The Europe Challenge

I grew up in a rural village in the Czech Republic. We were poor and all slept in one room—my brother, my mother, my father, and me. My parents did odd jobs—stuffing envelopes (which later turned out to be a scam), carrying and cutting stones for the local granite factory, or caring for other people’s children instead of their own. The one luxury we had was a large oak bookshelf with books that my father had collected over the years: motorcycle encyclopaedias, sci-fi books (which were too hard for me to understand as a child), adventure stories with only boys as the main protagonists. I wasn’t interested in any of these books, but I read them over and over again because they were the only books we had. I craved some space that was only mine and found it in books.

Things changed when I started going to a school that had a tiny school library. I visited the library every day and read one book after another. I didn’t realise it then, but I was escaping into books—my mum was diagnosed with a neurodegenerative disease and was slowly losing her ability to move. My brother developed paranoid schizophrenia, a mental illness that wasn’t properly recognised until his thirties, and he became violent. I found books that made me feel less alone—books about ill parents, about girls who were scared of their brothers, about the kind of love, or is it poverty, that makes adults throw plates at each other. But most importantly, I found books that showed me hope, hope that another life is possible. Thanks to those books, I was able to keep on living, day by day, for several years.

Until something happened that no book could explain to me—my father had a heart attack and died. It was the first day of summer holidays, and I was terrified of the prospect of two months with no school library to escape to, two months with my brother. I was getting ready to go swimming in a local quarry. We ate bread with honey and checked for wasps before every bite. I don’t remember anything else from that day. I spent my childhood preparing for my mother passing away and never thought that someone else in my life could leave me. I was 17 and ended up in a mental institution.

There was only a TV and a small library in the communal space. I read books that were on the shelves, books that were brought and left there by other patients in the past. Books with pencil notes, underlined paragraphs, coffee stains, pressed daisies, dog-eared pages, and bookmarks with poems. Books that were read by people at the worst moments of their lives, and yet, knowing this somehow made you feel safer.

I was doing better than other patients, so I was soon able to go for walks outside. Before visiting a community library nearby, I took orders from the other patients, like a waitress taking orders in a restaurant. I checked the library shelves for all the books on the list and reserved those I couldn’t find. If the librarians ever suspected where I had come from that day, they didn’t let it show. Back in the mental hospital, I read books about grief. We smoked cigarettes and talked about what had happened to us.

Because I was in the hospital, I missed all the deadlines for applying to universities. I lied about it to my mother and moved away to Prague, where I pretended to study English, but what I actually did was work in Tesco. If that sounds sad, you must understand that it was one of the happiest years of my life. I was living in the capital, which was already exciting and new, and I was also away from my brother.

I spent that year thinking about what I wanted to do with my life. What they don’t tell you about growing up in poverty and with depression is that most people who experience those don’t develop any skills. We think poverty and depression should one day lead to some great work of art that will justify all that suffering. But I don’t know how to do anything except read, because that was the only thing in my life that was free. And it was free only because of libraries.

When thinking about my future, I realised I wanted to work somewhere I felt safe. Safety was always more important to me than money or prestige. I couldn’t think of any other place where I felt safe apart from the library. I spent my free time preparing for entrance exams, and a year later, I enrolled in library school. While studying, I worked as an assistant in several libraries, and I knew right away that being a librarian was the right choice for me.

In 2014, I went to Sweden thanks to the Erasmus programme. I was 21, and on the ferry from Denmark to Sweden, I saw the sea for the first time in my life. Tired from the travel and the sun, I closed my eyes and fell asleep on the deck. I heard the waves and the seagulls—sounds so simple yet so foreign to me—and for the first time in my life, I fell in love with the world.

I was in Sweden in the midst of what the media called the ‘European migrant crisis’ and I learned how Scandinavian public libraries help the newly arrived. It was a place for them to get free housing, employment and legal support, to learn a new language, to share their heritage. Children could go to after school clubs or get help with their homework. I have never been prouder to be a librarian than at that moment.

The Czech Republic suddenly felt small to me after coming back from studying abroad, and although we don’t usually associate librarianship with many overseas opportunities, I decided to try my luck.

I moved to Edinburgh in 2019, and only a week later, my computer broke down. I needed to write my CV, apply for jobs, and find out basic things like how to open a bank account or register with a GP. Everything was new and overwhelming. Once again, it was libraries that saved me. I spent many hours in Musselburgh Library, using their free wi-fi and computers and getting some invaluable advice from the librarians, who spent their time sitting with me and helping me when no one else would.

It took me months of applying, many unsuccessful job interviews, and a lot of hours volunteering before I landed my first library job abroad. Even though I commuted two hours a day to get to and from my job and was worried that working with children would be out of my comfort zone, I was thankful for this opportunity. I learned so much about how libraries work in the UK and discovered I am very good at working with young people. Now, five years later, I work with school libraries across Scotland on projects that support children’s literacy and reading for pleasure.

My mum, who is still alive, returned to the countryside, to a little farming village where she grew up. There is a library there that is open only two hours a week. Because she can’t walk that well anymore, the local librarian stops by every few weeks on her way to work to see if my mum wants her to bring any books. Thinking of this woman’s small act of kindness makes me very emotional. Inspired by her, I started to volunteer for a Home Library Service, delivering books to those who can no longer easily visit a library. We provide books to people who are unable to leave their homes due to illness, disability, or age, but for example also to new mothers who may be experiencing anxiety or loneliness. Libraries are a lifeline for every generation within a community.

I’m writing this in a beautiful Woodside Library in Glasgow, below a glazed dome that lets in natural light. I am safe and I feel happy. Looking back on my life, libraries were always there for me during transitional periods. Nothing in my life would have happened if it weren’t for this simple miracle that we often take for granted.

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About the Author

Dana Neumannová (born in 1993), originally from the Czech Republic, developed a deep love for reading as a child, finding joy and comfort in exploring different worlds through books. She now lives in Scotland and has worked in the library sector for over a decade. She loves long-distance walking and sending postcards to her friends.