In 2011 I published a children’s book about myths, longings and cultural conflicts. It is about Frede, a little boy of 7-8 years, who runs away from home: his mother’s new partner is a Muslim man from Morocco, and Frede does not like his mother wearing a headscarf or having to go to the mosque. He runs away from home and hides with his neighbour, an old, drunk sailor, who tells him fantastic tales about his adventures after being shipwrecked in Spain in his youth. 

The book was rejected by the publishers. I don’t remember much of the dialogue between me and them, but I think there was an underlying feeling that we shouldn’t offend anyone. Therefore, I decided to publish it myself, with my own publishing house.  

The critics gave me a very hard time, they thought it was a bad book. What was most painful for the reviewers was that I had let Frede run away from home because his mother’s new boyfriend was a Muslim Moroccan. I even went on a radio show to speak about it with a critic. They accused me of putting stereotypes in the mouth of a child, while I found it very sad that one should not dare speak about cultural contradictions today, and I felt that I stirred up something that was not politically correct, which was the main reason behind its negative reception.

The book ends with a final image where the Nordic and the Muslim worlds are bound with a higher unity in love. But I doubt that the reviewer had paid attention to the whole book, instead focusing on the scenes with Frede being taken to the mosque and shushed by his mother, his discomfort with her headscarf and things like that.

Even today, while on a walk in the forest, I was thinking of the things I should have argued and said to him – It’s a bit late now, but it’s clear that I’ve reflected a lot on this moment of rejection, both subconsciously and consciously.