I have guessed? Only a 10-minute walk away was a bustling business district with designer stores inside buildings by celebrity architects. Britain’s major cultural institutions and an urban nature reserve completed the picture of a thriving city centre location. In the 15 years that I had lived in this country, I had never truly crossed paths with anyone like some of the visitors that I ended up seeing every week at the library.

I have now worked at this library for almost a year. It can demand a lot of composure at times; I need to hold my nerve, and de-escalation techniques are crucial. I have, however, come to the conclusion that kindness is my best friend in difficult situations. Even when I cannot help (which is often, given that the library is not a social work office, a benefits hub, a citizens advice bureau, a homeless shelter, a medical centre, or the home of magic conjurers that I sometimes wished we were), kindness and respect will almost always be noticed and felt. When strangers are briefly connected through moments of humanity, it makes our work a worthwhile pursuit.

***

The only positive interaction in my whole day

 

‘Hello! Can I help?’ I looked up and smiled at a man approaching the enquiry desk.

‘Yes. I need the bank account number and sort code to pay for my CSCS card,’ he said, anxious and agitated, clutching a crumpled sheet of paper in his hand.

After carefully inquiring, I understood that he had been to a bank to try and pay for his CSCS, a construction work qualification card, but was told to provide the bank details. I quickly looked up CSCS and saw that the application process had gone fully digital. I tried to explain that he would first need to file an application, but he did not seem to understand.

‘I need to phone them up to get their bank details, so I can pay for the card,’ he explained again. ‘Look, here’s the money for the registration.’

He did not have access to an email address, which made an online application virtually impossible. I attempted to talk to CSCS on their live chat asking for an alternative way to apply, but was told to go online. The usual. Either a “bot” was sending me generic messages, or a human had switched off their communication feature, copying and pasting messages robotically.

‘I came from the prison, you see,’ he said, explaining why he did not have a mobile phone or email address.

For a minute, I thought he meant he had recently finished a prison term, but soon realised he was on day release and would need to return to prison by the day’s end.

There was a CSCS contact number that may or may not have helped. But there wasn’t a phone for public use in the building, and I had no idea where the nearest pay phone was. Google was of no help in this instance either. I tried to ask the security officers at the reception desk of the building and was told there was a phone booth across the road, but it was not clear whether it was still functional or not.

‘He wasn’t causing you any stress, was he?’ the security officer asked kindly.

‘No, no, he is okay, but thanks for checking!’ It was true that when he first arrived at the enquiry desk, he had a bothered look that made me anxious about how the conversation would go. Somehow both of us managed to struggle through the frustrating situation calmly and amicably. I returned to the enquiry desk, defeated by an impossible process that would normally have been simple.

‘Look, I did the construction work training in prison. I have already passed the test!’ He showed me his crumpled piece of paper – it stated that he had indeed passed, with a golden star sticker and the words ‘Well Done!’ written on the page.

How is it possible that someone was given the opportunity to take the construction qualification exam whilst in prison, but was not actually assisted in the process of registering as a qualified construction worker?

In the end, I was able to tell him the location of the public phone booth. He also asked for the address of a Citizens Advice Bureau, so I looked up the travel details for him. I was not convinced that he would get the help he needed, but I was also unsure how to further assist. Under a haze of confusion, I said goodbye to him and wished him good luck. “Who would be there for his next logistical hurdle?”  I wondered, wishing I could have done more.

‘Thank you so much,’ he said to me before he left. ‘This is the only positive interaction I have had today.’

A book for his little sister

 

It is difficult to get children to come to the library to read books.

Smartphones, tablets and internet videos or games are almost always preferred.

My offers to read a story aloud are usually turned down. Stacking up stools, chasing each other around, or attempting circus tricks all seem more appealing. After much effort in relationship building, the children will reluctantly and briefly switch to quieter activities. If they touch the books at all, it will be to push rows of books out of their orderly arrangements. I cannot tell whether this is a game or an absent-minded gesture of boredom.

One Saturday morning, a man came to the desk asking to get library cards for his children.

Enthusiastically, I opened new accounts for them straight away; his fairly limited command of English was no barrier to my keenness.

His eldest son then came to me, looking for some books. I couldn’t help but notice his impeccable manners. His English was, incidentally, of native fluency. I started piecing together an imaginary story in my head: “Is this a family of first generation immigrants?”

A few minutes later, he returned.

‘Umm, are there books about princesses?’ he asked. ‘It’s not for me, it’s for my sister,’ he quickly added.

‘That’s nice!’ I smiled, partly to reassure him that I understood the situation, but secretly thinking it was way too cute – that he felt the need to clarify that he, a preteen, was not into princess books.

I walked him back to the children’s area where I found a few princess-themed titles.

‘Look!’ He showed his sister the books. ‘I bet you would like this one,’ he said encouragingly.

Instantly, I was struck by how caring and gentle he was towards his little sister. I went to talk to their dad, earnestly complimenting him on how well-behaved his children were.

