The Book That Can Save You

One of my favorite places to spend time, especially with Agha Bozorg, was his library. Bookshelves lined the walls, full of all kinds of books. There was a desk and a leather chair, and by the window on the far side a place where Agha Bozorg usually sat to read and smoke. We’ve all heard people say that a particular manuscript or old book is rare and valuable, and talk about what it costs. For years, believe it or not, I thought a book counted as a precious manuscript if it had a thick cover with an ornate title stamped in gold. Yes, I know you’re thinking of the saying about not judging a book by its cover. But for me it was a reality. I judged books by their appearance for years, until the habit was deeply rooted. I was drawn to those fancy covers without even realizing it, and paid less attention to books with plain, inexpensive ones. One day I asked, “Agha Bozorg, which of these books are manuscripts? Which are worth the most?” As usual, he took a drag on his cigarette. “Why do you ask?” “I’m curious. There are so many books on those shelves that look rare. I wonder what a beautiful library like this is worth.” “Have you read the books that look rare to you?” “No, Agha Bozorg. Who has time to read books? It’s all I can do to keep up with my schoolwork.” “Well, those are books too, after all, even if they’ve been tampered with.” “But you haven’t told me how many manuscripts you have.” Agha Bozorg took his cane, went to one shelf and then another, and put two books in front of me. “Before you look at them, I want to say something. Imagine you’re trapped somewhere. You can’t think of a way out. There’s no one to help, and you have no idea what’s happening. All you have are these two books, and perhaps they could help you find a way to free yourself. What would you do?” “Is it cold? Do I need to burn a book to keep warm?” Agha Bozorg turned away. “I don’t know. Find the right way yourself while I pour some tea.” It felt strange. Suddenly I was frightened, bewildered, and anxious. I picked up one book. It seemed to be in Arabic. I turned the pages, hoping for a picture or some other clue, but I couldn’t read the text. I picked up the second book, a history called the Cyropaedia. It had no pictures, but it was in Persian. I began to read, with one eye on the door, trying to find my way out before Agha Bozorg returned, and the other on the page. My excitement rose, and gradually I was drawn into the story. I lost track of time. I had reached a passage where the boy Cyrus, grandson of the king of the time, was being questioned for punishing someone during a game. I lifted my head and saw Agha Bozorg sitting by the window, drinking his tea. I hadn’t even noticed him come back. “Sorry, Agha Bozorg. I didn’t see you.” “Well, have you found the way to save yourself?” “To tell you the truth, no. I was worried at first, but I got so absorbed in this story that I forgot my fear, my anxiety, everything. I didn’t even notice you’d returned.” “If I told you one of these books could save you, which would you choose?” “I’m not sure. At least I can understand what this one says.” Agha Bozorg smiled. “The book in your hand is your way out. Knowledge is the strongest weapon a person has, and the one thing no one can take away from you. “In the situation I described, you didn’t look at a book’s cover, size, or script. You didn’t care what either one cost. All that mattered was what you could find or learn in it to save yourself. If you’d burned a book for warmth or light, it would have lasted only a few minutes. That momentary relief wouldn’t have saved you; it would have destroyed a possible way out. “So this book becomes your treasured manuscript, a precious book, a way to be saved, worth as much as a life.” My compatriot, my friend, a part of my own flesh: knowledge is our strongest weapon. The more we know, the better we can clear a path to our freedom. For years the Islamic Republic worked to keep us from knowing, learning, and becoming aware. P.S. The first page of the Cyropaedia says, “By order of Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi, Aryamehr...” It is the only keepsake Agha Bozorg left me, along with years of stories.