‘They have been asking to come to the library but I did not have the time off until today!’ He smiled somewhat bashfully.

After cheerfully showing them how to use the self-checkout machines for their chosen books, I returned to the children’s section, and noticed that the handful of books that we had taken off the shelves were already tidied up.

I was given a box of chocolates

 

For me, one seemingly trivial but genuinely challenging aspect of working in this library is the odour. It is quite intense, way above the level experienced on public transport in the summer for example. I can only speculate that some of our visitors do not have access to showers, and judging from their clothes (identical outfit daily, needing a clean) they may not have access to laundry facilities either. Among those who turned up in the same outfit was Yvonne, a very softly-spoken woman with a seemingly blank expression on her face whenever she walked into the library. And you could not miss the smell. People who innocently sat down next to her were known to have moved to different seats.

At first, I did not know what to expect and all I could perceive was the smell and the vacant expression. But I quickly realised that when I smiled at her, she would smile back.

‘I got a place at a university!’ she told me one day.

I congratulated her, wholeheartedly wanting it to be true.

For a while, she came to the library most days, but I noticed that she spent more time reading than sitting in front of the computer. Later,  she came less and less often.

One day, during the week before Christmas, she showed up at the enquiry desk, where we exchanged friendly hellos. Showing me a gift bag, she said:

‘I was given this box of chocolates and I want to give it to you.’

I hope I did the right thing. I politely thanked her, but declined. It sounded silly, but I really wanted her to have a treat. She asked a couple more times, even pointing at her belly saying that she felt she ought to watch her weight (she was fine, average build in my opinion). Eventually, I convinced her that she should keep it, and we wished each other Merry Christmas.

It has been a few months since I last saw her; she must have a different routine now, in a better situation perhaps. I hope she is still reading her books, maybe treating herself to a few more pieces of chocolate every now and then.

***

Working at an inner city public library is not idyllic, nor is it endlessly depressing. It is real life; more on the edgy side for my fragile heart, which is easily broken by seeing people stuck in difficult situations. Some days I feel angry, sometimes helpless, sometimes a bit fed-up; seeing vulnerable groups being left behind by society when I could offer no fundamental improvement to their predicaments. Some days I feel my compassion running low, struggling to be endlessly warm and patient when treated poorly, even though I know the other person has probably been through tough times.

On any given day, I could be running a children’s craft session attended by a sparky, beautifully-dressed, confident child, effortlessly impressing me with her creativity and can-do approach. Sitting alongside her might be another child of the same age, unable to hold her scissors correctly or draw a smiley face, yelling at her guardian to fetch a library tablet so that she could watch videos on YouTube.

A few metres away from the children’s section, I once observed someone sitting on a sofa, motionless, their presence vacant and despairing. In the computer area, meanwhile, a woman with apparent memory issues became convinced that the computers had been hacked after typing either her passwords or the antibot CAPTCHAs incorrectly, causing another day of great frustration. In previous visits, this woman had told me snippets of her life story, which was both extraordinary and heartbreaking. I had huge respect for her ability to remain polite and calm most days, despite having lived through such hardship. Later, another man asked me to book an online appointment for him. He did not remember his email address, but insisted on typing his name and the word ‘google’ in the mandatory email field, becoming frustrated when his attempts failed.

Once, someone lost their temper and shouted at me, only to apologise sheepishly a few hours later. ‘I am not a bad person,’ he explained earnestly, ‘but I’m being followed! I had to call the police…’ Many visitors were very pleased when I simply showed them how to save files on OneDrive, or copy and paste information from a webpage. It always feels great to help – recommending a community class, successfully finding books, or sharing the sense of empowerment a visitor feels when they overcome their initial discomfort with the self-checkout machine after a few guided attempts. There is also a regular customer who loves telling me all about what he has learned from the books he reads from our display.

Each of these moments is relatively brief, but leaves indelible marks in my memory – a few words, a facial expression, a gesture, an image. A man once came in and asked for help as he could not read. He showed me his hands, which carried signs of industrial accidents: ‘There’s nothing wrong with being a builder, but I would not want this for my child,’ he said, alluding to his lack of formal education. Even so, this is far from a true snapshot of everything that happens in the library; I will save the story of two musicians from a renowned orchestra playing Haydn, Mozart and York Bowen in the library for another time.

What I have learned as my universal truth is that the library has huge potential: the potential to be a safe, accepting place; to assert the power of kindness; to show a glimpse of humanity in all its light and shadow; to encourage growth and to share stories – stories that are written, told and lived. 

_________________________________________________________________________________________

About the Author

Sheryl Man Wai Sze (b. 1979) is one of six winners of the How a Library Changed My Life writing competition, run in 2024 by the European Cultural Foundation. Born and raised in Hong Kong, she currently lives and works in London. As an arts professional and an aspiring writer of stories that bridge disparate worlds, Sheryl believes that inspiration lies within the unusual as well as the mundane. Her story is inspired by her real-life experiences working at a London public library. This was her first entry to a writing competition.